“But they belong to museums, to private owners,” Edith insisted. “One might argue that many of these works cannot be assigned a monetary value. All the same, no money has changed hands. No legal transfer of the goods has taken place.”
She thought she saw Kai’s thin smile waver, but he said, “I’m afraid that’s not the way the initiative is being carried out and between you and me, I would advise you not to repeat that assessment to anyone else.” He turned his attention back to da Vinci’s Lady.
Edith fell silent, feeling the burden of her role in the Czartoryski family’s arrest fall over her again. “The paintings won’t be kept in here, will they?” Edith asked, watching the men teeter under the awkward heft of a large Dutch landscape.
Kai shook his head and turned to Edith again. “No. This particular estate is a security risk from threats outside the house, and besides, our commander does not want to assign an officer to every window; they have more important jobs. As you know, there is also the risk of exposure from the sun on hot days. So this is only a holding place. You and I will be repacking a handful of the best works to take to Kraków.”
“Kraków . . .”
“Hans Frank is our newly appointed governor-general of Poland. He is expecting us tomorrow. He will personally view our selections there, a handpicked group of pictures representing the best of Polish collections. I understand that Governor Frank is nearly as educated and passionate about art as our Führer.”
“What does he want to do with them?” she asked, protectively reaching her hand toward the frame of da Vinci’s portrait.
Kai shrugged. “I suspect that we will be returning with everything to Berlin.”
Edith felt her heart surge. Was she going home? Already? “And we are going with them?” she asked.
“We won’t want to let these treasures out of our sight, will we? You are playing an important role in the mission to safeguard these works of art, Fräulein Becker. You are a brave and intelligent woman.”
Edith thought she saw his face turn pink but ignored his comment, no matter if it was offered humbly. Instead, she searched the reflective, patterned marbles in the floor, feeling a jolt of excitement pass through her. She was going home. Yet her elated feeling abruptly dissolved when she realized she would be back in Germany just as Heinrich’s unit reached the front lines in Poland. She wasn’t going to see him even if he passed through. She did her best to ensure the disappointment did not show on her face.
Kai carefully rewrapped the portrait in the protective paper, “One of our men will show you to your quarters upstairs. They will serve you a meal around 19:00 hours. They can hardly lure the dogs to the stove here in Poland, I’m afraid. Little more than pigs’ feet and rotting cabbage. The good news is that we’ll be back to German food soon enough. You should be ready to leave for Kraków with me at daybreak tomorrow.”
He lifted the newly wrapped masterpiece off the table. As she watched him tuck the picture under his arm, Edith tried to formulate words. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. A group of nearly a dozen soldiers, who had suddenly appeared out of the shadows, fell in behind him.
Mühlmann then turned toward Edith, clicked his heels together, and reached out one hand, his palm facing down.
“Heil Hitler,” he saluted.
He turned and walked out of the ballroom with the painting hugged tightly to his side, leaving Edith standing alone underneath a gigantic crystal chandelier. It shuddered slightly as the last soldier in the line closed the door.
24
Dominic
Aachen, Germany
October 1944
INSIDE THE CATHEDRAL OF AACHEN, THE SILENCE WAS absolute but for the crunch of gravel underneath boots as Hancock led the way inside. Dominic and Paul followed closely behind, Josie wedged between them.
In spite of the Monuments Men’s best efforts, Dominic could see that Aachen Cathedral had been reduced to little more than a shell. Gaps and holes in the vaulted ceiling allowed shafts of sunlight, filtered by smoke, into its once-majestic interior. Part of one wall had been destroyed, the broken stone crushing one row of pews. A single tapestry, inexplicably left behind, stirred in the breeze that blew in through a ragged hole in the wall.
Then, Dominic heard it. A shuffling noise, somewhere near the pulpit. Before he could think, he swung his weapon around and took aim. The group sprang at once to tight alertness, guns raised. There was a frozen moment and Dominic heard the sound again, this time paired with a loud gasp.
“Come out with your hands up!” Paul shouted.
Dominic fixed his eyes on the pulpit, finger on the trigger, bracing himself for the burst of noise that would signal the start of yet another gunfight. But when the occupant of the pulpit emerged, it was with raised hands first. It was followed by a balding head and then, trembling in the sad tatters of his stained robe, the vicar of Aachen.
Dominic lowered his weapon. The old man clambered out to stand before them, as skeletal and shaky as his church. His robes were covered in fine gray ash that puffed to the floor when he moved, his dark eyes sunken and glassy with trauma. He said nothing, merely staring at them in mute capitulation.
“It’s all right.” It was Paul who spoke first, putting away his gun. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
The vicar did not look reassured. “Please,” he said, his voice fragmented, shaky with fear, thick with a German accent. “There is nothing left here for you. Just be going.”
“We’re not going to take you prisoner,” Paul said. He took a step nearer and held out a hand. “Are you injured?”
The vicar’s eyes darted from one man to the other as they all lowered their weapons. “No,” he stammered.
“Have you been here the whole time?” asked Dominic.
“Of course. I could not leave the church. My holy duty. I stayed there—under there.” He gestured toward the pulpit. “It was so loud. The walls were all falling down.” He gazed around the cathedral, and his eyes filled with tears. “I just stayed like this.” He lowered his shaking hands to his head and clasped them over his ears, screwing his eyes tightly shut, his face crumpling into an expression of abject terror.
Paul and Josie led the vicar to one of the aisles and sat him down there. Hancock dug in his pack for a canteen and some of his rations. He handed them to the skeletal older man, who introduced himself as Vicar Stephany. He ate in ravenous gulps; he had been hiding since the shelling started days ago, he said, too scared to come out even now, when they could still hear the distant whistle and thud of shells.
With no apparent threat to them now, Dominic turned, staring around the church some more. The cluster of medieval buildings must once have been majestic, but now it was little more than a strange skeleton of stone and glass. Great shards scattered the floor in different colors. He wondered how many centuries those mighty walls and beautiful windows had stood intact, and felt a pang of frustration and regret that he’d only arrived in time to see them destroyed.
On the altar of the church lay the finned figure of an unexploded bomb. It rested upside down, its sleek shape speaking of motionless menace. The aisles were filled with scattered objects left behind by citizens and soldiers who had sought refuge there before the bombing; books, toys, a broken ceramic cup, a woven sack with the name of a bakery printed on it. They must have thrown everything down and taken flight. A child’s doll lay draped across the back of one of the pews, its button eyes staring at the ceiling. Dominic hoped its owner was alive to miss it.