“You made a bargain?” she said, her heart turning to steel.
“An exchange,” Mühlmann said. “I am only returning a few pictures to Berlin at this point. Many others will stay at Wawel. And Frank . . . He wants you to be part of his personal curatorial staff.”
Edith inhaled sharply. “I . . . I have to stay with him?”
“Yes, along with his wife, Brigitte, his children, and many other of his personal staff.” Dr. Mühlmann shrugged but did not meet Edith’s eyes. “He will not hurt you, Edith,” Mühlmann said. “On the contrary. He values your expertise.”
Edith turned to face him. “And if I refuse?”
“I don’t recommend it,” Mühlmann said, meeting her gaze. “Edith, if there was anything I could have done about it, I would have, but I have heard him brag about your art-sleuthing skills in front of others. A woman, no less. You have done your job so well that Frank sees you as one of the jewels in his crown.”
“But I am just here in a basement in some godforsaken corner of Poland going through things that belong to people who have been captured or worse. And meanwhile, my own family is falling apart!”
Mühlmann smiled at her weakly. “You are doing much more than that, Edith.” For a moment, she froze in terror—did he know? But he continued. “You must take solace in knowing that you are doing a great honor to the Supreme Leader and to your country. War requires great sacrifice from all of us. Besides, I think Frank likes the idea of having you close.”
Edith felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. She looked around at the stacks of ledgers she had completed over the months, and the stacks of artwork left to catalog. Then, she looked at Kai, realizing that he was studying her face closely.
“I leave for Kraków tomorrow,” he said. “You have a little time, but Frank will not wait forever. We should wait until some of the skirmishes die down. Then the convoy will transport you to Wawel.”
58
Dominic
Marburg, Germany
April 1945
DOMINIC STOOD ALONE ON A LOADING DOCK AND WATCHED the approaching convoy of Allied MP escorts and cargo trucks stretch into the distance, a winding train of vehicles laden with art and the soldiers who defended it. Dominic watched it approach with a mixture of excitement and pride, his head and rifle carried high.
Dominic had been on guard duty for a couple of weeks, having traveled from Siegen with a convoy of weapons carriers packed full with art to the temporary new home of the treasures from the copper and salt mines: Marburg.
The American troops who preceded them had commandeered a massive, impressive building, formerly a state archive, to store and catalog the art. And there was a lot of art. As Dominic soon learned, Siegen was just the tip of the iceberg. Repositories were being discovered all over Germany, their contents carefully packaged and sent here. Now, Dominic felt proud and excited for his small but vital role in the mission. He only had to guard the entrance to the loading dock, a simple enough task, but he was thrilled to watch the masterpieces trundle past.
Another soldier helped him to pull open the gates of the loading docks, allowing the first of the M151s to pass. Like most of the convoys they’d been receiving, there was a mixture of American and British forces, working together to preserve the treasures of Europe. Every day they came—Jeeps, weapons carriers, army trucks—loaded with priceless paintings, sculptures, small objects, archives, and documents. Each convoy delivered another repository of precious value that had been clawed back from the greedy Nazis.
“Look!” George Weaver pointed. “It’s Hancock.”
Weaver and Dominic pulled themselves to attention and saluted as a Jeep carrying their commander drew nearer and stopped. Hancock hopped out, grinning with a smile that remained undiminished all these months later. Hancock had spent weeks in the field, investigating the reports that continued to pour in, detailing the locations of still more repositories: salt mines, caves, castles, monasteries, offices—anywhere the Nazis could think of to smuggle the art away. If he was back, it had to mean that this convoy was larger than usual, and was important, too.
“Greetings, gentlemen!” Hancock tipped his head back, smile widening, and strode closer. “You won’t believe what I’ve found.”
“Hold up,” said Weaver. “Don’t say ‘da Vinci’ too quickly, or Bonelli here will wet his pants.”
“Hey!” sputtered Dominic, indignant, as Hancock and Weaver laughed. He smiled despite himself. “I’m still hoping for that someday.”
“Keep hoping,” said Weaver, clapping Dominic on the shoulder. “So what did you find, sir?”
Hancock’s eyes shone. “Turns out Siegen isn’t the only mine where the Nazis had hidden stuff away. There’s another mine near Bernterode, and I didn’t only find art there. We found caskets. The remains of a bunch of great heroes. Frederick the Great and his father. Field Marshall Paul von Hindenburg and his wife.”
“Von Hindenburg?” said Dominic, irritated. “Seems we could do without him, sir.” He knew von Hindenburg had been partially responsible for Hitler’s rise to power.
Hancock shrugged. “It’ll be history one day, son. Either way, somebody’s gotta care.” He grinned. “It’s a splendid find. Come on in, I want you two to show me around all the new stuff that’s arrived. Your relief is here anyway.”
Dominic and Weaver handed over the guarding of the loading docks to the two soldiers who had just arrived; they followed Hancock into the building. Just inside, several desks filled an enormous entryway, each manned by a professional pulled from one of Germany’s great museums and universities. The scores of men and women were equipped with cameras, pens, and index cards. Dominic knew that keeping track of the growing hoard was a logistical nightmare; their system of supplying each item with a unique number was time-consuming but necessary. As the works were unloaded, each one was photographed and marked with an index card before being moved inside the building for safe storage far from the damp of the mines.
Dominic and Weaver led Hancock through the building, showing him the treasures that had arrived; much of it from the treasury of the cathedral of Metz. Paintings, sculptures, fine jewelry, and more precious objects from museums, churches, archives, and private collections were neatly stacked in cataloged rows, waiting for their eventual return to their rightful owners. The sheer volume was overwhelming. Dominic was surrounded by orderly rows of inexpressible beauty, each piece a testimony to the value of the human spirit that had created it; an example of how humanity was determined to bring light and beauty into a world that had fallen into inconceivable darkness. This world war was not the first tragedy to strike mankind and it would not be the last, but none of them had been able to destroy humanity’s appreciation for beauty. It was the only thing that gave Dominic hope.
The Nazis had conspired to take everything good and valuable in the world for themselves. But the Nazis would not win. One day, when Cecilia was a grown woman, she, too, would be able to look upon the priceless works and know that her father played a role in a group that gave everything to save them. Dominic felt relief wash over him.
Best of all, Dominic thought, Vicar Stephany could finally return with his beloved treasures to his church in Aachen, accompanied by a full contingent of Allied guards.