by Tricia Goyer
Eric slowed the car to pass two dairy cows nibbling tall stalks of grass along the road’s shoulder. When he accelerated, Colette resumed her story.
“During the chaos of the French Revolution in 1789, the Mona Lisa was hidden in a warehouse. Louis XVI went to the guillotine and his palaces and prized possessions became property of the newly formed state. When Napoleon came to power, the enigmatic lady was restored to a place of honor in the emperor’s luxurious bedroom. After the Louvre Palace was turned into a public art museum, though, the Mona Lisa was installed inside the former palace, where she has resided ever since. Except for the time when she was stolen.”
The juxtaposition of Mona Lisa and the word stolen startled Gabi and prompted Eric to join the conversation.
“Someone stole the Mona Lisa?” he exclaimed from the front seat. “When did that happen?”
“Back on August 21, 1911. It was the greatest art theft ever, although no one talks about it now.”
“Since we’re trying to prevent the Mona Lisa from being kidnapped, maybe we can learn something,” Gabi suggested.
“I doubt it. Even today, the brazen theft seems unfathomable—like the Eiffel Tower falling over. But one Tuesday morning in 1911, a guard walked into the Salon Carré only to find the Mona Lisa missing from her place on the wall. All that remained were four iron hooks and a rectangular shape several shades deeper than the surrounding area. The guard thought the Mona Lisa had been taken away to be photographed. Photography was relatively new in those days, and there was a project at the Louvre to photograph the entire collection. The idea was that in case of damage, loss, or future restoration, the museum would have an accurate picture to work from.
“A few hours passed, and the Mona Lisa was still missing. Someone thought to check with the photography studio, where the guard was greeted with stares as blank as the Salon Carré wall. They had a problem.”
Eric looked into his rearview mirror and locked eyes with Colette. “You mean security was so lax in 1911 that anyone could have walked into the Louvre and walked out with the Mona Lisa?”
“Apparently so. Art treasures were poorly guarded in those days. More than one hundred passkeys floated around the Louvre. The museum was closed the previous day, a Monday, so anybody could have been walking around. The most famous painting in the world wasn’t even wired or bolted to the wall; it hung there on four simple hooks. Once the authorities at the Louvre discovered that the Mona Lisa had been stolen, all France went into a state of shock. Extra editions of Paris newspapers screamed, MONA LISA A DISPARU!
“The Louvre was closed until further notice while the Paris police started an investigation. They stopped cars on their way out of Paris. Trains were searched. Ships inspected. The borders of France sealed. The Louvre curators expected a swift recovery or a ransom demand, but that never materialized. Meanwhile, the story of her disappearance traveled around the world.”
“Did they think it was an inside job?” Gabi asked.
“Initially, yes, but that’s all the police had to go on in those early days. There was tremendous pressure to break the case and recover the painting. When the Louvre reopened a week after the Mona Lisa vanished, long lines of crowds filed through the Salon Carré to view the empty space on the wall, like mourners at a funeral. As the weeks and then months passed and denial turned into acceptance, everyone assumed she was lost forever.”
“So the Mona Lisa wasn’t found right away?” Gabi pictured the long line of mourners.
“Not at all. Fifteen months after her disappearance, France officially called off the search. Public sentiment had turned from shock to sorrow, from disgruntlement to disappointment. When the new Louvre catalog was published in January 1913, the Mona Lisa was not listed in the collection. It looked like the perfect crime, although there were numerous ‘sightings’ all over Europe—Belgium, Holland, and even your Switzerland. Still, the public sentiment was that she was gone for good.”
Eric turned to Bernard. “You know this story, don’t you?”
Bernard bobbed his head. “Yeah, it really is amazing how they found her. When Colette told me the story, I had trouble believing it.”
“So . . . go on,” Gabi prodded. “I’m dying to find out.”
Colette leaned closer to the front seat. “Pure luck broke the case. An Italian antique dealer named Alfredo Geri placed a classified ad in several Italian newspapers that he was in the market to buy art objects at good prices. This happened in the fall of 1913. He received a letter from a fellow in Paris who called himself ‘Leonardo.’ He said he was in possession of the stolen Mona Lisa.
“The Italian art dealer didn’t believe him. Geri wrote a return letter saying he would have to see the painting before he could offer a price. Could he bring it to Italy and show him? On December 10, 1913, an Italian man with a moustache showed up at Geri’s office in Florence. He said his name was Leonardo Vincenzo and that he had the Mona Lisa back in his hotel room. He explained that he had stolen the painting to restore to Italy what had been stolen by France. Thus, he made a stipulation that the painting was to be hung at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence and never given back to France. He also wanted a half million lira for his trouble.
“Geri did some quick thinking. He said he needed to have the director of the Uffizi confirm that it really was the Mona Lisa before he handed over the money. They made arrangements to meet the next day. When they returned to his hotel room the following afternoon, Leonardo pulled out a wooden trunk. He opened it, tossed out a pair of underwear, an old shirt, a pair of shoes, and removed a false bottom. There lay the Mona Lisa!
“Geri and the museum director turned the painting over and noticed a seal from the Louvre. The museum director said he needed to compare the painting with other works by da Vinci, so he needed to take the painting with him. I have no idea why Leonardo agreed to this, but he said yes. Geri and the museum director carried the Mona Lisa out of the hotel and called the police. They stormed the room and arrested the man, whose real name was Vincenzo Peruggia.”
“So the guy who stole the Mona Lisa was an Italian after all?” Gabi asked.
“Yes, he was born in Italy but had moved to Paris, where he had worked at the Louvre since 1908. All the guards knew him. Apparently, on that fateful Monday morning, when the Louvre was officially closed, he noticed that the Salon Carré was empty. He grabbed the Mona Lisa, dragged it over to the staircase, removed the painting from its frame, and walked out of the Louvre with her under a painter’s smock. Can you believe he simply walked off with the world’s most famous piece of art?”
“I would imagine the French were happy to learn of the discovery.”
“Ecstatic! The public went wild. After being displayed throughout Italy, she was returned to France on December 30, 1913, to great fanfare.”
“What happened to Peruggia?” Eric asked.
“He got fourteen months in jail, but he was hailed for his patriotism in Italy. A ‘crime of passion’ was how the heist was described in the press. He became an Italian folk hero.”
“I don’t think the French press will call Göring’s attempt to steal the Mona Lisa a ‘crime of passion,’ ” Gabi declared with rectitude. “A ‘war crime’ seems more apropos.”
“I’m just hoping it’s only an attempt,” Colette replied.
Gabi remained pensive, nodding in agreement. “If the French people were that devastated during peacetime, can you imagine what the loss of the Mona Lisa would do to morale now? There has been so much pain already. A theft would be a crushing blow.”
Bernard unfolded the map and scanned their route. “We are coming up on Rozay-en-Brie,” he announced.
Gabi, who had been lost in thought, looked up with a grim expression.
“Bernard said this would be the fastest route to Annecy.” Eric made eye contact through the rearview mirror. Gabi looked troubled, confirming his suspicion.
Gripping the wheel harder, he eased down on the accelerator and knew she was reliving their encounter wi
th the Ost soldiers.
Gabi, her face drawn and pallid, averted her eyes.
Five minutes later, Eric recognized the Romanesque medieval church that dominated the small village. Everything was coming into focus again: the tall cornfields outside the hamlet with ears of corn waiting to be picked; the faded barns and dilapidated homesteads dotting the landscape; and the dirt road leading into town. This time around, Eric counted a half-dozen men working in the fields, no longer afraid of German patrols.
“Stop!” Gabi cried out.
Eric, startled, reflexively slammed on the brakes. The four wheels locked up as the car slid to a stop, slightly askew. A trailing cloud of dust enshrouded the car. All eyes turned toward Gabi, who was transfixed as she stared out the window. With a click, they heard the door latch give as she stepped out and moved to the side of the road. Then she slowly walked ahead of the car, inspecting the ditch.
Eric exited the car and quickly caught up with her. Gabi had paused. With arms crossed, she was looking down at something.
The bodies were gone, but there—staining the dirt on the left-hand side of the road—were imperfect circles of dried blood, the color of burnt sienna.
Gabi wrapped an arm around Eric and looked up at him with a faint smile. “I’m all right. For some reason, I needed to see it again.” She let out a low sigh. “We were saved for a reason.”
“I agree.” Eric pulled her closer as they slowly walked together back to the car.
Colette watched with a concerned expression. Eric shook his head as if to say, Don’t ask. I’ll explain later.
“The Ost soldiers?” Bernard asked.
Gabi nodded and closed the door.
Eric eased the sedan into Rozay-en-Brie’s picturesque town square, where there were more signs of life this week. In the cobblestoned plaza, women slapped wet clothes against a washing stone while their young children played nearby. On the opposite side, two elderly men shared a bench, each with their hands resting on wooden canes. The setting was peaceful.
“Why don’t we stop for a short break,” Gabi said.
Eric swung the car next to a farmhouse dotted with colorful geranium boxes and parked behind an abandoned buggy. He stepped out of the car and looked in the direction of the old men sitting across the square. One tipped his hat, and Eric replied in kind. The others exited the vehicle and stretched their legs.
“Would you like a petit pain?” Colette asked. She reached into the small sack and pulled out a brown roll. “We also have some cheese, tomato, and mayonnaise from Madame Beaumont, if you feel like a sandwich.”
Eric smiled. “Sure. Bernard and I only got some fruit for breakfast since we were in a hurry to get to the École Militaire.”
Colette, using the hood of the car as a makeshift table, spread a small cloth and assembled the sandwiches with Gabi’s assistance.
Eric came up next to her. “That was a fascinating story about how the Mona Lisa was stolen. Where did you learn all that?”
“I studied art history at the École des Beaux-Arts in Strasbourg, where I grew up.”
“Strasbourg? Your city has volleyed back and forth between France and Germany for centuries.”
“Well, we are on the border. Strasbourg reverted back to France following the Great War, and now it’s under Nazi rule, but not for much longer I hope. I worry for my parents.”
“Verstehen Sie Deutsch?” Eric asked. Do you understand German?
She hesitated to answer. Still speaking in French, she said, “We had to learn German in school, but mine isn’t very good.”
Eric could see that she didn’t want to talk about Strasbourg and knew why she would be concerned about her parents. For the last year, Allied aircraft had bombarded the city.
He looked to Bernard. “So, mon ami, how much longer?”
Bernard took a long draw on his cigarette before answering. “I’d say another six or seven hours if we don’t run into any problems. The tough part should be over. We’re south and west of any German military—”
A steady mechanical hum was growing in the distance. Eric cocked his head toward a hazy sky filtered with blue.
“Hear that?” he asked.
“Look at them!” Colette pointed to the source of the droning noise.
Eric craned his neck in time to see several hundred B-24s and B-17s, heading east toward Germany, moving across the sky. Mustang fighters, which looked like gnats next to the big four-engine bombers, escorted the air armada.
The rows of bombers dotted the sky like a swarm of bees.
“Churchill calls it ‘round the clock bombing,’ ” Eric said. “The United States Eighth sends its sorties by day, and the RAF gets the night shift. Some place in Germany is going to get hammered in about an hour—Munich, if I had to hazard a guess.”
Colette shaded her eyes and looked skyward. “I hope one of those bombs has Heller’s name on it.”
20
With the folded-out map resting on his lap, Bernard’s eyes followed the route between the Paris basin and the Rhône valley. He pointed his finger at Annecy, a medieval city nestled at the doorstep of the French Alps.
They still had some distance to go but were making good time. Pastoral landscape streaked past the dirty windshield. Farmlands were flanked by wooded foothills crowned with high-walled villages, many adorned with French flags. Looking up, Bernard spotted a regal castle with a red-white-and-blue tricolore affixed to a stone turret. “News travels fast,” he said to no one in particular.
Suppressing a nagging sense of guilt, he focused on his current role of spoiler. If he could return to Paris in possession of the Mona Lisa, he and the French Communists would orchestrate une affaire that would make the Italian’s theft of the Mona Lisa look like a warm-up act at the Folies Bergère.
When the people hold de Gaulle’s feet to the fire, we’ll see how he responds. The general’s grip on the country will be slippery at best.
He knew that Colette wouldn’t understand why he had to take temporary possession of the Mona Lisa. She belonged to the insular world of art, which made her a puppet of the bourgeoisie. Like millions of clueless French, she didn’t realize that they were being swept along by a tidal surge that began in 1917 when Vladimir Lenin introduced communism to combat Russia’s economic problems brought on by civil war. France would be the next great Communist country, a worker’s paradise where property and money would be equally shared. She would come around to his point of view when a new dawn arose in France.
He checked the map again to verify their location. Eric was burning up the kilometers since they pulled out of Rozay-en-Brie an hour ago, steering the heavy Mercedes around potholes like a Swiss skier negotiating a slalom course. If they didn’t run into any road closures, they would arrive in Annecy sometime around 7 p.m., matching his pre-trip estimate.
What happened when they arrived would change the direction of postwar France.
Colette closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, missing the tableaux of sunflower fields and lavender meadows. The scenery didn’t interest her at the moment. Her focus was singular, driven by the oppressive responsibility entrusted to her. Failure would be a crushing blow to national morale and would decimate her professional reputation. She loathed Heller for his coercion, forcing her to decide between her love for Bernard and her professional obligation to secrecy.
At this point, nothing could be done to speed up their trip. Only the anticipation of arriving at the Chateau de Dampierre and taking possession of the Mona Lisa would ease her breathing.
Eric’s question about whether she spoke German unnerved her. If Bernard knew she was fluent, he would ask questions—uncomfortable ones. Soon, when the time was right, she would tell him the truth about Colonel Heller and how she had traded information in exchange for his life. But not yet.
Bernard sat within a few feet of her, but it was as if a canyon spread between them. They’d turned to each other during the dark days of war; at the present time, it didn’t seem
right that freedom would put this gaping hole between them. She ached knowing he lied to her about the locket. Even more than that, at the aloofness she saw in his eyes. She pushed those thoughts aside. Bernard was not her main concern now.
“Where are we?” Gabi questioned. “This wasn’t part of our route when we left Bern.”
“This is a faster way,” Eric said.
Bernard consulted his carte. “We just passed Vincelles, and the next town is . . . Cravant, probably three kilometers. Just before we drive through, we’ll cross a bridge at the L’Yonne River. My parents used to take my brother and me to this part of France every summer.”
Ever since they’d left the Left Bank, Eric noted that Bernard had been a nonstop tour guide and political commentator, offering sophistry on the future of France. One thing was certain: Bernard and his Communist comrades wouldn’t be settling their political differences with de Gaulle and his loyalists over a glass of Beaujolais.
While Bernard rambled on about the difficulties de Gaulle was sure to face in coming weeks, Eric cracked open his window to increase airflow and help drone out the stuffy commentary. He diverted his eyes from the road, which was straight as an arrow for as far as he could see. They passed through thick apple orchards, laden with fruit, on both sides of the two-lane road. Checking his petrol gauge, he noted they would need to refuel with one of their jerry cans in the next hour. Then something in the sky caught his attention.
A trail of brown smoke followed a P-51 that was losing altitude . . . fast! The canary yellow nose with matching tail markings identified the United States fighter plane. No more than three hundred meters off the ground, the P-51 fluttered across Eric’s horizon, moving from his left to right. The fighter’s wings dipped from side to side, a clear indication that the pilot was fighting to stay aloft.
“He must have gotten hit by flak over Germany,” Eric said. “He’s going down.”
“Where will he end up?” Bernard leaned forward in his seat to track the crippled fighter. “Hopefully, he can find a grassy field, but I don’t see anything around here. Unless . . .”
