“What?”
Stephany gestured with his spoon. “I see that something disturbs you.”
Dominic hesitated. “Lots of things about this war disturb me, Vicar.”
“Yes. But you also saw your friend killed,” said Stephany gently. “Not an easy thing.”
Emotion boiled in Dominic’s chest. Suddenly, he wanted to scream and punch something, but he swallowed and kept his voice under control. “I just wonder if it’s worth it,” he said. “I know you really want your church treasures back. But is it worth Blakely’s life—and the lives of all the others who have been lost?”
Stephany paused, reflecting. “I understand. Mr. Blakely. He was not wanting to come on this mission?”
“I mean . . .” Dominic swallowed. “Blakely was resolved to go wherever he was sent, I think. Isn’t that what we signed up for? And he believed the Monuments Men’s mission was important. Look. I think it’s great that these guys are trying to save something for humanity and all,” Dominic said, gesturing toward Hancock, “but I don’t see how it’s worth putting even one life at risk, much less . . . millions. You have heard, Vicar, of what Hitler’s troops have done in Poland? Millions of people massacred in the ghettos, sent to work camps for no reason. How is that possible? And yet . . .” Dominic huffed out a breath. “Here we are, sitting on our asses in some godforsaken museum. Sorry,” he said, pulling at the roots of his hair.
But Stephany remained unfazed. “Yes. An evil unseen for generations. I know.” He turned to face Dominic, his eyes intent and serious. “But let me ask you something, my friend. If we were looking for a store of food or something else that would keep us alive, would it be worth it?”
Dominic frowned. “I guess so.”
“And if you stay alive through the war, what will you do when you go home?”
“I’ll kiss my wife and babies.” Emotion rose in Dominic’s throat. “I’ll go back to work in the mines. And . . .” He paused, remembering the happiest times of his life: sketching Sally as she washed the dishes. “And I guess I’ll start drawing again, one of these days.”
“See there.” Stephany touched his shoulder, smiling. “We have already lost so much. We cannot lose what we love, too.” He gestured at the men inventorying the pictures left stacked against the wall. “Imagine a world without art, without music, dancing, without the things we do not really need. It would not be a world worth living in.”
Dominic felt his heart lighten a bit. He picked up his soup again, half listening to the men writing down a description of one of the few paintings left on the wall.
“Market scene,” said the old German, as the serviceman scribbled in his notebook. “Seventeenth-century German, possibly an imitator of Altdorfer . . .”
A serviceman entered suddenly from one of the staircases leading down to the lobby, holding a huge book. “Is Hancock here?”
“I’m here.” Hancock spoke behind Dominic, making him jump. “What is it, Private?”
“A museum catalog, sir. Look.”
Dominic and the others clustered around the serviceman as he knelt and opened the book on the floor. The neat lines of text were marked up in red and blue pencil. Hancock flipped through the book, giving muffled exclamations of excitement. “This is what we were looking for!”
Stephany and the art professor leaned over Dominic’s shoulder to see. The professor waved his arms and gabbled in rapid German; Stephany had to ask him twice to slow down before he could translate. “He says we will find many paintings like this,” he said. “This is an official register. Village schools. Courthouses. Cafés. Other places where paintings and sculptures might be stored.”
“But look at that.” Hancock tapped a notation at the bottom of the page with his finger. “My German isn’t perfect, but I see the word ‘Siegen’ in there.”
“Yes,” said Stephany. “It says that some of the most important objects have been taken to a mine there.”
“But that’s all the way on the other side of Germany, across the Rhine,” said Hancock, dismayed. “I can’t imagine these pictures would have survived that journey intact.” Dominic looked up at the commander’s furrowed brow. Perhaps this meant that they could just clean out Aachen and then be done with this crazy mission.
But Hancock raised his head, plastering his smile back onto his face. “Anyway,” he said, “it will be a long time before we make it that far.”
Dominic’s shoulders fell. As much as he would have loved to see a painting by Leonardo da Vinci in person, he wanted to go home more. He had no desire to pick his way through the devastation all the way across Europe.
Dominic felt Vicar Stephany squeeze his shoulder, and he turned to see the old man’s winning grin.
“I tell you, we will find these treasures. You see, my friend? There is hope.”
29
Edith
Kraków, Poland
October 1939
THEY HEARD THE ROARING ENGINES OF THE ARMORED VEHICLES first.
Edith watched Kai Mühlmann pace nervously from one side of the Jagiellonian Library reading room to the other. He stopped before a Dutch painting depicting a lush still life and chewed on the ragged edge of his fingernail. His face was dire, his wide jaw set and his mouth frozen in a thin line. He stopped to adjust the angle of an easel, then began to pace the room again, lacing his fingers tightly behind his back. In the background, they heard vehicle doors slamming, and the tread of boots in the library vestibule.
All afternoon, Edith and Kajetan Mühlmann had supervised the unloading and display of the two dozen paintings they had accompanied on the train from Jarosław. The great reading room of the Jagiellonian Library now resembled an art museum rather than a repository for rare books. The works Mühlmann had judged the best of those confiscated from Polish collections were now exhibited around the room.
The Great Three. That’s how Mühlmann had begun to refer to the three most valuable works pulled from Polish collections—Rembrandt’s Landscape with the Good Samaritan, Raphael’s Portrait of a Young Man, and da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine. In addition to those pictures, now prominently displayed, there were a handful of masterful landscapes and portraits, all of them, Wahl I. First tier.
The priceless paintings were carefully placed to take advantage of the diffused, natural light emanating from the windows high up in the ceiling coffers. Around them, the walls were lined with thousands of books, extending some three stories high, accessible by a series of angular staircases and precarious ladders.
The reading room smelled as if it were in the process of slow decay, everything covered in layers of dust. Still, apart from the painting conservation studio, there was nowhere Edith would rather be than a library of crumbling books. In other circumstances, she would have relished spending the day here, wending her way up the stairs to pull long-neglected volumes off the shelves. It would be a thing for a peaceful time, for a daydream. For now, she had to keep her head down and follow orders. What choice did she have? She would be home soon enough. That’s what Kai had promised her on the train.