“We will count again,” Edith said, bringing a clipboard with the catalog of silver destined for yet another fine country home that the Franks had commandeered as their own. It was true that many invaluable works of art had been transported to Germany; some of the most valuable had been tagged for Hitler’s museum in Linz. But now, Edith knew that many valuable things went to furnish the newly confiscated fine homes of Nazi leaders. The truth was that many of these luxuries had never been intended for any museum; they only went to line the coffers of Hans Frank and the other high-ranking leaders instead.
While Brigitte fussed with Ernst over the placement of a picture, Edith double-checked her list of silver pieces. The noise of clinking silver made it sound as if there was a dinner party underway, and Edith imagined the elaborate soiree that the governor-general and his wife were to host in this very room the next day, after she and Ernst finished their task of hanging paintings, placing candelabra, and counting hundreds of silver serving pieces.
“Higher on the left side,” Brigitte called out to Ernst from the other side of the room.
In the picture, a peasant’s hut stood in the foreground, its roof sagging and its doorway filled with the broad body of a sheep. Beyond, the soft outlines of trees appeared in dim light. Edith might have classified this painting, probably the work of a German artist a century ago, as Wahl II, but another curator, unknown to Edith, must have sorted it into a collection that was labeled for the country estate of Hans Frank, where Edith and Ernst were tasked with decoration. From the top of his stepladder, Ernst reached out to adjust the frame. The painting leveled, he descended to the floor, decorated with patterns of different species of wood inlaid into an intricate pattern. Of all Frank’s country estates that Edith had seen in past months, this one was the most beautiful. She had helped roll out rugs, put the silver in brand-new chests, and hung the drapes with precision. They kept the drapes pulled back, tied with gold tassels.
Edith was distracted by movement beside her: a staff member passed by, holding two candelabra. She had seen them before. She had assessed their value in the basement of the headquarters before she was forced to come work with Governor Frank and then Wilhelm Ernst von Palézieux. Were they a wedding gift for a Polish couple who might no longer be alive? She felt sick to her stomach. The room darkened around her. Edith glanced out the tall window to the countryside beyond. Over the past months, Edith had done her best to skirt around the edges of Brigitte and her children, eager to keep her distance from them in order to keep her distance from Frank. To Edith’s relief, Frank had been away often. But now, the family had arrived, and there was no avoiding the Franks any longer.
At that moment, the dining room doors opened and Edith recognized the dark silhouette of Hans Frank in the doorway. His teenaged son, Norman, shadowed his father. A sharp pang stabbed Edith’s gut, a now-familiar reaction she felt each time she was in Frank’s presence. She wished she could find an excuse to disappear.
“We are missing silver pieces,” Brigitte proclaimed loudly to her husband. “I tell you, they will take them in a second.”
“I will check the kitchen, madam,” Edith said, relieved for a reason to duck out of the room.
In the large kitchen, two of the dining room attendants, Polish women who had been recruited from the fields outside the villa, lifted pots and pans from a crate, placing them carefully into an ornately carved wooden sideboard. Over days, Edith had watched the women carefully, wondering if they might be, like the other kitchen women, resistance fighters in the guise of benign house servants. Edith had lingered in the kitchen and had spoken to the women often, checking to see if they showed signs of understanding German. Would they be able to help her, and she them? But Edith saw no flicker of recognition, no matter how often she attempted to engage them.
Every evening, Edith recorded what information she could on blank ledger pages, folded into a small package tucked once again under her mattress. Brigitte’s catalog of silver services paled in comparison to the inventories Edith had compiled, she realized. One day, she thought, perhaps the records can help return the works to their rightful owners.
One of the kitchen boys, Józef, spoke good English, Edith discovered. With an eager, playful expression, he greeted her with a “Good morning, ma’am,” in the hallways and spoke with Edith about music and art, practicing his English skills. But she did not know if he was aware of the miles of devastation around them. Edith questioned Józef about his life outside the estate walls, looking for a flicker of resistance, trying to see if he might open the door to networks beyond the estate walls. But he kept the conversation to basic topics—the arrival of rain, the serving of coffee, his favorite type of dumpling.
When she could get her hands on a German newspaper, Edith scanned the headlines. SIEGE OF LONDON CONTINUES. CONFIDENCE IN VICTORY AT THE DECISIVE HOUR. THE DANGER OF AMERICANISM. THE ETERNAL BATTLE FOR TRUTH. There was nothing about the harsh realities of the Polish countryside. Her days were filled with strange, fractured, altered communications.
Suddenly, the door to the kitchen swung open and Józef came bursting through. He looked wide-eyed at Edith and the kitchen servants.
“Józef,” Edith said to him in English. “We are trying to locate several silver forks and a serving spoon. Have you seen them? Can you ask the ladies in Polish for me?”
But Józef only stared at Edith as if he had not heard a word she said. “The Americans! The British!” he said, nearly breathless. “They have landed on the beaches in France.”
“What? How do you know this?” Edith said.
“We . . . In the servants’ corridor. We heard it on the radio.” He paused, a guilty expression on his face. “The BBC.” Had Józef been listening to the banned radio programs? It was dangerous, especially with the Frank family now in residence. But Edith could see that Józef’s disobedience was overshadowed by nervous excitement.
“They have landed by the thousands!” he announced to Edith again. “The Anglo-Americans! They have invaded the beaches in France!”
Part V
Homeland
62
Leonardo
Milan, Italy
June 1491
A NEWBORN BABY. A SON FOR LUDOVICO IL MORO. A BASTARD son, to be understood. But I do understand, for I am one too. He will never rule the duchy, but ultimately, the boy will have a future.
And, thanks be to God, Cecilia is also well. It is always a worry, when a child is born. New life and death so closely intertwined. For Cecilia’s sake, I feel grateful for her good health, especially since the girl suffered so greatly during the birth.
All the same, surely her time is up now. Ludovico il Moro now has a new wife, a mistress, and a newly born bastard child under the same roof. Hardly a sustainable arrangement. One or more of them must go. What will become of them?
For my own sake, I feel grateful that my portrait of Cecilia Gallerani is now complete. Just in time. Even better, Ludovico il Moro accepted it by patting my shoulder in gratitude, then staring at the beautiful girl in the picture with a mixture of love and sadness. As I said, it’s time for her to go.
In my little factory at the Corte Vecchia, I have finally turned back to my greatest joy: the dusty flying contraption that has lain dormant on the rooftop all these long months. Time and space have led me to change the design. A seed of the idea came to me long ago in a dream and I sketched it briefly. If only I could recapture the image.