The Night Portrait, page 23
Dominic placed his tin on the ground and reached into the pocket of his field jacket for a small stash of paper he had collected. With a small nub of his pencil, he began to sketch Vicar Stephany’s round cheeks, his line of receding hair. Just a few lines, almost a cartoon.
“You make me look young and handsome,” Stephany said, continuing to stare ahead and shovel rations into his mouth.
Dominic laughed away a bit of the ache in his bones and continued to draw. “I’ll do my best, Vicar.”
57
Edith
Outside Puławy, Poland
June 1941
EDITH WAS REPAIRING A SMALL TEAR IN THE BACK OF A canvas painting when Kai Mühlmann appeared at the door to the basement storage room.
Edith sucked in her breath. For a moment, she doubted it was him. She blinked in the harsh light of her lamp, then switched it off so that she could focus.
The man before her looked like Kai Mühlmann; she recognized the wide jaw, the thin lips, the hair swept back from his brow. But as he drew closer, she saw that this man was far removed from the broad-chested, confident Austrian she had seen just months ago. He was gaunt and drawn, his eyes sunken into dark sockets. His jacket hung from his bony shoulders as if on a coatrack.
Edith felt a hot wave of panic rise into her throat. Had Mühlmann learned that she was aiding the Poles? Had he found out about her inventories, her manifests, handed off to Jakub and the women in the kitchen?
Edith pushed back the stool from her worktable and stood. “Dr. Mühlmann! What a surprise.”
“Edith,” Kai said, taking her hand. “It has been more than a year.” He ran his eyes across the stacks of artworks stored in the rooms behind them. “I am glad to see that we are still partners in crime.” Edith cringed at his acknowledgment of her role in the pillage of the Polish people.
“Well,” she stammered. “Most of it is hardly worthy of note,” she said, gesturing to the stacks of goods, “but there have been a few things worth . . . safeguarding.”
“I am well aware,” he said. “I have seen your Wahl I reports.”
Of course he had. Mühlmann must know every detail of the works of art exchanging hands within the high offices of the regime. But looking at his knitted brow, the new lines in his face, Edith could see that the job had taken a toll.
He slumped down into a chair alongside Edith’s worktable and ran his finger idly along the dusty, ragged edge of the canvas she was repairing. “I’ve been all over Europe. I have seen things that would astound you.” Edith wondered if Mühlmann meant the works of art or the atrocities of war. She had seen more than enough of both, she thought. The two of them sat in silence for a few moments, then Mühlmann set his intense gaze on her. “But,” he said, “tell me about you. You have word of your fiancé?”
Edith swallowed, pushing down the lump in her throat. “He was . . . killed,” she said. “Near the Russian border.”
“Ah.” Mühlmann reached out and squeezed Edith’s forearm. “I am sorry to hear of it.” The two of them fell into silence again. Mühlmann stood and wandered into the back storage rooms, fingering carefully through a half-dozen framed oil paintings stacked against the wall.
After Edith was sure that she would not cry, she stood and joined him.
He kept his eyes on the paintings in the stacks. “You are doing good work here, Edith. Important work. You will be rewarded for everything you’ve done for the Reich.”
If he only knew, she thought. “I have no wish to garner attention,” Edith replied quickly, holding up her hand. “I do not want anyone noticing me. All I want is to return to Munich.”
Edith saw Mühlmann’s face darken.
“I sometimes think the same thing,” he said in a voice so low she could barely hear him. Mühlmann paced through the shelves stacked high with porcelain and small bronze figurines. “I . . . I feel as though I am stuck in the middle of something beyond myself, a maelstrom as wide as it is destructive. This is not the life I was living before the war. My father encouraged me to be a lawyer.” He laughed bitterly. “But instead I insisted on working with beautiful works of art, with forgotten or ill-appreciated works of centuries past.” He shook his head. “I am only an art historian. You are a conservator. We have no business being here in the midst of this death and destruction. But yet here we are and what can we do? Nothing. We must follow orders if we want to survive.”
Edith shook her head to hear Kai express the words she had been thinking ever since she received her orders back in Munich some two years ago. “My only hope is that you are here to tell me that you are sending me back to Munich, that you are replacing me with someone more qualified.” Edith tried to make a joke to hide her trepidation.
“Someone like that would be difficult to find,” he said, and turned his eyes on her again. Edith watched his smile disappear. “Well. It seems that you have once again made yourself indispensable. And I suppose I owe it to you to get to the point about why I am here, Edith.”
Edith froze. What did Mühlmann know about her? What would become of her, if he did know of her inventories?
Edith searched his face for a flicker of understanding, but Mühlmann turned his back and continued to pace among the stacks of goods piled in the storage room. “Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, whom I have been in close contact with over the last several years, ordered me to return to Poland. He wants me to come home to Germany with several valuable paintings he wishes to acquire for the Führer’s new gallery.”
“Da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine,” Edith said.
A tiny smile threatened the corner of Mühlmann’s mouth as he turned to her. “Yes,” he replied. “That is one of them.”
Edith shook her head. “That means tearing it from the claws of Hans Frank. He is obsessed with that picture. It’s not going to be easy.”
“I don’t imagine it will be,” said Mühlmann, “but there are more pressing issues this time. Hitler has ordered more troops to hold back the Russians. And as you have already learned, the Russians are dangerous. Göring is concerned about the safety of these priceless works of art in Kraków. We are too close to the border. Our Nazi officers are no longer safe here. Nor are the pictures.”
Edith wondered if that meant that she herself—and everyone in the villa—were also in danger.
Mühlmann continued. “Last time, I had to placate Göring with a portrait by Antoine Watteau. Göring was furious that the Lady stayed here in Poland. It took weeks for him to calm down. This time Göring has issued a command and I have no choice.” Mühlmann shrugged. “I must pick up the Lady with an Ermine, along with Raphael’s Portrait of a Young Man, and Rembrandt’s Landscape with the Good Samaritan.”
The Great Three, Edith thought.
“I will take them back by train from Kraków to Berlin myself,” he said, and now Edith understood why Mühlmann looked like a hunted man.
“And you want me to come with you,” Edith said, trying to hide the resentment in her voice.
Kai’s face darkened. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible this time, my dear. You have been given a different assignment.”
Edith felt her chest fill with dread. “Please don’t give me more bad news,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Mühlmann shook his head. Above them, a lightbulb flickered starkly.
“Governor Frank,” he said. “He has requested you stay here in Poland. He doesn’t want you to go back to Germany with the paintings. You were . . . it was part of the bargain.”
Edith blinked rapidly, trying to process what she was being told. She had been exchanged for several works of valuable art, forced to stay with a vile, evil man. The man she held responsible for Heinrich’s death.
“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.
“Great!” Hancock said enthusiastically as they completed the tour. “I’m off to check up on the new works arriving.” He beamed and headed off.
Instead of heading to the makeshift hall that had been converted to a mess room, though, Weaver and Dominic wandered back through the paintings stacked in the hallway, chatting about this piece and that. Their new friendship had begun to heal the edges of the ragged gap Paul’s death had left in Dominic’s life.
Best of all, he’d been drawing again. They headed for a bust of a young woman that Dominic had been wanting to draw for days, and he settled down on the floor opposite. The moment Dominic had picked up a charcoal pencil again, a gift from Stephany back at Siegen, he had started sketching and couldn’t stop. Soon running out of human subjects to draw, he’d taken to using the pieces of art for inspiration. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Dominic pulled out one of the index cards he had taken from the stacks near the loading docks. The bust took shape briskly; first just the oval of the face, then the curves of the cheekbones, the locks of hair, the eyes. The nose. He brought it to life by sketching the eyes in, dark and vibrant. When he was done, the portrait of some long-forgotten young woman blushed prettily up at him, and he found himself doodling a couple of freckles across her nose.
“It’s great, Bonelli,” said Weaver when he flipped the card to show his friend.
“Mail call!” A skinny private with a canvas mailbag strode into the room, and the men snapped to formation.
The young man’s voice cracked as he called out the names written on the envelopes in his hand. “Ackerman. Barnes. Bonelli . . .”
Dominic’s heart leapt in his chest. The young private pressed an envelope into his hand.
Bonelli, the return address said. Greensburg, Pennsylvania. Dominic recognized Sally’s neat handwriting, the careful letters with controlled loops. Dominic pressed the envelope to his face and inhaled as if he might catch Sally’s scent imprinted on it. He fumbled to tear open the flap of the envelope.
“Bonelli.”
His name again, but this time it was Hancock, approaching Dominic and Weaver. Both men saluted the officer as he approached, but Dominic thought he detected a hint of sadness in Hancock’s eyes.
“I’ve got news,” he said. Dominic fingered the letter from Sally, hardly able to keep himself from ripping it open. He struggled to keep his attention on Hancock. “You’ve both been reassigned.”
Dominic’s stomach flipped. He had just started to enjoy the peace and quiet in Marburg. Gripping the envelope, he tried to keep the fear out of his voice. “Why?”
“Seems that it’s too peaceful here for the likes of you, soldier. You’ve proven yourself too valuable as a front-line man. Gotta keep moving forward toward the action.”
