The convoy came to a gentle halt. An officer stepped out and stretched before ordering the men to take a break and dig into their rations. The servicemen disembarked, gazing around at the beauty of the scene; a few of them simply flopped down on their backs in the grass and looked at the sky as if enchanted. It seemed like a long time before any of them had been allowed to enjoy the sun.
“You’ve gotta draw this, man,” Weaver said to Dominic, stepping down from the Jeep.
Dominic jumped off beside him. “I will. But first, I gotta take a leak.”
Weaver plopped down on the grass and opened his pack. “I’m not gonna wait. I’m starving.”
Dominic headed toward a clump of shrubs he’d spotted at the crest of the hill. “I’ll be right back.”
He lifted his rifle from his shoulder and placed it in the Jeep. There was no need for it now. Then, he wandered toward the hill, admiring the carpet of beauty unrolled all around him. It gave him hope, hope that this war was almost over.
69
Edith
Neuhaus am Schliersee, Germany
May 1945
HANS FRANK HAD NEVER TOUCHED HER BEFORE.
Edith cringed at the feel of his grip on her forearm. Slowly, he led her down the stairs, and along the seemingly endless corridor.
When they crossed the threshold to Frank’s office, Edith’s eyes immediately went to the portrait of Cecilia Gallerani, as if the nearly five-hundred-year-old girl could impart some of her own serenity to a situation teetering on the brink of disaster.
“Governor Frank . . .” Edith began.
“Have a seat,” he said, letting go of her arm. He sat behind his hulking wooden desk.
Edith lowered herself into the chair opposite Frank’s desk.
He looked somber, his brows pulled together in a concerned frown. He sat for a moment in silence, his elbows on the desk, his clasped hands in front of his mouth. Edith thought she saw his eye twitch. He seemed to be corralling his energy, or perhaps suppressing it. Edith could not guess.
Finally, he pressed a stack of papers in front of her. “I need you to—”
Frank stopped speaking abruptly when the door opened. His teenaged son, Norman, stood there, but did not enter. He only stared at his father.
“What is it?” Frank finally broke the silence.
“Vati,” Norman said, tentatively. “The Allies are coming to arrest you. I heard it on the radio.”
Edith’s eyes widened. Her hands gripped the armrests of the chair so tightly her knuckles turned white. She studied Frank’s face, trying to read his reaction.
But Frank only stood calmly and turned away from both Edith and his son. Edith looked back at Norman. She tried to send him a telepathic message, thanking him for allowing her to hear his radio when the announcement about Hitler and the liberation of Munich was being broadcast.
“Papa . . .” the boy said. “Did you hear me? They are coming.”
Frank removed a large diary from the shelf behind him and placed it on the desk. Next, he carefully removed a few more volumes and stacked them there. Then, Frank walked over to the window. He pressed his hands deeply into his pockets and simply stared at the lake.
Edith moved slowly, not wanting to make any noise to attract the troubled man’s attention.
When she walked past da Vinci’s Lady, she hesitated. Could she try to save the painting? Would she dare to pull it from the wall? What would Frank do? She could no longer predict. She hesitated, then forced herself to put one foot in front of the other. There was no way she could take the picture with her.
When she got to the door, Norman was blocking her way. He looked her in the eyes for a moment. She returned his gaze, unblinking. With a single, almost nonexistent nod, Norman stepped to the side and she slipped past him. The boy went into the office with his father and closed the door behind him.
Edith moved swiftly through the kitchen, where the cook and his assistants went about making pies for the next day’s luncheon, when Brigitte was due to return home. They had no idea that everything was about to change. Edith said nothing. Businesslike, she walked toward the back garden door that led to a gravel path. She cast one look over her shoulder to see if anyone noticed she was leaving, but she saw no sign of the guards who spent their days lazily strolling the edges of the estate. Edith let the door click softly behind her.
In the same moment, she patted the waistband of her skirt to make sure that the folded inventories were still there.
And just like that, Edith was outside the walls of the farmhouse. She looked up at the hillside before her, the bright sun making dappled patterns across the landscape where the flowers were beginning to sprout blooms in all the colors of creation.
Edith looked back nervously, afraid someone might be watching her from a window as she ran across the grass. She skirted along the stones at the foundation of the house. Perhaps even Hans Frank himself would see her, but surely he cared little about what might happen to her now. It was his own life on the line. No longer was he the arrogant governor of Poland who could claim the riches of anyone for his own. Now he was an enemy to extremely powerful forces, and they were about to come and give him the justice he deserved.
Edith felt glad that the Allies were coming, that they might finally penetrate the ever-tighter circle that had closed in on Frank and his closest associates in recent months. So many killed and families destroyed because of his ego, his greed.
Edith hurried across the lawn and to a small field that would take her to a winding path that led around the edge of the lake. For the first time in years, exhilaration filled her lungs with hope.
Edith moved quickly along the shoreline as it snaked northward, in the direction of Munich. The American and British soldiers would eventually find the villa. Would they bomb it? Would they destroy all its beauty, just because of the evil man who lived there? She hoped they would have respect for the artwork and the artifacts that could never be replaced, especially Lady with an Ermine. Surely there would be a few intelligent, art-loving men among the soldiers?
She could only hope. But for now, all she wanted was to go home.
When she reached a narrow footpath where the lake tapered off into a smaller stream, Edith broke into a run.
70
Cecilia
Milan, Italy
June 1491
“LITTLE DUKE.” FAZIO APPROACHED CECILIA’S BED AND plunked himself down beside her, casting his gaze to the bundle in her arms. He pinched one of the boy’s tiny toes between two fingers and kissed its tip. Then he gazed at the child’s nearly transparent eyelids, which flickered in his sleep. “His Excellency’s only son.”
Cecilia could only shake her head. “Whom he has not laid eyes upon.”
She watched her brother’s face fall. “No? Ah.” He rose from the bed and began to pace the room. Silence hung heavy in the air. “Well. I believe he has been called away on important matters—” her brother began, but she raised her hand and her brother fell silent.
“Fazio,” she said. “All the chambermaids—even old Bernardo—have held the baby in their arms. But not his own father.” She sighed. “I suppose it is time I admit that our mother was right.”
“Our mother?” Fazio’s eyebrows raised.
“Yes. She said I would be nothing but a high-ranking whore. And now. Well, look at me.” She gestured to the grandeur of the room and the baby in her arms.