Chasing Mona Lisa

by Tricia Goyer

  “What are we going to do?” Dubois pulled back from the window as the Panzer passed underneath their second-story aerie.

  Bernard considered their course of action, but there was really only one option. “The same thing Michaud would do if one of us was lashed to a tank turret—he’d save us.”

  “But how? We can’t chase after him. We could be shot if we run into a German patrol—”

  “Here, grab one of these.” Bernard reached for a Molotov cocktail housed in a dark green bottle that had once held 750 milliliters of red wine. He tossed it toward Dubois.

  Dubois snatched the bottle out of the air and placed it in his satchel, as well as a second fire bomb.

  Bernard grunted. “Here’s the plan. We’re not going to launch any Molotovs from here. There’s a good chance we’d hit Michaud and burn him to a crisp. Plus we’d expose our position.” He spread the curtain to check the tank’s progress. “The Panzer is headed for the Sorbonne. He’s not moving fast, though. We can cut him off and save Louis.”

  “Bernard, think this through. What if the flames get out of control or the tank blows up?”

  “Louis would tell us to take that chance. Don’t you think they’re going to kill him anyway?”

  Dubois shrugged. “Probably. I guess we owe it to Louis to give it a try.”

  Bernard filled another satchel with two more Molotovs. Then he checked the pockets of his navy workpants. A French military revolver and six bullets in his right pocket. A lighter and pocketknife in his left. No identification.

  He assessed Dubois. His comrade was similarly armed, except his rusty Belgian Pinfire pistol looked like it had last been fired in the Great War. Not much firepower against an armored tank. Still, they had maneuverability in their favor.

  Bernard figured they were as ready as they’d ever be. “It looks like he’s heading over to the Boulevard Saint-Michel because it’s a wide boulevard. Panzer tanks don’t like tight quarters. We can still cut him off.”

  The pair of partisans hustled down the building’s central stairwell. Bernard held up his hand when he reached the apartment building’s main entrance and leaned forward and listened. Hearing nothing, he slowly opened the door. A glance up and down tidy Rue de Condé revealed a deserted street: no cars and no people. Those with the resources had left this neighborhood days ago.

  Bernard hurried onto the sidewalk, followed by Dubois. He felt awfully exposed, knowing that a German patrol would shoot first and ask questions later. They scurried down the street, and Bernard took a breath and slowed his gait when he spotted his first pedestrian—an elderly woman out walking her white poodle.

  He tipped his navy beret as he passed by, and then the pair broke into a sprint toward the street corner. When they reached Boulevard Saint-Michel, he saw the gray tank heading in their direction, about 150 meters from their intersection. They had successfully headed off the Panzer.

  “Here’s our chance.” For the next minute, Bernard outlined a plan. They would remain hidden, and when the tank passed, they would each rush the armored vehicle from behind and dump the burning gas bombs into the open escape hatch. Once the tank’s hull was ablaze, Bernard would jump on while Dubois would provide cover by shooting anyone exiting the turret.

  “Once I’m on the tank, I’ll slice through the ropes binding Louis. Then it’s a matter of jumping off before it’s too late.”

  Dubois cocked an eyebrow and nodded.

  Bernard ignored his friend’s concerned gaze. “We have to work quickly. No more than thirty seconds.”

  They took cover inside an apartment stairwell and listened for the approaching Panzer. Bernard wondered if these were his last minutes of existence.

  He reached for the silver Zippo in his right pocket and noticed a slight tremor from the adrenaline rush. Nonetheless, in one smooth motion, he flipped open the lighter and lit the strip of white undershirt stuffed into the neck of the wine bottle. Then he held his flaming weapon steady for Dubois to ignite his own incendiary cocktail.

  From his crouched position, Bernard peered around the corner of the stairwell at Boulevard Saint-Michel, where the sycamore and poplar trees that lined the broad sidewalk partially blocked his view. From afar, Michaud looked resigned to his fate, strapped to the tank turret.

  He knows this isn’t going to end well for him. He and Dubois had to try. They were his only chance. Even if they weren’t successful in saving Michaud, then at least another Panzer tank would be taken out of commission.

  The rumble of the diesel engine reverberated through the neighborhood as the Panzer III drew closer. The tank, Bernard noticed, had started to veer toward the far side of the broad boulevard, perhaps anticipating a right turn into the Sorbonne. This would make for a longer sprint—and give the tank commander more time to spot any partisans approaching from his left flank.

  Bernard held up his left hand while his right gripped the flaming bottle. Louis Michaud, he noticed, happened to be looking in their direction—and their eyes locked.

  We’re coming to save you!

  Bernard waited . . . waited . . . and at the right moment, just as the Panzer passed, he sprinted toward the moving tank. Dubois was in his wake.

  Michaud was yelling something, but Bernard couldn’t make it out over the noise. He raised his right arm, closing the distance between him and the Panzer. He needed to get as close as possible to the open escape hatch.

  Michaud cried out, shaking his head vehemently. This time Rousseau could make out his words. “Bernard, don’t! Don’t throw it! It’s our tank!”

  Bernard paused for a split second—enough time for the tank commander to draw his sidearm and place him in his sights. The tank lurched to an awkward stop. Rousseau and Dubois froze in their tracks, holding flaming bottles in their right hands.

  The tank commander, wearing a garrison cap and radio earphones, lowered his pistol and turned to the partisans.

  “Michaud’s right,” he called in the accent of a Parisian, eyeing the burning bottle in Bernard’s hand. “We stole the tank this morning. One of their Panzers has our boys pinned down at the Sorbonne. Michaud volunteered to be a hostage so we wouldn’t get hit.”

  Bernard looked at the blazing wick—and had to get rid of the Molotov cocktail immédiatement. He waved Dubois to follow him, and they stepped away from the tank and tossed the Molotov cocktails curbside. Two explosions shook the ground, and he wiped the perspiration beading on his brow. Only then, Bernard released a heavy breath and watched the small explosions burn harmlessly.

  Bernard slapped his hands and hustled back to the tank, realizing how close he’d come to hurting their own.

  “Do you need help?” he asked Michaud.

  “I’m just hanging on to these ropes until the right moment to jump off.” Michaud looked like he was counting the seconds.

  Bernard sized up the Panzer again. “Unbelievable. Do you guys know how to fire these things?”

  The “commander” answered for Michaud. “I don’t, but we’ve got two gunners below with tank experience. You two could help us by creating a diversion. If you have any other Molotovs, put those on the tank and walk in front. You might be able to use them yet.”

  Five minutes later, Rousseau and Dubois—with hands held high—walked before the stolen Panzer III into the Quartier de la Sorbonne, where a Panzer IV had parked at the end of the open square. The tank commander trained a pistol on the walking pair to maintain the ruse that Germans were in command. They were just a hundred meters away, surrounded by university buildings, when their tank came to a stop.

  “The other tank is calling us on the radio,” the tank commander announced from the turret.

  “Don’t answer it!” Bernard yelled.

  “We won’t, but the other tank is pleased to see us,” the tank commander said. “Tanks always work in pairs, so he’s probably been waiting for reinforcements before he storms the student barricades. That’s a Panzer IV, which has fewer vulnerabilities.”

  Ber
nard turned back around to face the Panzer IV. From his vantage point, the howitzer gun barrel was pointed at a nine o’clock position—toward the main student square.

  The tank commander ordered Michaud to get ready to jump. The partisan loosened the knots and poised to free himself. “Thirty seconds, guys. When I give notice, run for cover.”

  Michaud, though he was no longer bound, remained in the hostage position. The commander crouched, and Bernard heard all sorts of bearing numbers being exchanged with the gunner, who was working to bring the main gun and sights in line with each other. The gun barrel twitched from slight adjustments.

  “Allez vite!” Go quickly!

  Michaud didn’t have to be told twice. Rousseau and Dubois dropped their raised arms and bolted toward the tank hull, where they grabbed their satchels and gathered up Michaud, who had leaped to the ground. Together, the three sprinted for a nearby alcove. They had nearly reached safety when a deafening explosion rocked the Panzer III. With a white flash, the first cannon shot streaked toward the Panzer IV. The turret storage box on its rear exploded, scattering tools, sleeping rolls, rations, and even pitching underwear and uniforms into the plaza. Scraps of laundry hung from nearby tree branches.

  Time stood still for a long moment until the enemy tank crew began swinging their turret in the direction of the Resistance tank. Bernard watched the scene unfold from his perch behind a column. “They’re turning in our direction!”

  “Reload, reload!” screamed the tank commander.

  Bernard held his breath. He figured the Panzer III gunner was struggling to set the point of aim by mentally calculating the error margin. The delay only prompted more pandemonium inside the tank as shrill voices pleaded for him to fire off another shot. Precious seconds passed. The howitzer of the wounded Panzer IV continued to swing around, but the German armored vehicle didn’t have the renegade tank in his sights yet.

  “Shoot! Shoot!” The partisan tank commander was clearly panicking.

  The “French” tank lurched as a second projectile exited the howitzer barrel—but missed completely. Bernard reached into his satchel and drew out both Molotovs.

  “What are you doing?” Alarm creased Dubois’ face.

  A quick flick of his Zippo, and a pair of cloth strips were ablaze. Bernard set off for the Panzer IV, the voices of his comrades yelling for him to come back. He ran like the wind, closing the distance just as the Panzer IV’s cannon was in position to fire. From a distance of twenty meters, he lobbed one flaming bottle after another.

  The first Molotov struck the back of the turret, and the second smashed into the escape hatch, dousing the occupants within and exploding into an orange inferno.

  Screams erupted from the tank’s interior. The gunner, his gray uniform on fire, managed to haul himself onto the hull, then fling himself upon the concrete. He cried in agony and rolled his burning body to put out the flames.

  A third projectile whistled across the square and struck the center of the German tank, underneath the caterpillar tread. The Panzer IV burst into a giant fireball. A column of flames funneled up from the open turret like a giant Roman candle. The shock wave from the blast knocked Bernard into the air. Pain shot up his arms as he tumbled to the concrete.

  The partisan covered his head as chunks of metal peppered the square. Scrambling to his feet to escape the rain of shrapnel, he sprinted back toward the Panzer III, which was already backing out and turning around.

  “Let’s go!” the tank commander yelled over the din.

  Dubois and Michaud dashed for the relative safety of Boulevard Saint-Michel.

  Bernard looked downrange at the inferno. Already, several students had come out of the shadows, their arms raised to shield themselves from the searing heat—the tank now enveloped in a whirlwind of flames. They also kept their distance from the burning soldier, who—summoning his last ounce of strength—failed to tamp out the flames. His body contracted unnaturally.

  The grotesque smell of charred flesh and fumed diesel wafted past Bernard. Grasping his stomach, he leaned over and disgorged his breakfast.

  It was a smell he would never forget.

  4

  So this is Paris.

  From the passenger seat, Gabi gaped at the Gothic-style churches and the cream-colored stone buildings accented with sidewalk cafés and red awnings. The spacious parks looked threadbare and left her wondering how lush the grass and flowers had been before the war.

  Has God abandoned Paris? Abandoned all of us? She pushed the thoughts out of her mind as quickly as they had come. Many voices had muttered such things over the previous years. She’d heard them among her father’s congregation, but she’d never allowed such foolish ideas to enter her mind, until now.

  Eric took his eyes off the road and glanced over at her. It was easy to do since only the occasional delivery truck and a few bicyclists vied for space. “How are you doing?”

  They had barely said two sentences to each other in the last hour.

  “I feel like I’m waking up from a bad dream.” Gabi’s voice quivered, surprising her. She folded her hands on her lap and clenched them together. She couldn’t see blood on her hands, but she could feel it. Even the anticipation and excitement of entering Paris—a city she’d wanted to visit since she was a child—hadn’t gotten her mind off the brutal incident they’d just survived.

  Lifting her eyes off her hands, she looked out the window, forcing herself to push the images of the dead men out of her mind. If only the ache in her heart and the pain deep in her gut would let her forget completely.

  “Arriving in Paris is helping.” She sighed, hoping her voice sounded convincing. “Even under the thumb of German occupation, she’s still a jewel.”

  Gabi picked up the apple on the seat next to her—the one she’d promised Eric she’d eat but still had no appetite for. She tossed it from one hand to another. “I don’t think I’ll get over our run-in with those German soldiers—or Russians, or whoever they were—anytime soon.”

  Eric reached over and squeezed her left knee. “You did what you had to do. I was wondering how we could get to that pistol. Your quick thinking saved our lives.”

  She cocked her chin, repeating aloud the words that had been replaying in her mind. The words she was trying to reassure herself with. “It was him or us. That’s what they taught us at the Bern firing range. I have no regrets.”

  Her stomach churned again, and an icy chill traveled down her spine as she remembered the man’s face inches from hers, his foul breath moistening her cheek.

  Willing her mind elsewhere, she turned her attention back to the passing scenery. Through the windshield, Paris seemed calm at this late-morning hour, but she wondered what lurked beneath its serene surface. The grand boulevard was framed with broad, leafy trees and fronted by soft-colored stately buildings. Shops were shuttered, and only a handful of cafés had opened, their tables dotting the sidewalks. A solitary waiter wearing a long white apron served demitasse to two customers.

  She’d spotted the spindly Eiffel Tower before Eric, but her excitement was tempered by an enormous red flag with a black swastika fluttering atop the landmark, a tangible symbol of an oppressive regime shackling the spirit of the three and a half million Parisians.

  That was the only Nazi swastika she’d seen so far. In this neighborhood, other flags—some tattered and faded, some homemade from bed sheets—hung from windows and rooftops. “I’m surprised to see all the French flags. I wonder when they came out of hiding.”

  Eric leaned out the car window and looked skyward at the numerous displays of blue, white, and red vertical stripes that had symbolized France since the Revolution of 1789. “They’re definitely showing defiance. Since Hitler’s armies marched in, it’s been illegal to show the tricolore, but that’s going to change.”

  “The French flags are a good sign. That means we’re in a neighborhood controlled by the Resistance, correct?” She sat straighter in her seat.

  “You’d t
hink so. Take a look at that poster.” Eric pointed toward his right.

  A tall placard, plastered on a building, showed a rendering of a clenched fist with the proclamation “A chacun son boche!”

  “ ‘To everyone his Kraut,’ ” Gabi translated. “Must be a word play off A chacun son goût.” To each his own taste.

  Eric grunted. “They’re saying it’s open season on German soldiers.”

  Gabi shivered as memories of the road outside Rozay-en-Brie returned. Of the cool metal of the soldier’s rifle tip sliding up her leg. She did what she had trained for. They had decided their fate.

  She returned the apple to her seat and picked up the map, trailing her finger to where they were headed—the Latin Quarter. Eric slowed their vehicle slightly as they came upon makeshift barricades the local populace had erected to stop—or at least slow—German tanks and troop trucks. The resourceful Parisians had thrown old bedsprings, refrigerators, bulky cabinets, and even kitchen sinks into the jerry-built fortifications. At the entrance to one neighborhood, a long line of women and children passed paving stones ripped up from the street to each other. Under their pile of stones, the burnt hull of a German troop truck formed the main bulwark.

  Even though the citizens appeared thin and their clothes threadbare, cheeks were flushed. Mostly from the work, but also from the hope that their efforts would make a difference. Chins lifted as their vehicle passed, and tired eyes met Gabi’s for a fraction of a second before they turned back to their work.

  “What’s that green thing?” Gabi pointed toward a rectangular stall leaning against the barricade. The rusty green edifice, which looked like an outdoor telephone booth, lay atop a barricade that included cobblestones, old furniture, and even an upright piano.

  “Ah, you may not want to know. Might ruin your impression of Paris.” Eric’s humored smile made her want to find out even more.

  “Come on.” She enjoyed teasing him, especially when his cheeks colored.