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?”

He glanced to his window. “I don’t think we should take any chances. It’s more dangerous for all of us—and for the art—if you remain here. You need to leave now.”

Colette reacted with mixed feelings. On one hand, it was the best plan for her personal safety, but then again, it was her job to be here. She didn’t want to leave the Louvre at this momentous time in history.

“You said the Métro stopped running. I’d have to walk, and who knows how safe the streets are.” Colette hoped that sounded like a good enough excuse for her to stay.

“That’s why I’m authorizing Anne to go with you. We can’t take the chance of a German staff car pulling up to the front door looking for a missing major. I’m requesting this for your safety as well as ours.”

Colette realized that she couldn’t put her colleagues at risk. She looked at Anne, who nodded. “I’ll go get my things.”

Five minutes later, Colette and Anne stepped outside the Louvre’s front entrance. The courtyard was deserted. The museum had been officially closed all week because of the wartime uncertainty.

Colette scanned the horizon, marred by a thin film of smoke. She noticed a piece of white paper, burned black around the edges, floating to the ground. Looking skyward, a light rain of ash fell from the hazy sky.

“My place?” Colette asked.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re more than a ninety-minute walk away. Same as me. I doubt we’ll find anyone to give us a ride on the Rue de Rivoli. It’s like everyone has disappeared.”

Colette’s face brightened. “My mother lives off the Rue de Madrid in the 8th arrondissement. No more than forty-five minutes on foot. But we’d have to walk in the vicinity of the Hôtel Meurice.” She bit her lip, knowing they’d pass by the heart of the German command. “I don’t think anyone will bother us if we stay in the Tuileries Gardens.”

“Good idea. And we wouldn’t know what we’d run into if we took a detour.”

The two women departed the Louvre courtyard, linked arm in arm, in the direction of Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. They passed by the monument and continued along the gravel pathways into the Tuileries Gardens, staying on the left side of the park, parallel the Seine.

Barely a ripple moved across the river’s emerald-colored surface. Barges, flat-bottomed boats, and Bateaux Mouches—the famous open-air tourist boats that roamed the Seine—were cinched tight to their moorings. The dozens of love-struck couples who normally lingered along the banks were absent.

Anne followed her gaze toward the empty stone embankments. “You miss him, don’t you?”

“How did you—?” Then again, Anne knew she and Bernard often sought solitude along the Seine during long lunch breaks.

“I haven’t seen Bernard all week.” Colette swallowed hard, attempting to hold down her emotions. “I’m worried sick.”

Anne drew Colette’s arm closer, patting it. “I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon.”

They continued along the southern outline of the Tuleries Gardens, the largest and oldest public park in Paris. Colette looked through a cluster of deciduous trees toward the octagonal Grand Basin. No mothers had taken their children out to play with their small wooden sailboats, not on a day like this.

Many of the green lawns had turned to dirt. Brown weeds infested the formal flowerbeds. Straggled new growth splayed from the famed hedges that outlined each rectangular quadrant of the park. Through the hazy air, she spotted a tendril of smoke rising from the Hôtel Meurice not far away.

Then the sound of idling diesel engines caught her ear. She studied the source of the noise, and up ahead a half-dozen Panzers formed a phalanx in front of the Hôtel Meurice. Several German troop carriers were parked in the gardens. Others were positioned across from the front entrance to the hotel.

Colette stopped in her tracks. “You see what I see?”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen troop trucks parked there before.”

“Or so many tanks on the Rue de Rivoli.”

Anne paused, clutching Colette’s arm. “I don’t know about this. Maybe we should go back. Find another way—”

Colette considered returning. Surely someone would be looking for the major by now. Her throat tightened as if squeezed by an invisible noose. She patted Anne’s hand and took another step forward. “No one’s going to bother a couple of women in the middle of the afternoon.”

Against Anne’s protest, the two continued past the disheveled gardens, hooded by broad centennial chestnut trees. There was no sign of activity near the troop carriers, but as they drew closer to the Hôtel Meurice, she saw soldiers exiting the lobby and carrying boxes—toward a bonfire. Soldiers one by one dumped reams of paper into the flames.

“You see that, Anne? The Germans are packing up—”

“Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici?” A sharp voice split the air. What are you doing here?

Colette turned in the direction of the voice and gasped at the sight of a rifle pointed at her heart. Anne, momentarily frozen, squeezed her arm in fright.

“Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici?” the soldier repeated in a horrible French accent. “Vous êtes des espions, non?” You’re spies, aren’t you?

Colette sucked in a breath. Her legs urged her to turn, to run. Instead, she transformed her mask of concern into a warm smile. “Ist das wie Sie alle jungen Damen des Reiches behandeln?” Is that how you treat all young ladies of the Reich?

The soldier lowered his carbine. “You’re Germans?”

“Yes. My friend here”—she nodded toward Anne, whom she could tell didn’t understand a word—“and I are on holiday in Paris. We were supposed to leave Sunday, but things have been rather chaotic. All trains are canceled to Germany. So what should we do? And what about the bonfire?” Colette nodded in the direction of the plume of smoke.

The soldier’s gaze fixed on her, and she broadened her smile. Though her heart pounded in her chest, she mimicked the flirtatious looks of the American movie stars she’d seen in the cinema.

Gradually the soldier’s look turned to one of interest. Of protection.

“The only thing I know is that we were ordered to burn documents and keep our eyes alert. It’s getting more dangerous by the minute. I wish I could walk you back to your hotel. It’s not safe.”

Colette placed a hand over her heart, feigning horror. “Have the Allies arrived?”

“They don’t tell us anything. Just that it’s dangerous to be wearing a German uniform on the street. Listen, you need to seek shelter. We could be attacked any minute by Sherman tanks.”

Colette turned to Anne. “Let’s go back to our hotel,” she said in German, knowing her friend understood the universal word hotel and not much more. Anne, lips sealed, nodded her approval.

“Good, then it’s decided.” She thanked the soldier, and they retraced their steps. When enough distance had been put between them and the German troop carriers, Colette spoke in French.

“I told him we were Germans on holiday. We better return to the Louvre. The boches have better things to do than worry about a German officer going AWOL. I’ll feel safer there.” The worries over the possibility of someone coming to the Louvre now paled compared to the fear Colette experienced facing the soldier.

“No argument from me,” Anne replied. “The sooner we’re in the palace, the sooner I can start breathing normal again. Besides, there are plenty of places to hide within those walls.”

“You’re back.”

Colette and Anne stood inside Monsieur Rambouillet’s office.

“It’s getting crazy out there.” Colette removed her scarf and folded it in her hands as she related the unexpected confrontation with the German soldier in Tuileries Gardens.

“Thinking quickly on your feet has served you well today. Perhaps it’s fortuitous that the both of you returned. Radio France is back on the air.”

“Radio France?” Colette’s eyes widened. How long had it been since she’d heard a friendly voice over the airwaves? Too long.

Rambouillet reached over and turned up the volume on the radio. “Parisians, rejoice! You will soon be liberated!” a voice shrieked in joy. “A column of tanks led by General Leclerc just passed through—”

A burst of static cut off the transmission. Rambouillet tapped the radio several times in frustration. “Radio France has been in and out since it returned to the airwaves, but our season of shame will soon be over.”

Liberation! She squealed and hugged Anne.

Warmth flickered inside Colette, as if the rays of sun shining through the window had pooled in her chest. With a deep chuckle, Rambouillet wrapped his arms around them both.

“This time it’s true.” Colette’s words released as a breath, and she wiped the tears that had started to pool on her lower eyelids.

“I really do think so,” Rambouillet replied. “Perhaps the next voice we hear will be that of the man representing the new French government.” He chuckled again. “We’ve nearly made it.”

It was the word “nearly” that caused a thousand needles to travel up Colette’s spine. Surely the worst is over now . . .

Back in her office, Colette’s emotions rose and fell like the English Channel on a stormy day. Hope battled with fear. Uncertainty threatened to drown out excitement. She opened the file in front of her and then closed it again. It was impossible to focus. She turned her mind to the most interesting task on her desk, hoping that would do the trick.

Seeing the file marked “Salle des États Exhibitions,” she set her mind on a new course. Very soon the priceless treasures that had been scattered across France would be brought back. The minor pieces now on display would return to basement vaults for storage and reassignment—which meant many of the world’s greatest paintings would once again fill the grand halls.

A few weeks ago, when it became apparent that the Allies had finally broken out of hedgerow country and were moving west steadily, Monsieur Rambouillet had asked her to select paintings that would join the Mona Lisa in the Salle des États. What paintings should go on her left and her right? What mix of paintings would enhance the Mona Lisa experience rather than detract from her smile?

Colette had eight pieces in mind. They were Old Masters that deserved to be in the same room as the genius of Leonardo da Vinci.

A distant telephone ring pulled her back. After the third ring, Anne looked up from her typewriter. “Do you want me to get that for you?”

“No, I’ll take the call.” Colette picked up the black handset.

“Allô? Mademoiselle Perriard.”

“You may continue to speak in French in case anyone is in the office with you,” a male voice said en français. “But I will now speak in our mother tongue.”

The voice from Germany was weak over the static. She was surprised that phone service between Paris and the outside world was still possible.

“Oui, monsieur. Continuez.” The warmth in her chest seeped out, and an icy chill filled its place.

“You know who this is, yes?” the distinctive voice said in German.

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Then I will get to the point since we cannot be sure how long the connection will hold. We are entering an era of great uncertainty, but my colleagues and I desire to continue our relationship. The Reichsmarschall asked me to tell you that since the situation is more fluid, he is willing to reward your cooperation in a more tangible sense.”

“Oui, monsieur. D’accord.” She tightened the grip on the handset, anger pounding in her temples.

Got it. Instead of threatening to arrest and torture Bernard, you’re going to bribe me.

“You will hear from us soon. I wish you a pleasant day.” The static-filled phone line suddenly clicked.

Colette set the phone down, a bit dazed.

“Who was that?” Anne came around to her desk.

“My landlord. He said a German tank is roaming the neighborhood, so I should stay away.”

Anne bought the story. “That was nice of him.”

“Very nice.”

Colette bit her lip and lowered her head. She’d assumed when Paris was liberated, Colonel Heller would be out of her life forever.

She was wrong.