Chasing Mona Lisa

by Tricia Goyer

“Uh, French men and German soldiers use them to relieve—”

  “Got it,” Gabi interrupted, then wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  She returned to scanning the tired faces of Parisians who’d ventured out. More glances followed their Red Cross sedan, one of the few cars motoring down the Avenue d’Italie. The locals probably wondered what a Mercedes bearing Swiss license plates and Red Cross markings was doing in Paris. They passed an old Citroën huffing and puffing to keep up with a half-dozen bicyclists pedaling along the right-hand lane.

  “That car looks as if it’s about to explode.”

  Eric raised his eyebrows as he peered through the windshield. “That’s because it’s fueled by a wood-burning engine. You need a permit and plenty of money to bribe the Germans to drive a car, especially with the petrol shortage. The wood-burning conversion is the only option—unless you want to pedal a bike.”

  Gabi’s eyes moved from the strange vehicle to the map in her lap. “We’re coming up to a roundabout. Look for Boulevard Saint-Michel. It should be straight ahead.”

  Eric weaved his way through a half-dozen bicyclists and smoothly entered the roundabout. They swung onto the spoke leading to Boulevard Saint-Michel, which took them toward the Sorbonne.

  “A left here at Rue Racine,” Gabi directed.

  They turned into a narrow street, where the urban fabric changed dramatically and tall buildings cast deep shadows. Gabi remembered learning about these medieval fortified houses known as hôtels, a French term dating back to a time when wealthy merchants sought a solution to defending their homes—or at least closing them off from the street. The residences were built with walls and buildings that lined the edges of the property, leaving a courtyard in the middle.

  The address led them to a two-story gated wall. An older man with gray frizzy hair stepped out onto the street to greet their car.

  “The Red Cross?” he said, stating the obvious.

  “Yes, we’re here to deliver medical supplies,” Eric replied.

  “Password?”

  “La gloire de Paris,” Eric said. The glory of Paris. “And yours?”

  “Jean has a long moustache.”

  Eric chuckled. “Glad you heard our coded message on Radio London.” He thrust his right hand through the car window and exchanged a brief handshake.

  “Right this way, monsieur.” The guard whistled, and a massive gate opened, revealing an arched passage that opened to a courtyard and an imposing four-story residence.

  A pair of men dressed in sweat-stained shirts and long pants watched Eric steer the Mercedes into the large courtyard—where he was shocked to see a Panzer tank pointing at him. Eric’s heart pounded and his fingers stretched, preparing to go for his pistol. Then his eyes darted to the faces of the men, whose eyes drooped in weariness. Only then did he relax, guessing the tank to be booty.

  With a cigarette dangling from his lip and a carbine slung over his shoulder, one of the men lazily gestured for him to park next to the tank. Eric lifted his hand in affirmation and slid the Red Cross vehicle between the Panzer and some rusting bicycles. In the shadow of the tank, a small flock of chickens flapped their wings and scattered for safety.

  Eric hopped out and opened the car door for Gabi. They approached the unshaven freedom fighters, who each wore soiled navy berets and looked like they hadn’t slept in a week. Their brimless felt caps were nonetheless swept jauntily to one side.

  The taller one approached Eric. “Welcome to Paris. I’m Bernard Rousseau, and this is Alain Dubois. I believe you know who we are, correct?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dulles filled us in.” Eric regarded Bernard, dressed like a scarecrow in fraying olive green pants and matching long-sleeved shirt. Four years of lean rations had left a gaunt face under a beak nose. His sallow brown eyes, however, contained a spark that spoke of quiet optimism.

  “The Panzer was a surprise greeting.” Eric gestured toward the long-barreled tank marked with an Iron Cross. “Where did that come from?”

  “We liberated the German tank this morning.” Rousseau exchanged a knowing look with Dubois. “Almost out of fuel, though. You have the supplies of medicine?”

  Before Eric could answer, the faint sound of church bells pealed in the distance. All four tilted their heads and perked their ears.

  “Mon Dieu.” Bernard’s cigarette dropped from his gaping mouth as he crossed himself. “We haven’t heard church bells since . . . the Occupation began.”

  “Not even for Christmas or Easter?” Gabi asked.

  “Not once. Turns out the Nazis aren’t very religious. The only assemblies they ordain are those in front of firing squads. But the bells can mean only one thing . . .” Emotion caused the man’s voice to tremble.

  He didn’t need to finish. Eric understood. The people were winning the streets, and neighborhoods were being liberated.

  Bernard found his voice again. “The boches must be retreating like stuck pigs.” He slapped his palms together, clearly more energized than a moment ago. “But the fighting is sure to be heavy. Let’s get these medicines unloaded now!”

  Rousseau unshouldered his rifle, as did Dubois. Together, the four of them returned to the car, where Eric opened the sedan’s trunk. Four crates stuffed with medicines and supplies were cached inside. He handed out each crate one by one. The two partisans stacked them outside the entrance.

  “We have one more small gift for you.” Eric reached inside the trunk for a small tool chest. Then he sat down in the driver’s seat and turned toward the inside door panel. Rousseau and Dubois moved for a closer look. Eric loosened a series of screws until he could pull down the top of the door panel. The cavity was crammed with stacks of French francs and American dollars, each wrapped in a rubber band.

  “Gabi, can you get my backpack? It should be on the backseat.”

  Gabi handed it to him, and Eric deposited the bundles of cash into the leather-lined bag.

  “Sacré bleu. Where did you get—?” Bernard, clearly astonished, left the sentence unfinished. Color filled his weary face.

  “Don’t ask, but we almost didn’t make it here.”

  “How so?” Though Rousseau raised the question, he and Dubois’ eyes were fixed on the stacks of bills that Eric jammed into his backpack.

  “We had a run-in this morning with some German soldiers, except they were Polish or Russian.” Eric clucked his tongue. “Let’s just say they weren’t looking to see if our travel documents were in order.”

  “What happened?” Bernard’s eyes finally moved to Eric’s, a look of concern clouding his face.

  “Gabi saved us.” Eric’s hands paused, and he fingered a bundle. He again questioned whether he should have let Dulles talk him into bringing her to Paris.

  He shook his head. “Quite a story, and I assure you that they are no longer a threat.” His words sounded cockier than he felt.

  “I understand this problem. We’ve heard about those Ost soldiers.” Bernard reached for a pack of cigarettes, placing one in the corner of his mouth. “Extremely unpredictable. The German officers put them in front-line trenches and shoot any man leaving his post. Caged, wild animals, every one of them.”

  As Bernard spoke, both anger and pain filled his gaze. Anger Eric understood, but the pain? There could be a thousand reasons for the emotion. Memories the freedom fighters carried with them were no doubt equally as graphic and painful as he and Gabi had just experienced.

  Eric was nearly finished fishing out the francs and dollars from the door when Gabi cleared her throat.

  “Excuse me, but are you in charge here, Monsieur Rousseau?” Her eyes were fixed on his.

  The Resistance leader gave a slight nod and pulled at his navy beret.

  Gabi pursed her lips. “We were instructed to convey a message along with the money and medicines. The message could not be written down. We must deliver it verbally.” Gabi looked over to Eric and then back to Rousseau.

  Bernard flipped the lid of a silver lighter and lit his ci
garette. “Please continue,” he said, blowing a line of smoke to the side.

  “Do you still have the capability to pass along messages to your leaders?”

  “The Resistance works through various networks, but I’m part of the senior leadership.”

  “What I have to say may not be what you or the Resistance want to hear.”

  Bernard stroked his stubbly beard. “And who’s the message from?”

  “The highest levels of the United States military.” Gabi paused for dramatic effect. Then she plunged ahead. “First of all, the Allies do not want to be pulled into bare-knuckle street battles to dislodge the German garrison. That would be destroying a city in order to save it. The plan from General Eisenhower at Supreme Headquarters is for the Allied armies to bypass Paris and drive for Germany. Let the Nazis chase after them.” She spoke with confidence.

  Eric held his breath, anticipating Bernard’s response. Anger flashed on his face, just as Eric had expected. Somehow the medicine and cash they’d just unloaded seemed like a paltry offering compared to what these men needed.

  “That’s crazy!” Bernard growled. “Paris will become a mound of rubble, a diamond smashed into a thousand pieces. Surely this General Eisenhower can be persuaded that history will severely judge such a folly—”

  Eric broke in, lifting his hands as if to calm the man. “Here’s how Dulles explained it to me. If the Allies were to rush into Paris, there would be firefights in the streets, and that would favor the Occupation force. They know these streets, they are well-armed, and they can make use of fortified defensive positions. Even if the Allies rushed in, they do not have enough food and petrol to supply Paris. Those critical supplies are earmarked for Patton’s tanks, which are sweeping across the plains south of the city and driving for Germany at this moment. We beg you to keep your powder dry for a little bit longer.”

  Bernard held up his right hand. “C’est impossible. You can’t stop us from throwing out the boches. The situation will come to a head very soon.”

  “Tell the Resistance leaders to wait,” Eric continued. “Our intelligence tells us that the German garrison is 20,000 strong. A full-scale rebellion means they’d have open season to destroy this beautiful city block by block. It would be a bloodbath.”

  “No!” Bernard pulled his beret from his head, balling it in his fist. “They must die. They must pay!” The pain in his voice was fresh. His loss was an open wound.

  Gabi took a step closer to Bernard. She dared to place a soft hand on his arm. “Learn from the Warsaw Uprising. At this very moment, Polish insurgents are being crushed underfoot by their German captors, who are defending ‘Fortress Warsaw’ and counterattacking the Russian Army.”

  “We heard the same thing from the German propagandists,” Bernard conceded.

  “So you know,” Gabi whispered. “The Warsaw Uprising started three weeks ago with high hopes, but the Nazis are ruthless. They’re torching neighborhoods, mowing down civilians. I fear Warsaw is a model for how Hitler’s armies will leave nothing but dead bodies and scorched earth behind.”

  Eric caught the look between Rousseau and Dubois that revealed how they thought things would be different in Paris. He reached out and placed a hand on Gabi’s back, urging her to continue. Pride again filled him at how capable she was for a young woman in her mid-twenties—and how dedicated. Even though she was shaken from today’s events, he knew it would not hinder her from performing the task she’d been asked to do.

  She glanced to him and then pointed toward the western horizon. “You need proof? Take a look at the smoke. Who knows what that’s from? German reinforcements could be pouring into the Parisian neighborhoods where those church towers may have heralded libération a bit too prematurely. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  Bernard effected a wan smile. “I’ll pass your message up the ladder, but nothing’s going to change. Our leader, Colonel Rol, declared that ‘Paris is worth 200,000 dead.’ That’s how far the Resistance is willing to push to rid ourselves of this national humiliation.”

  Eric regarded Bernard’s confident body language, which confirmed his belief that the liberation of Paris was part of his destiny. Like the sound of a clanging church bell that could not be unrung, he knew there was no turning back for Rousseau and his Resistance members.

  5

  The impact of the shovel echoed in Colette’s mind, and she grabbed the stair railing and paused. She stared at the marble step before her, knowing if she closed her eyes, she’d see it again—the sight of hedge shears being yanked from the major’s back.

  Throughout four years of German rule, she’d heard stories of war, about the bloodletting and barbarous battles. She’d heard about men who’d received a worse fate, but never so near. She covered her mouth and nose with a quivering hand, sure the scent of blood was still in the air.

  You have to get ahold of yourself. Those men are no longer a threat. But that was only half of her worries. As Paris was drawing closer and closer to liberation, she wondered if other high-ranking German officers would have the same idea of pillaging the Louvre of her priceless artwork while they still had the chance.

  Will I be able to handle their request so calmly next time? She had to believe she would react in the same way. She longed for the hour when she could relax and release the breath she seemed to have been holding for years.

  She continued up the marble staircase, and with each footstep she felt her composure returning and confidence building. Years of kowtowing to the Germans would soon be over, and life would return to some semblance of normalcy.

  When she opened the door to her office, Anne jumped out of her chair to greet her.

  “You poor thing!” Anne reached out and pulled her close, and Colette felt her body slump. She expected tears to come, but they didn’t.

  She pulled back from Anne and pressed both hands to her temples. “The sound. It was horrific—”

  “Don’t say anything. Push that out of your mind. It had to be done,” Anne rambled. “Here, have a cup of tea.” She poured her a cup from the ceramic teapot.

  Colette sipped her lukewarm tea and could tell that her fellow curator had doubled up on the honey. “That’s very nice of you,” she replied unconsciously, lost in thought. Colette was no innocent when it came to man’s inhumanity to man. She had seen the same themes in the works she cared for. The artists of the past understood the human condition—the desire to conquer and subjugate others.

  Anne’s voice startled her out of her reverie. “Monsieur Rambouillet wants to see us. We saw the entire incident from his office. When I’d heard you’d used the Monsieur Monet alert code, I feared for what would happen next.”

  “If only Bernard was there. When it wasn’t his voice on the phone, I feared—well, I could barely walk across the palace courtyard. I knew that the German major wouldn’t hesitate to kill us. When he fired a shot in the hallway, I was sure both of us were next.”

  “They are dead and gone, thank goodness. Let’s not dwell on it. You showed great courage.”

  “Merci. That’s very nice of you.” Colette sat at her desk, feeling the strength that had carried her up the stairs ebbing away. She lifted the cup with both hands. “Give me a moment, and then we’ll go see Monsieur Rambouillet.” Though Anne had encouraged her not to dwell on the incident, she did not see the cup of tea before her eyes but rather the dark red pool of blood seeping from the major’s skull.

  A few minutes later, after informing Anne that she was ready, the pair walked together into the senior curator’s spacious and well-appointed office. A light cabaret tune hummed from a mahogany-cased radio perched on his desk, its bouncy tune conflicting with the dull pain filling her chest.

  Rambouillet reached over and lowered the volume, then hurried around his desk, opening his arms wide to embrace Colette. “You saved my life. When that boche officer walked into my office and waved his Luger in my face, I thought today would be my last. You followed the plan to perfection.”


  The music stopped, and Colette pulled back from his embrace, turning her head to the radio. Perhaps there was an announcement forthcoming from the German Ministry of Propaganda. The Germans still held control of the major radio stations in Paris, and everybody knew what the announcers didn’t say was more telling than what they did report. Usually the pronouncements on the radio were the opposite of what was really happening.

  Rambouillet raised the volume in time to hear the familiar voice of Roger Villion, the infamous collaborator, echoing through the speaker:

  The following is an important announcement: The authorities are appealing for calm. Do not believe the rumors that you are hearing on the streets. You are urged to stay inside your homes, where you will be safe.

  Rambouillet lowered the volume as an accordion-driven folk song came on. “My brother called ten minutes ago. A friend told him that French tanks were seen passing through Porte St. Cloud.”

  Colette’s lips parted. Porte St. Cloud was on the southwestern periphery of Paris. “French tanks? I thought the Americans were coming to rescue us.”

  “At this point, who cares? This really could be it.” Rambouillet smiled at the women. His eyes narrowed into thin half-moons as his cheeks pressed upward. “I know. What can you believe? But this one makes sense to me. The Métro shut down an hour ago, so something major must be happening.”

  “Great news.” Anne clasped her hands together, a wide grin brightening her face. “Just to think, after all this time—”

  “No time to celebrate yet.” Colette tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “Until we see that swastika come down at the Hôtel Meurice, the Germans are still in charge.”

  “I agree.” Rambouillet strode back to his desk and pressed his hands on the surface. “Which means you must leave.”

  “Leave? But why?” Colette felt the weakening of her knees once again. To stand up to the German major was hard enough, but walking away was impossible.

  “You know how it is with informants these days,” Rambouillet stated. “Someone could have called the Germans and told them about today’s incident in the courtyard. The boches pay good money for information like that. Whom can you trust?”