79
Edith
Munich, Germany
June 1945
THAT FAMILIAR FACE—THE SOFT BROWN EYES, THE LIVELY expression. The white ermine.
Edith couldn’t believe her good fortune to stand in front of da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine again. But this time, she was not in a basement of the war-torn countryside; nor was she on a rumbling train or in a salt mine, or the home office of a man bent on destroying all that was good in the world.
Instead, she was in Munich, in her own hometown. This time, she was safe from harm. And the picture was safe, too. She could hardly imagine it.
“It’s not bad news, Edith,” Buchner had told her, and he was right. “It’s an offer from the Allied forces. They want you to come join them as a civilian employee at an Allied checkpoint here in Munich. Works of art from all over Europe—including those pulled from Poland—will go through the checkpoint. The art will be collected, cataloged, and repatriated to its rightful owners, wherever they may be.”
Edith had blinked at him in disbelief. Manfred. The inventories had made it into the right hands after all. Manfred had marveled at the inventories Edith compiled. He told her that he would need some time to talk with his associates and figure out the best way to utilize the important information that Edith had assembled. At last, Edith thought, her labors might bear some fruit.
“The checkpoint is here in Munich?”
Buchner had only nodded. “I hate to lose you again right as you have returned to us, but they are requesting you by name. I have no idea how they know of you, but they insisted on having Edith Becker work with them. You must have done something . . . remarkable.”
The Allies wanted her services, as a civilian. She was not being ordered anywhere. She would not have to leave her father behind and she would still be able to handle and safeguard—really safeguard this time—the priceless treasures she so dearly loved. And at last, her carefully transcribed secret inventories might be put to some use after all.
But shortly after Edith had departed for her new job, news of Generaldirektor Buchner’s arrest spread in hurried whispers and gasps that reverberated through the hallways. He had been accused of collaborating to steal the Ghent Altarpiece from a museum in France, and the Allies wanted to question him on the whereabouts of other works of art. Edith could hardly believe her own good fortune in being invited to help return the works to their owners rather than being arrested for their confiscation.
Had she been responsible for confiscating Leonardo da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine? Edith stared into Cecilia Gallerani’s eyes, so full of life even after five hundred years and countless trips across the war-torn countryside. I did my best to protect you, Edith pled silently with the girl in the picture, as if Cecilia herself could have vouched for Edith’s good intentions. So much of it was out of my control. But in her heart, Edith knew that wasn’t true.
For the first time since she had laid eyes on the picture five years before, Edith felt that she could look at the picture in a new light, in the light of a conservator’s eye. After all the movement through different countries and climates, she feared that the picture might need to be stabilized. She leaned forward and ran her eyes over the surface, looking for cracks, scratches in the raking light.
Carefully, she turned it over. The picture had been painted on a walnut board. There were cracks on the vertical axis, some hairline, others wider.
“It’s you.” Edith heard a strange accent at her ear. “The lady from the lake.”
Edith turned to see a familiar-looking man before her. A slight man, handsome, with chocolate-colored eyes and an American accent.
“Am I right?” he asked, his face earnest and serious. “You led me to this picture.”
Edith studied the name on his uniform, and her eyes lit up with recognition.
“Bonelli! Mister B-Bonelli!” she stammered. She laughed then, throwing her head back so that a wing of chestnut hair traced along her cheek. All her hard work. It hadn’t been wasted after all. She stepped forward and threw her arms around Bonelli’s neck. He staggered back a couple of steps until she finally released him.
Bonelli ran his palm over his hair, recovering from the surprise.
“And you are a hero!” Edith exclaimed, and she watched the corner of his mouth turn up in a sideways grin.
“Call me Dominic.” He extended his hand.
“I’m Edith.”
Dominic gripped her hand. His was calloused but steady. “How strange—and wonderful—to see you again, miss.”
“Indeed,” Edith said, not wanting to let go of the hand of this stranger who had done more to save the portrait in one day than Edith had done in five years. “I should introduce my companion,” she said, gesturing toward the painting. “This is Cecilia. But I think you have already made her acquaintance?”
“I have had the honor.”
Edith smiled again. “She tells me that a brave soldier rescued her from the castle of an evil tyrant.”
“Yep,” said Dominic. “Swept her right off her feet.”
“Her prince in an armored car.” She grinned at him. “But now it is my turn. It will be my job to bring Cecilia back to the way that Leonardo da Vinci must have seen her when she was sitting before him.” She touched the frame of the painting with gentle fingers.
“Why do you call her Cecilia?” asked Dominic.
“People call her Lady with an Ermine,” said Edith. “But we believe that it is a portrait of a young woman named Cecilia Gallerani who lived in Milan about five hundred years ago.”
“Cecilia is my daughter’s name!” said Dominic, his eyes wide. He gestured to the picture. “She was beautiful.”
“Yes.” Edith’s eyes were dark and wide now as they searched the portrait. “And she will be again when I am done with her.”
80
Cecilia
Verme Palace, outside Milan, Italy
August 1491
CECILIA LOOKED UP FROM HER READING TO SEE A FAMILIAR silhouette framed in the doorway. She would recognize him anywhere, his elegant form with light flowing around him. In his hands, he held a large rectangular-shaped package wrapped in blue paper.
Cecilia let out a screech and jumped up and down on the octagonal tiles.
“Cavolo. That all my pictures might enjoy such a reception,” Leonardo said, stepping across the threshold into the shadows.
Cecilia laughed. “Master Leo. I must admit that I am happy to see the painting, especially since I thought I might never lay eyes on it again. But mostly I am thrilled to see you.” Cecilia pressed the painter’s face between her palms and kissed both cheeks. Following her mistress’s example, Violina weaved her way back and forth against Leonardo’s emerald-colored hose excitedly, her tail a frantic mass of white fur.
“I am satisfied to see that you are still surrounded by the beauty that befits you,” he said, taking in the great stairway and the darkened frescoes in the vaulted ceilings of the Verme Palace.
Cecilia shrugged. “It’s not the Castello Sforzesco, but that is only a good thing. Come. You must see how Cesare has grown. And you must tell me everything of Bernardo, and of you and your own pursuits. I have missed you both so much.”