“You have encountered . . . resisters . . . here?” Edith asked tentatively.
“Who, the Poles?” the boy driver asked, then shrugged. “Sure. They’re out there. The Home Army. The People’s Guard. Sometimes just zealous farmers with guns. That’s why we wear these,” he said, knocking on the top of his metal helmet. He looked back, taking his eyes off the road for another brief second. “You some kind of lady Kurator?”
“I suppose I am, something like that,” said Edith, unable to suppress a grin. No one had ever called her that. “I am more of a Konservator than a curator. I restore old paintings, bring them back to life.”
Edith wished that she knew more about Kajetan Mühlmann, the man who had called for her to bring him the best works uncovered at Pełkinie. He must have been highly regarded by the Party, or he would not have been put in such a position as Oberführer. But Edith had learned in her years of museum work that positions of authority were often doled out unfairly; his rank might not mean that he was qualified or would have her own professional interests at heart. She was prepared to distrust him.
It was nearly noon by the time the car pulled into the entrance of another grand home, not a palace like the one in Pełkinie, but a large, fine private residence nonetheless. The gravel drive in front of the house was filled with Nazi soldiers and officers, plus a dozen or so armored vehicles and trucks. She followed the soldiers up the wide staircase to the front door, carrying the painting under her arm, unwilling to let go.
The soldiers led Edith down a long hallway lined with tall, open windows spanning from side to side. The corridor led to an elaborate ballroom decorated with gilded molding and marble sculptures.
From the other side of the room, a great hulk of a man stepped toward her.
“Herr Dokter Mühlmann.” One of the soldiers snapped his heels together and saluted the large man, whose broad shoulders and juglike jaw made him look like he belonged on an athletic field rather than in a museum office.
“Fräulein Becker. Thank you for coming,” the man said in a distinctive Austrian accent. “Generaldirektor Buchner from the Alte Pinakothek has spoken highly of you.” He extended his hand to Edith.
“Oberführer Mühlmann,” she said, surprised at his soft, clammy grasp.
“Please,” he said. “Call me Kai.” His mouth spread into a thin line. In spite of his intimidating stature, Kai Mühlmann had a gentle voice. “You may not realize it yet, but you have already done much to help our effort. You have made my job with the Czartoryski collection simple.” He grinned wider.
Edith felt the muscles around her shoulders tighten at the persistent thought of the fate of the prince and his wife but she was having a hard time steeling herself against Kai Mühlmann. He seemed mild-mannered, intelligent, and modest, and his Austrian accent added a certain charm. She let down her guard a little.
Behind them, several soldiers were bringing in the paintings that Edith had carefully wrapped in tarps. She watched them stack them against a wall.
“I don’t know what else I could have done,” Edith said. “My career . . . my life . . . has been dedicated to preserving paintings.”
A nod of satisfaction. “So I have heard. I’ve done some research on you. Top of your class at university! The only woman to reach such a level. I am proud of you and I don’t even know you yet.”
Edith had to laugh. “Thank you.”
“So,” he said, “I am curious about the piece you have chosen to handle yourself? I noticed the others have all been brought in a truck while you were left to guard this one.”
“I wasn’t left to guard it,” Edith corrected. “I wouldn’t be able to protect this myself as they have not issued me any weapons. I chose this one because I want to make sure nothing happens to it.”
“I cannot wait any longer, then. Let’s have a look,” Kai said.
Edith watched him carefully loosen the string that secured the loose tarp around da Vinci’s portrait of Cecilia Gallerani. He laid the picture flat on the large marble surface of a table, then opened it. For a long, few silent moments, Edith watched Kajetan Mühlmann lean his palms against the table, taking in every detail of the richly oiled surface, of the girl’s lively expression, of the turn of the sitter’s body, and that of the strange creature in her lap.
Finally, he looked up at Edith with a smile that revealed a row of straight teeth. He nodded his approval.
“I am delighted that you have brought this masterpiece to me directly. It shows your good judgment that you chose to safeguard this particular piece with your life.”
Edith could see the honesty on his face and in his words. She felt a little better, knowing that she wasn’t the only art specialist in Poland who knew the importance of these pieces.
“I feel that this picture is the first modern portrait,” she ventured. “Da Vinci has gone beyond the traditional strictures of representing sitters in profile or as idealized figures. Here, he has captured the duke’s mistress as she probably really looked in life.”
Edith watched Kai’s eyebrows raise, and he examined the picture again with the new light of Edith’s assessment. Then, he set his eyes on her. “I can see that you will be a valuable member of my scientific team.”
“Scientific team . . .”
Kai nodded. “I already have a group of art experts based in Warsaw, and I am now putting together a team based in Kraków to cover the south. We will be . . . paying visits . . . to private collections like the ones you’ve already seen. And churches. Monasteries. Universities.”
Edith felt a chill run up her spine. She wouldn’t be so dumb this time.
“You are taking works of art.”
Kai’s eyebrows arched. “We are preserving works of significant interest to the Reich. We are creating a catalog of Poland’s finest artworks. The catalog will be presented to the Führer himself, who, as you may know, takes a personal interest in the history of art.”
Edith fell silent, letting the information sink in. She was already responsible for the plunder of one family’s art collection, and maybe even their capture by the Gestapo. Would she be forced to do it again? Did she have a choice? If she refused, what might happen to her? To her father?
As if he read her mind, Kai continued, “Your job, Fraülein Becker, will be to divide the newly safeguarded works into three categories: first selection, second selection, and third. Wahl III represents objects of representational purposes—silver services, ceramic pieces, carpets, and the like. Those in the category of Wahl II are pieces that, while not necessarily worthy of the Reich but of good quality, will be fully inventoried and stored. Wahl I, our first selection, will be photographed, documented, and carefully conserved. Wahl I will represent the finest masterpieces of Polish collections. No doubt this one”—he ran his fingertip along the ornate edge of the gilded frame and his eyes over the face of Cecilia Gallerani—“will be at the top of the list.”
Edith protested. “But these works don’t belong to the German government. They belong to museums, churches. To families . . . Prince Czartoryski and his wife . . .”
“No longer,” he interrupted. Edith watched the muscles of his square jaw tighten. “In our care, these works will be studied, appreciated, preserved for future generations. If we leave them here, in the hands of Polacks, well . . . they face certain destruction. I’m sure you can appreciate that they are safer in our hands.”