The Night Portrait, page 7
An officer approached but spared no pleasantries. “It’s about time you got here,” he said. “That’s your commander. Captain Walker Hancock.” He turned and walked into the encampment. Exchanging a brief glance, Dominic and Paul followed.
Even from a distance across the dreary camp, Dominic could see that Captain Hancock was as out of place as a mare among mules. Tall and lithe, his uniform draped elegantly over his lean frame. He looked like he should have been wearing a suit and swirling a glass of sherry instead. His piercing blue eyes were watchful as Dominic and Paul followed the officer over to him.
“Hancock’s not just a soldier,” the officer told them as they walked. “He’s some kind of famous sculptor, too.”
The educated, refined man seemed utterly incongruous here in this bitter and charred landscape, but with a shock, Dominic realized that he must have been commissioned as well.
The officer stopped and saluted; Dominic and Paul followed suit. “New men for the security detail, sir.”
Hancock turned and studied the men. Seeming to register the large white MP stamped on their helmets, he nodded. “Good,” he said. “We’ll need more of them as we move toward Aachen.” He drummed his fingers on the barrel of his weapon; Dominic could imagine them grasping a chisel. “Get them settled in.”
“Yes, sir.” The officer turned to lead the men away, but Dominic’s curiosity was getting the better of him.
“How will you go about finding these works of art, sir?” he blurted. He looked at the officer as he spoke, too nervous to meet Hancock’s eye, but the men all knew to whom the question was directed. Hancock merely quirked his other eyebrow and turned away.
The officer saved Dominic from his embarrassment. “A bunch of professionals in Europe and the US have been working on this thing ever since the war started,” he said. “Museum curators and such. They’ve been using their own research to make lists of these works and maps for where we might . . .”
The officer’s words were lost in a thunderous sound that electrified Dominic’s whole body. Bullets tore into the nearest tent, sending canvas flying in all directions. Shouts and gunfire filled the encampment and, in slow motion, Dominic saw Hancock turning, saw machine-gun fire tearing into the ground ever closer to him.
By sheer instinct, Dominic lunged forward and threw his short frame into Captain Hancock. He felt earth splatter on his boots from the spray of bullets, curled himself determinedly around the commander, and rolled behind the cover of the giant rubber tire of their two-and-a-half-ton. Bullets whined as they ricocheted off the hub. Dominic gripped his rifle, waited for a break in the thunder and returned fire, his gun kicking back against his shoulder. He emptied the magazine until he heard a scream and the gunfire abruptly ceased. A few long moments stretched, followed by the shuffle of boots, and then silence.
Panting, Dominic lowered his gun. As the smoke cleared, Dominic saw two German uniforms, bodies lying still at the edge of the encampment. Some Americans groaned among the tents, too, other men hurrying to their aid through the clearing smoke. Dominic was relieved to see Paul’s tall frame sprinting toward the injured soldiers.
Captain Hancock was sitting up, brushing dirt from his uniform. There was a smear of mud across his cheekbone. He studied Dominic, wide-eyed.
“Are you hurt, sir?” Dominic asked, reloading his rifle and stepping cautiously out from the cover of the tire. The encampment had the burnt, smoky smell of recently discharged guns, mixed with the salt tang of blood, a smell Dominic had come to know and hate. But both Americans who had been shot were stirring and swearing. Good news.
“No.” Hancock crawled out from behind the tire. Dominic extended a hand and pulled him to his feet. Hancock returned his grip and met his eyes, his face suddenly splitting into a dazzling smile. He squinted at the name on Dominic’s uniform.
“Bonelli, huh?” He pumped Dominic’s hand with a tight grip. “Welcome.”
14
Edith
Pełkinie, Poland
September 1939
THE HELMET ON EDITH’S HEAD HAD BEEN MADE FOR A man. It nearly covered her eyes, and the metal rattled against her skull along with the rumble of the Kübelwagen’s tires over the rocky terrain.
While she was compiling the facsimiles for the museum director and board, Edith had looked up Pełkinie in a dusty atlas pulled from the shelves of the museum library. She had never heard of it before, but she ran her finger across the map to a small village in far eastern Poland, near the Russian border. The Czartoryski family had had a country estate there for years, she had read. And now, Edith was pressed into the rear seat of the beige car along with two armed soldiers, heading straight for the Czartoryski estate itself.
She squeezed herself in as tightly as possible. She felt grateful to have claimed a seat by the deep sill of the vehicle, from which she could watch the Polish countryside unfold around her. The sun had risen around the time that the train arrived in the Kraków station, but Edith had yet to glimpse its rays. Instead, the landscape was cast in a gray haze, a combination of cloud cover and the dust from the rubble alongside the roads and the dirt kicked up by the Kübelwagen’s knobby tires. As they followed a bend in the road, Edith caught a glimpse of the rest of the long convoy of German vehicles behind theirs. She could not see the end of the line. She had heard that the Feldgendamerie had already secured the Czartoryski home. Did they need so many more soldiers?
For a while, the view flattened out into a series of fallow fields with a long, straight train track that ran parallel to the road. Edith heard a low train whistle, then turned her head to watch the train cars pass. The train should have easily overtaken the convoy, but for some reason, it was rolling slowly, a long chain of old, rusted-out cattle cars laboring along the track. When the train finally began to keep pace with the Kübelwagen, Edith caught sight of a small hand waving listlessly from one of the narrow, dusty windows in the side of the boxcar. After a few moments, the hand was replaced by the drawn face of a young woman, her eyes dark and sunken.
Edith felt a jolt slice through her as her heart sank. She recalled the Jewish families walking toward the train stations of Munich, their most precious possessions collected in pillowcases, small containers, and shopping bags. Was this train headed to a detention camp? The train finally picked up speed and the hand disappeared from the window. Edith dropped her eyes to her folded hands in her lap, knowing she would never forget the woman’s face, the haunted, sunken eyes.
The car finally turned into a long path lined with formal gardens and tall, manicured spruces. At the end of the path, Edith spied the grand, sand-colored palace. Pełkinie. Edith recognized its long, symmetrical façade of pilasters and windows from the books in the museum library.
It was a relief to step out of the car, where she had felt like a prisoner even though she was wearing the same uniform as the men in the vehicle. The men in the convoy proceeded to the palace in formation, squeezing Edith between them. She removed the bothersome helmet.
“Fräulein Becker.” An officer sliced his way into the formation, easily picking her out. “Lieutenant Fischer,” he said, his hands wound behind his back. “I am gratified to see that you have arrived safely. Come. They are waiting for you inside.”
Edith walked quickly behind Lieutenant Fischer as he snaked through the dozens of soldiers and through the central doorway of the house. Inside, there were more soldiers moving furniture and fixtures. Edith rushed to keep up, her surroundings a blur of gilding, crystal, polished wood, silver, and richly colored upholstery.
“We found the pictures in a secret room in the oldest part of the house, the part beneath the old watchtower,” Lieutenant Fischer said, and Edith followed him up a wide staircase into the diffuse light. “The door was hidden behind a piece of furniture.”
With each step, Edith thought about the family members who had abandoned their home for their own safety. She pictured the family living here, the children running through the vast rooms, laughing, chasing one another down the long corridors. She could imagine the adults, riding horses through the lush forest, picnicking on the lawn, gazing at the stars at night, living their lives in peace.
“The family . . .” she said, feeling a wave of trepidation. She did not know how to phrase her question.
The officer shook his head. “They had already fled before we arrived. The Gestapo is trailing them.”
A strange mixture of shame and relief washed over Edith. She personally had assembled the catalog of this family’s known paintings. Edith was responsible for the theft of some of the world’s most valuable works of art, the ransacking of this estate, and the confiscation of everything inside it. In the process, she had put people’s lives at risk. What if she refused to continue to help? Would her life be at risk, too?
Edith feared that she might vomit. She had never meant to send anyone into exile. She certainly didn’t want to have anyone killed. It was her fault they were not here anymore, she realized. But as she took in the vast scale of this operation—an entire convoy of armed vehicles, dozens of soldiers, officers, and military police—Edith realized it was too late. She was fully engaged in a conflict that was much bigger than herself, whether she had intended it or not.
Would the family get far enough ahead, or find refuge before the Gestapo found them? Until they could return to their home? An image of the sunken eyes of the woman on the train seared through Edith’s mind.
“They must have judged us idiots,” Lieutenant Fischer said, his eyes lighting up with self-satisfaction. “It was obvious that the narrow door had just been patched. The mortar was still wet.”
“A wall?” Edith asked.
He nodded. “They hid a lot of the things in an old room that you can access only through a narrow door hidden behind a cabinet. Made it appear like it was simply a wall. But it was poorly done. Our men found it within a matter of minutes.”
Edith felt a chill run down her spine.
Lieutenant Fischer turned a corner and an elegant sitting room stretched out before them. The room was cluttered with dusty furniture covered in sheets and tarps, neglected goods stored over many years. A half-dozen military police staff milled around idly among the disorder. The officer led Edith to a hole in the back wall, where bricks had been hastily removed.
“We received the information about this location from a Polish bricklayer, the one who walled up the door. He tried to keep it a secret, but he was not able to keep the truth from us.” Lieutenant Fischer gave her another thin smile.
A series of long tables had been set up around the room, each stacked with decorative items and wooden crates. On one table, two sets of paintings were stacked on top of each other. Edith wondered if the men knew how valuable these paintings and artifacts were. It seemed to her they had been careless in their movement of the items.
“I don’t know much about art,” Fischer said to Edith, “but it looks like a museum here to me.” He addressed the guards. “The lady is a specialist from the Alte Pinakothek in Munich. Let her have free access to examine the works. She will decide what is to be loaded for transport.” The men stepped aside and Edith moved forward. Her hands shaking, Edith reached down and touched the frame of the first painting on top of the stack, a small landscape darkened by centuries of dust.
“I assume you know your duties here. I’ll leave you to your work,” Fischer said. “Just one more thing, Fräulein Becker.” He reached for her arm and lowered his voice. “Be careful about who you share information with. Our forces are easily taking the cities, but there are Polish resistance groups throughout the countryside.”
Resistance. What did that mean, exactly? Edith’s heart began to race in her chest.
Lieutenant Fischer seemed to read her mind. “They are more organized than our commanding officers in Germany realize. Someone might try to contact you or get information. It might be someone you think you should trust. Don’t be fooled by a handsome face, fräulein. Watch what you say and to whom.”
Suddenly, a muffled voice emerged from one of the large crates at the back of the room.
“Heiliger Strohsack!”
Everyone turned. A short soldier, his helmet and uniform coated in dust, emerged from the stacks of crates and gilded frames. Between his hands, he balanced a rectangular package wrapped in paper, its edges torn to reveal a section of a gilded picture frame.
“Look what I found!”
15
Leonardo
Florence, Italy
May 1482
BEYOND THE GATES OF FLORENCE, I FEEL THE CARRIAGE wheels shudder into the ruts of the road. I steady the wooden crate that bumps against my thigh.
Finally. After years of trying to gain favor at the Medici court, of trying to find a supporting patron, after years of holding my breath for fear of another accusation, I am leaving Florence behind for better prospects.
Buried deep inside one of the rocking mule carts behind us lie trunks full of notebooks, paintbrushes, charcoal, pens, pigments. Silken hose, gowns and caps of satin, linen undergarments, and my favorite cape of purple velvet. Milan is cold, they tell me.
I watch the gray-haired man seated across from me on the plush, embroidered cushions, one of Lorenzo il Magnifico’s notaries. His mournful eyes watch the towering clay dome of our cathedral grow smaller outside the carriage window. Alongside me, my young and beautiful friend, the singer Atalante Migliorotti, hums a tune under his breath. Il Magnifico has chosen well, I think. Surely we will impress the court of Milan. They say that the Milanese try to emulate our Florentine language and dress.
I have insisted on bringing a small notebook and a fresh stick of charcoal into the carriage so that I might sketch any sights that capture my fancy along the journey. And the crate. Of course, the crate. I have devised a wooden container filled with straw to transport the lyre, Il Magnifico’s diplomatic offering to Ludovico il Moro, Regent of Milan. I must not let it out of my sight.
The lyre itself is a wonder, if I do dare to compliment myself. I cast it in pure silver, in the form of a horse’s skull. It will accompany Atalante’s voice perfectly; we have already spent hours rehearsing together and have even practiced before the Medici women. And if the Lord of Milan asks me to play it, how could I refuse?
Along with the lyre, the crate also holds Il Magnifico’s letter of introduction on my behalf. Extraordinarily important. Disappointingly brief.
I cannot stop myself from sighing aloud. If I am to win any important commissions among the court of Milan, I must elaborate on my abilities. I turn to my notebook, where I have penned a letter. I have scratched out passages and rewritten them. Hopefully, by the time we reach the gates of Milan, the list of my offerings will be complete:
To the Most Excellent Lord of Milan, Ludovico Sforza
From your most humble servant, Leonardo da Vinci, in Florence
Most Illustrious Lord,
Having sufficiently seen and considered the achievements of all those who count themselves masters and artificers of instruments of war, and having noted that the invention and performance of the said instruments is in no way different from that in common usage, I shall endeavor, while intending no discredit to anyone else, to explain myself to Your Excellency, showing Your Lordship my secrets, and then offering them to your complete disposal, and when the time is right, bringing into effective operation all those things which you might desire.
In part, these shall be noted below . . .
1. I have plans for light, strong, and easily portable bridges with which to pursue and, on some occasions, flee the enemy; and others, sturdy and indestructible either by fire or in battle, easy and convenient to lift and place in position. Also means of burning and destroying those of the enemy.
2. I know how, in the course of a siege, to remove water from the moats and how to make an endless variety of bridges, covered ways and scaling ladders, and other machines necessary to such expeditions.
3. If, by reason of the height of the banks, or the strength of the place and its position, it is impossible, when besieging a place, to avail oneself of the plan of bombardment, I have methods for destroying every rock or other fortress, even if it were founded on a promontory, and so forth . . .
4. I have also types of cannon, most convenient and easily portable; and with these I can fling small stones almost like a hailstorm; and the smoke from the cannon will instill a great terror in the enemy, to his great detriment and confusion.
5. And if the fight should be at sea I have many machines most efficient for offense and defense; and vessels which will resist the attack of the largest guns and powder and fumes.
6. Also, I have means of arriving at a designated spot through mines and secret winding passages constructed completely without noise, even if it should be necessary to pass underneath a moat or river.
7. Also, I will make covered chariots, safe and unassailable, which will penetrate the enemy and their artillery, and there is no host of armed men so great that they would not break through it. And behind these, the infantry will be able to follow, quite uninjured and unimpeded.
8. Also, should the need arise, my lord, I will make cannon, mortar, and light ordnance of very beautiful and functional design that are quite out of the ordinary.
9. Where the use of cannon is impracticable, I will assemble catapults, mangonels, trebuchets, and other instruments of marvelous efficiency not in common use. In short, as the variety of circumstances dictate, I can contrive an endless number of items for attack and defense.
10. In times of peace I believe I can give as complete satisfaction as any other in the field of architecture, and the construction of both public and private buildings, and in conducting water from one place to another.
11. Moreover, work could be undertaken on the bronze horse, which will be to the immortal glory and eternal honor of the auspicious memory of His Lordship your father, and of the illustrious House of Sforza.
