Edith walked quickly behind Lieutenant Fischer as he snaked through the dozens of soldiers and through the central doorway of the house. Inside, there were more soldiers moving furniture and fixtures. Edith rushed to keep up, her surroundings a blur of gilding, crystal, polished wood, silver, and richly colored upholstery.
“We found the pictures in a secret room in the oldest part of the house, the part beneath the old watchtower,” Lieutenant Fischer said, and Edith followed him up a wide staircase into the diffuse light. “The door was hidden behind a piece of furniture.”
With each step, Edith thought about the family members who had abandoned their home for their own safety. She pictured the family living here, the children running through the vast rooms, laughing, chasing one another down the long corridors. She could imagine the adults, riding horses through the lush forest, picnicking on the lawn, gazing at the stars at night, living their lives in peace.
“The family . . .” she said, feeling a wave of trepidation. She did not know how to phrase her question.
The officer shook his head. “They had already fled before we arrived. The Gestapo is trailing them.”
A strange mixture of shame and relief washed over Edith. She personally had assembled the catalog of this family’s known paintings. Edith was responsible for the theft of some of the world’s most valuable works of art, the ransacking of this estate, and the confiscation of everything inside it. In the process, she had put people’s lives at risk. What if she refused to continue to help? Would her life be at risk, too?
Edith feared that she might vomit. She had never meant to send anyone into exile. She certainly didn’t want to have anyone killed. It was her fault they were not here anymore, she realized. But as she took in the vast scale of this operation—an entire convoy of armed vehicles, dozens of soldiers, officers, and military police—Edith realized it was too late. She was fully engaged in a conflict that was much bigger than herself, whether she had intended it or not.
Would the family get far enough ahead, or find refuge before the Gestapo found them? Until they could return to their home? An image of the sunken eyes of the woman on the train seared through Edith’s mind.
“They must have judged us idiots,” Lieutenant Fischer said, his eyes lighting up with self-satisfaction. “It was obvious that the narrow door had just been patched. The mortar was still wet.”
“A wall?” Edith asked.
He nodded. “They hid a lot of the things in an old room that you can access only through a narrow door hidden behind a cabinet. Made it appear like it was simply a wall. But it was poorly done. Our men found it within a matter of minutes.”
Edith felt a chill run down her spine.
Lieutenant Fischer turned a corner and an elegant sitting room stretched out before them. The room was cluttered with dusty furniture covered in sheets and tarps, neglected goods stored over many years. A half-dozen military police staff milled around idly among the disorder. The officer led Edith to a hole in the back wall, where bricks had been hastily removed.
“We received the information about this location from a Polish bricklayer, the one who walled up the door. He tried to keep it a secret, but he was not able to keep the truth from us.” Lieutenant Fischer gave her another thin smile.
A series of long tables had been set up around the room, each stacked with decorative items and wooden crates. On one table, two sets of paintings were stacked on top of each other. Edith wondered if the men knew how valuable these paintings and artifacts were. It seemed to her they had been careless in their movement of the items.
“I don’t know much about art,” Fischer said to Edith, “but it looks like a museum here to me.” He addressed the guards. “The lady is a specialist from the Alte Pinakothek in Munich. Let her have free access to examine the works. She will decide what is to be loaded for transport.” The men stepped aside and Edith moved forward. Her hands shaking, Edith reached down and touched the frame of the first painting on top of the stack, a small landscape darkened by centuries of dust.
“I assume you know your duties here. I’ll leave you to your work,” Fischer said. “Just one more thing, Fräulein Becker.” He reached for her arm and lowered his voice. “Be careful about who you share information with. Our forces are easily taking the cities, but there are Polish resistance groups throughout the countryside.”
Resistance. What did that mean, exactly? Edith’s heart began to race in her chest.
Lieutenant Fischer seemed to read her mind. “They are more organized than our commanding officers in Germany realize. Someone might try to contact you or get information. It might be someone you think you should trust. Don’t be fooled by a handsome face, fräulein. Watch what you say and to whom.”
Suddenly, a muffled voice emerged from one of the large crates at the back of the room.
“Heiliger Strohsack!”
Everyone turned. A short soldier, his helmet and uniform coated in dust, emerged from the stacks of crates and gilded frames. Between his hands, he balanced a rectangular package wrapped in paper, its edges torn to reveal a section of a gilded picture frame.
“Look what I found!”
15
Leonardo
Florence, Italy
May 1482
BEYOND THE GATES OF FLORENCE, I FEEL THE CARRIAGE wheels shudder into the ruts of the road. I steady the wooden crate that bumps against my thigh.
Finally. After years of trying to gain favor at the Medici court, of trying to find a supporting patron, after years of holding my breath for fear of another accusation, I am leaving Florence behind for better prospects.
Buried deep inside one of the rocking mule carts behind us lie trunks full of notebooks, paintbrushes, charcoal, pens, pigments. Silken hose, gowns and caps of satin, linen undergarments, and my favorite cape of purple velvet. Milan is cold, they tell me.
I watch the gray-haired man seated across from me on the plush, embroidered cushions, one of Lorenzo il Magnifico’s notaries. His mournful eyes watch the towering clay dome of our cathedral grow smaller outside the carriage window. Alongside me, my young and beautiful friend, the singer Atalante Migliorotti, hums a tune under his breath. Il Magnifico has chosen well, I think. Surely we will impress the court of Milan. They say that the Milanese try to emulate our Florentine language and dress.
I have insisted on bringing a small notebook and a fresh stick of charcoal into the carriage so that I might sketch any sights that capture my fancy along the journey. And the crate. Of course, the crate. I have devised a wooden container filled with straw to transport the lyre, Il Magnifico’s diplomatic offering to Ludovico il Moro, Regent of Milan. I must not let it out of my sight.
The lyre itself is a wonder, if I do dare to compliment myself. I cast it in pure silver, in the form of a horse’s skull. It will accompany Atalante’s voice perfectly; we have already spent hours rehearsing together and have even practiced before the Medici women. And if the Lord of Milan asks me to play it, how could I refuse?
Along with the lyre, the crate also holds Il Magnifico’s letter of introduction on my behalf. Extraordinarily important. Disappointingly brief.
I cannot stop myself from sighing aloud. If I am to win any important commissions among the court of Milan, I must elaborate on my abilities. I turn to my notebook, where I have penned a letter. I have scratched out passages and rewritten them. Hopefully, by the time we reach the gates of Milan, the list of my offerings will be complete: