The Night Portrait, page 20
She thought about her secret inventories, the ones she kept stuffed under her mattress at night. Was there some way that her list of stolen objects could make a difference? Were any staff left inside the Polish museums? Would there be anyone who could help her salvage the works of art? Would anyone be left to return the works to, in the end?
After her repeated requests to learn what had happened to Augustyn Józef Czartoryski and his wife, Dolores, the rightful owners of da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine, Jakub was able to share good news with Edith. Through diplomatic channels, they had been granted exile to Spain, Dolores’s home country. Edith felt relief wash over her to think that the family was safe, and that she didn’t have to bear the burden of guilt for their arrest. She wished that she had some way to contact them, to tell them that their precious collection was at least safe, if no longer in their home. But the knowledge that they had escaped the clutches of the Gestapo gave Edith the courage to keep going.
The convoy slowed to a crawl. They were passing an encampment where Polish insurgents had been rounded up. A line of bedraggled men stood behind a tall barbed-wire fence, watching the convoy. In the distance, smoke curled into the sky. A chill ran over Edith. She couldn’t take her eyes away from the distraught, hopeless looks on the faces of the Polish men wandering around. They were much too thin and their clothes were little more than rags. Would they survive the winter?
Edith wondered why the convoy had slowed to a near halt. Were they giving her an eyeful of the ragged men? Were the soldiers taking pleasure in the appearance of the Polish prisoners?
Edith pulled in a deep breath and held it for a moment. She had become an expert at holding a neutral face. It was the safest way, the only way, to exist in a world where she had little choice. She didn’t want the men to see her as a weak woman underneath the hard façade.
Suddenly, behind them came a loud explosion. Edith jumped in her seat and then the broad hand of one of the soldiers sitting by her pushed her down to the floorboard. She heard a spray of gunfire. Bullets whizzed overhead, making her heart leap into her throat.
“Stay down, fräulein!” the soldier hissed at her.
For a long moment, all she heard was ringing in her ears. Then, suddenly, they were attacked by noise from all directions. Chaos. She couldn’t hear what the soldier with her was yelling. He was on his knees and straightening up just enough to see over the seats in the car, extending one hand to indicate she should stay there.
Edith kept her head down until the noise and chaos cleared. She looked up in time to see the soldier lift his hand into a thumbs-up sign. She pushed herself off the floor.
The door hinged open, and the men piled out. Suddenly, there was the sound of thudding boots on the gravel. Soldiers ran up and down the road, looking for anyone who was wounded.
“Are you all right, miss?” the soldier asked. “Are you hit or hurt?”
“I’m okay.” Surely they could hear her heart pounding?
Without another word, he ran in the direction of the commanding officer. Edith opened the door and put one foot on the ground.
The Polish insurgents who had fired at their car were now lined up on the side of the road, most of them on their knees. Those who refused to kneel were shot first. She watched the men fall, holding in her shock.
She scanned the line. There were eleven men lined up there, two of them already on the ground dead, shot through the forehead. Had they escaped from the encampment? Were they trying to rescue prisoners? The men in the encampment had looked helpless. And these men were little more than walking corpses, their eyes sunken, their bodies skeletal, their clothes ragged and covered in ash, anger and desperation in their eyes.
Edith waited and watched, unmoving, trying to keep her eyes from the line of men about to be executed. She heard the German soldiers yelling at the insurgents. None of the men responded. They were on the ground, their hands behind their heads, their eyes down. None of them looked up, though Edith could hear the soldiers demanding that they do so. She heard the soldiers laughing at the Polish men, hurling vile insults.
One of the soldiers paced back and forth in front of the nine men. Some noise to the left made Edith turn and look. Two more German soldiers approached, a struggling Pole between them. They were gripping his arms and shoved him toward the line of his countrymen. He stumbled a bit, kicking up some dust. He spun around and tried to tackle the soldier who had shoved him and was immediately shot by the other one.
Edith closed her eyes. She heard the Pole hit the ground.
“Stop it!” Edith screamed, but her voice seemed lost in the chaos.
Without another warning, the soldier who had almost been tackled walked down the line of insurgents, shooting each one in the head.
“Stop—please!” Edith had to turn her head away. The insurgents didn’t look like they were physically strong enough to pose any threat to the German soldiers. They were executed as if they were animals. Each one who dared to look straight ahead or into the eyes of the German soldiers had hatred embedded deeply there, easy to detect, though it was mixed with the familiar look of desperation.
Edith retched. Her Heinrich. Was he among those shooting these helpless, sick, poor people?
Edith looked down at her hands, balling them up into fists. Was she any different from these men with guns? After all, she was aiding in the looting of homes all across Poland and the rest of Europe. The men jumped back into the armored car. Edith felt dirty, not wanting to sit beside any of them.
“There is more fire ahead, sir,” another soldier told the driver. “Turn around. The insurgents may have planted mines in the road. You have to go back.”
Edith felt the driver turn the car around sharply, tires lurching in the ruts in the road, and they headed back to the quiet estate.
During the ride, Edith’s ears rang with the aftershock of the gunfire, and she was filled with horror. She kept thinking about what Kai Mühlmann had told her: that Heinrich would not be the same man when he returned. What kind of man would he be? What kind of man could stand in front of those helpless prisoners, look them in the eye, and execute them? And what kind of woman would she be, if she were lucky enough to make it out of this situation alive?
46
Cecilia
Milan, Italy
May 1491
WHAT KIND OF WOMAN WOULD SHE BE, CECILIA THOUGHT as the midwife ran her palms over Cecilia’s bulging midsection, if she were lucky enough to make it out of this situation alive?
Cecilia studied the fading, colored faces painted in the vaults above her bed, waiting. The midwife was a gray-haired, serious-looking woman with cold, smooth hands. She worked slowly, reading her body as if Cecilia had potential as a racehorse: poking, prodding, listening, watching for signs.
Even if she did survive the birth, Cecilia thought, surely her days in the ducal palace were numbered anyway, unless she continued to defend the position she had earned, continued to prove her worth to Ludovico. And if she were sent away instead, what then? Perhaps none of it mattered in the end. Every few days she saw a little blood. At first, she had waited and wished it away. But when it only continued, she had finally confided in Lucrezia, and the midwife had appeared.
Finally, the midwife stood and regarded Cecilia with a lined brow. “The next few weeks are the most critical,” she said. “You have already seen blood. If you see it again, you must stay in bed. You must not get up for any reason. Understood?”
Cecilia nodded, thinking of her vocal practice in preparation for the next string of events planned in the castle. “And how do I make sure that the birth goes . . . as planned?”
But the midwife only pursed her lips. “I do not want to tell you a lie, my lady. No two births are the same. There is no guaranteed outcome. Ultimately, nature will take its course; I am only an instrument. Another midwife might give you false assurances, but I only tell the truth.” The woman studied Cecilia’s face for a long moment, then gave her leg a squeeze, a small gesture that Cecilia knew was unearned. “Have your girl call for me when the time comes.”
47
Edith
Outside Puławy, Poland
January 1941
AFTER HER HARSH FORAY INTO THE MIDDLE OF CONFLICT, Edith was more determined than ever to exercise what little control she had in putting things right. She spent her days cataloging objects, duplicating her ledger, doing her best not to dwell on the fact that she had lost hope that she would find Heinrich in that desolate country beyond the walls of the estate.
As time wore on, the faces in the country estate changed. Men appeared, then disappeared. Those who remained looked as if all the life had been sucked out of them. It was no wonder that the men looked gaunt and dark. The newspapers had not reported it yet, but Edith knew from the rumblings of the soldiers in the palace that Hitler had invaded Russia. The Russians were no longer allies; they were enemies. And the estate was not far distant from the Russian border. Now, in addition to fighting a tough band of Polish insurgents, there were also Russian threats, the soldiers had told her.
After witnessing the roadside shooting, Edith did her best to stay to herself on the lower level, to drown out the worries about the hellish devastation that she knew stretched for miles around her in all directions. She could not function if she stopped to wonder how many camps there were, if there were any towns left standing, how many Polish families’ homes had been emptied of their contents, how many people were packed into cattle cars. All she could do, she thought, was to record everything she saw, everything that passed through her hands, until she could figure out what to do with it that might make a difference.
Edith tore out a blank page from the back of her ledger and began to copy the details of a small oil painting.
Subject: Landscape with shepherds
Artist: 17th-century Dutch, possibly a follower of van Ruysdael
Support: Walnut panel, .32 meters by .63. Equal members joined on the horizontal. Signs of damage from boring insects, no longer active.
Ground: White, very thin. Broken in places, probably during transport.
Paint: Oil, thinly applied with translucent film and pencil drawing barely visible underneath.
Cradle: Low, pine. Warped. Broken upper corners . . .
Destination: Shipped to the Alte Pinakothek, Munich, via train, Manifest #3467
Original owner: Nowak family, Lower Silesia, exact town uncertain
“Good morning, my dear.” Jakub, the lean Polish translator, entered the room, smelling of soap and the oily cream he used to slick his hair and wiry mustache.
Edith quickly stuffed her duplicate inventory page between the creased pages of her ledger. In a way, Jakub had reminded Edith of her own father, and she felt comfortable in his presence. But now, she felt the sting, the panic of her secret perhaps having been discovered. Had he seen her copying the ledgers?
But Jakub hardly seemed to notice what Edith was doing. He sat at a large table and began poring over his own stack of pages. The German officers relied on Jakub to translate a variety of things that came through the doors. Edith watched him carefully noting the contents of a letter. He was meticulous, dutiful. Just doing what he was asked because, well, what choice did he have? Just like her, Edith thought, and she wondered where Jakub’s true sympathies lay. Edith walked over to Jakub and perched on the edge of the table.
“Jakub,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. She struggled for what to say or how to broach the subject. But she had his attention now, his sharp blue eyes on her.
“I wondered if you had any . . . contact . . . with groups outside . . .” she began, hesitating. She knew that Jakub left the palace at the end of each day and returned the next morning. Edith did not know where he went, or who or what he knew beyond these walls. His face remained blank, unreadable.
She tried again. “I have heard that there are people in the countryside who can get information to those who might, who might . . .” Her eyes scanned the vast horde of stolen goods stacked high in the shadows of the storerooms. “Help protect all of this. Or maybe get it back where it belongs. Do you know anything about that?”
Edith watched Jakub press his back against the chair and purse his lips. For a moment, he considered her words, turning his pen over and over between his fingers. Finally, he said, “I am only doing what I am asked, my dear.” A tight grin. “What else could I do?”
Edith nodded and began to turn away, but then Jakub leaned forward and whispered, “But please . . . tell me. What were you thinking?”
Edith walked over to the ledger book and removed the duplicate she had stashed in between its pages. She returned to the table and handed the page to Jakub.
Edith watched Jakub peer down at her tiny, neat handwriting through his glasses. Silence stretched long and heavy between them. Would he turn her in? Would he tell the officers upstairs that she had been compiling a duplicate inventory until she could find a way to get it into the hands of the right resistance group? What would happen to her? “You are copying the inventories,” Jakub whispered finally, meeting her gaze.
“I . . . yes,” Edith said, struggling to explain herself, but Jakub seemed to understand already.
Jakub paused, pressing his fingers under his chin. “Your Governor Frank,” he said. At the mention of Hans Frank’s name, Edith bristled. “Perhaps you know that he has already ordered the murder of hundreds of thousands of my people? Maybe more. My brothers are missing. And their wives and children.” A shadow passed over Jakub’s face. “His men do not hesitate to shoot on sight. Without cause.”
A sharp pain stabbed at Edith’s gut and she stared at her hands. How could she explain that she herself had helped Frank get what he wanted? That Jakub might have every right to blame Edith along with all the other Germans who had invaded his home country so brutally? “I only know what is reported in the papers,” she lied.
“And the German press will not report his crimes against us,” Jakub said. Just as Edith conceded that Jakub would not help her, he said, “But it is my belief that not all Germans are bad. You, for example. It is clear to me that you are a lady with great respect for art. And for human life. You want to see these things returned to their owners.” He gestured into the dark recesses of the storeroom, then to her inventory page on the table. “I might help you,” he said finally, lowering his voice.
“Really?” Edith felt her shoulders fall in relief. “What can we do, Jakub? I feel so helpless!”
Jakub paused and examined the doorway warily. Finally he whispered, “The ladies in the kitchen. They may appear to know nothing, but they are connected with groups beyond this palace.”
Edith’s jaw dropped. The quiet, unassuming women who baked bread, washed dishes, and laundered their bed linens? Those who didn’t appear to understand German at all? Edith had all but given up on communicating with them. Now, she could hardly believe what Jakub was saying.
“Your secret is also mine,” said Jakub. Then he tapped Edith’s copied inventory page with his fingers. “If we work together, I think we can find a way to put these into the right hands.”
Part IV
Object of Desire
48
Leonardo
Milan, Italy
April 1491
THE PORTRAIT IS FINISHED.
His Lordship’s secretary has asked me to arrange an evening to unveil Cecilia’s likeness to the court, to Ludovico’s closest friends and guests. For now, the picture rests on an easel in my bedchamber in the Corte Vecchia, the paint finally dry under my thumb. I return to my drawings, the face of Cecilia Gallerani seeming to watch over my shoulder with her curious expression.
I thumb through the stacks of drawings I have made during the years I have spent in Milan. A man based on the perfect proportions described by Vitruvius. Ink-washed renditions of Our Lady turned out for various devotional pictures. A design for a public square and my failed attempt to win the commission for a cupola for Milan’s cathedral. Countless studies of horses in preparation for the great equestrian monument to His Lordship’s late father. Nearly all of these things, Ludovico il Moro has tasked me to design.
But the truth is that His Lordship needs none of them. On a fresh piece of parchment, I have begun to plot a series of architectural designs for improvements to the Castello Sforzesco that will bolster its defense in the face of invaders. I have spent many hours taking measurements of the old battlements and the long outdated underground system of hydraulics. I have redesigned the bridge over the moat, which is currently useless against an attack.
In recent weeks, I have watched mercenary commanders under His Lordship’s employ race in and out of the castle gates on powerful horses. Two of Ludovico’s closest advisers have disappeared; I do not dare to ask where they have gone. In his chambers, Ludovico il Moro surrounds himself with an ever-tighter circle of men. He seems to imagine threats from all sides—inside the castle and without.
A battle is coming, I think. It is only a matter of time.
49
Dominic
Siegen, Germany
April 1945
A BATTLE IS COMING, DOMINIC THOUGHT. IT IS ONLY A matter of time.
The rutted road curved through the woods, the Jimmy’s headlights pushing golden fingers across dusky tree trunks. They moved at a crawl; Hancock hung half out of the truck, squinting into the woods, searching. Dominic couldn’t help wondering if they were lost. He hoisted his rifle a little more snugly into his arms, a nasty suspicion twisting his gut. Lost. Or being led into some kind of a trap.
The road to Siegen had been tough, but not as tough as it had been for the men before them who had pushed the German stronghold ever eastward. They passed endless evidence of heavy fighting. While the corpses had been removed from the roadside, there were still burnt-out Jeeps, tanks peppered with holes, shell holes blown in the earth, discarded weapons scattered across the hillsides. And bloodstains. They lay in dark patches in the hills, smeared where bodies had been dragged out of them. One large stain was still bright red and sticky when they had passed, an American helmet lying half soaked in it. The sight made Dominic’s heart break. He wondered if anyone had told Paul Blakely’s family what had happened to him. Now Francine would be just another girl robbed of her future by the war. The wedding she and Paul had dreamed of, the children he’d hoped would have their mother’s eyes—none of these would ever happen. Dominic wondered if his little Cecilia would see her father again—and if his new baby would know her father at all.
