Chasing Mona Lisa (5 page)

Bernard slapped his hands and hustled back to the tank, realizing how close he’d come to hurting their own.

“Do you need help?” he asked Michaud.

“I’m just hanging on to these ropes until the right moment to jump off.” Michaud looked like he was counting the seconds.

Bernard sized up the Panzer again. “Unbelievable. Do you guys know how to fire these things?”

The “commander” answered for Michaud. “I don’t, but we’ve got two gunners below with tank experience. You two could help us by creating a diversion. If you have any other Molotovs, put those on the tank and walk in front. You might be able to use them yet.”

Five minutes later, Rousseau and Dubois—with hands held high—walked before the stolen Panzer III into the Quartier de la Sorbonne, where a Panzer IV had parked at the end of the open square. The tank commander trained a pistol on the walking pair to maintain the ruse that Germans were in command. They were just a hundred meters away, surrounded by university buildings, when their tank came to a stop.

“The other tank is calling us on the radio,” the tank commander announced from the turret.

“Don’t answer it!” Bernard yelled.

“We won’t, but the other tank is pleased to see us,” the tank commander said. “Tanks always work in pairs, so he’s probably been waiting for reinforcements before he storms the student barricades. That’s a Panzer IV, which has fewer vulnerabilities.”

Bernard turned back around to face the Panzer IV. From his vantage point, the howitzer gun barrel was pointed at a nine o’clock position—toward the main student square.

The tank commander ordered Michaud to get ready to jump. The partisan loosened the knots and poised to free himself. “Thirty seconds, guys. When I give notice, run for cover.”

Michaud, though he was no longer bound, remained in the hostage position. The commander crouched, and Bernard heard all sorts of bearing numbers being exchanged with the gunner, who was working to bring the main gun and sights in line with each other. The gun barrel twitched from slight adjustments.

“Allez vite!”
Go quickly!

Michaud didn’t have to be told twice. Rousseau and Dubois dropped their raised arms and bolted toward the tank hull, where they grabbed their satchels and gathered up Michaud, who had leaped to the ground. Together, the three sprinted for a nearby alcove. They had nearly reached safety when a deafening explosion rocked the Panzer III. With a white flash, the first cannon shot streaked toward the Panzer IV. The turret storage box on its rear exploded, scattering tools, sleeping rolls, rations, and even pitching underwear and uniforms into the plaza. Scraps of laundry hung from nearby tree branches.

Time stood still for a long moment until the enemy tank crew began swinging their turret in the direction of the Resistance tank. Bernard watched the scene unfold from his perch behind a column. “They’re turning in our direction!”

“Reload, reload!” screamed the tank commander.

Bernard held his breath. He figured the Panzer III gunner was struggling to set the point of aim by mentally calculating the error margin. The delay only prompted more pandemonium inside the tank as shrill voices pleaded for him to fire off another shot. Precious seconds passed. The howitzer of the wounded Panzer IV continued to swing around, but the German armored vehicle didn’t have the renegade tank in his sights yet.

“Shoot! Shoot!” The partisan tank commander was clearly panicking.

The “French” tank lurched as a second projectile exited the howitzer barrel—but missed completely. Bernard reached into his satchel and drew out both Molotovs.

“What are you doing?” Alarm creased Dubois’ face.

A quick flick of his Zippo, and a pair of cloth strips were ablaze. Bernard set off for the Panzer IV, the voices of his comrades yelling for him to come back. He ran like the wind, closing the distance just as the Panzer IV’s cannon was in position to fire. From a distance of twenty meters, he lobbed one flaming bottle after another.

The first Molotov struck the back of the turret, and the second smashed into the escape hatch, dousing the occupants within and exploding into an orange inferno.

Screams erupted from the tank’s interior. The gunner, his gray uniform on fire, managed to haul himself onto the hull, then fling himself upon the concrete. He cried in agony and rolled his burning body to put out the flames.

A third projectile whistled across the square and struck the center of the German tank, underneath the caterpillar tread. The Panzer IV burst into a giant fireball. A column of flames funneled up from the open turret like a giant Roman candle. The shock wave from the blast knocked Bernard into the air. Pain shot up his arms as he tumbled to the concrete.

The partisan covered his head as chunks of metal peppered the square. Scrambling to his feet to escape the rain of shrapnel, he sprinted back toward the Panzer III, which was already backing out and turning around.

“Let’s go!” the tank commander yelled over the din.

Dubois and Michaud dashed for the relative safety of Boulevard Saint-Michel.

Bernard looked downrange at the inferno. Already, several students had come out of the shadows, their arms raised to shield themselves from the searing heat—the tank now enveloped in a whirlwind of flames. They also kept their distance from the burning soldier, who—summoning his last ounce of strength—failed to tamp out the flames. His body contracted unnaturally.

The grotesque smell of charred flesh and fumed diesel wafted past Bernard. Grasping his stomach, he leaned over and disgorged his breakfast.

It was a smell he would never forget.

 4

So this is Paris.

From the passenger seat, Gabi gaped at the Gothic-style churches and the cream-colored stone buildings accented with sidewalk cafés and red awnings. The spacious parks looked threadbare and left her wondering how lush the grass and flowers had been before the war.

Has God abandoned Paris?
Abandoned all of us?
She pushed the thoughts out of her mind as quickly as they had come. Many voices had muttered such things over the previous years. She’d heard them among her father’s congregation, but she’d never allowed such foolish ideas to enter her mind, until now.

Eric took his eyes off the road and glanced over at her. It was easy to do since only the occasional delivery truck and a few bicyclists vied for space. “How are you doing?”

They had barely said two sentences to each other in the last hour.

“I feel like I’m waking up from a bad dream.” Gabi’s voice quivered, surprising her. She folded her hands on her lap and clenched them together. She couldn’t see blood on her hands, but she could feel it. Even the anticipation and excitement of entering Paris—a city she’d wanted to visit since she was a child—hadn’t gotten her mind off the brutal incident they’d just survived.

Lifting her eyes off her hands, she looked out the window, forcing herself to push the images of the dead men out of her mind. If only the ache in her heart and the pain deep in her gut would let her forget completely.

“Arriving in Paris is helping.” She sighed, hoping her voice sounded convincing. “Even under the thumb of German occupation, she’s still a jewel.”

Gabi picked up the apple on the seat next to her—the one she’d promised Eric she’d eat but still had no appetite for. She tossed it from one hand to another. “I don’t think I’ll get over our run-in with those German soldiers—or Russians, or whoever they were—anytime soon.”

Eric reached over and squeezed her left knee. “You did what you had to do. I was wondering how we could get to that pistol. Your quick thinking saved our lives.”

She cocked her chin, repeating aloud the words that had been replaying in her mind. The words she was trying to reassure herself with. “It was him or us. That’s what they taught us at the Bern firing range. I have no regrets.”

Her stomach churned again, and an icy chill traveled down her spine as she remembered the man’s face inches from hers, his foul breath moistening her cheek.

Willing her mind elsewhere, she turned her attention back to the passing scenery. Through the windshield, Paris seemed calm at this late-morning hour, but she wondered what lurked beneath its serene surface. The grand boulevard was framed with broad, leafy trees and fronted by soft-colored stately buildings. Shops were shuttered, and only a handful of cafés had opened, their tables dotting the sidewalks. A solitary waiter wearing a long white apron served demitasse to two customers.

She’d spotted the spindly Eiffel Tower before Eric, but her excitement was tempered by an enormous red flag with a black swastika fluttering atop the landmark, a tangible symbol of an oppressive regime shackling the spirit of the three and a half million Parisians.

That was the only Nazi swastika she’d seen so far. In this neighborhood, other flags—some tattered and faded, some homemade from bed sheets—hung from windows and rooftops. “I’m surprised to see all the French flags. I wonder when they came out of hiding.”

Eric leaned out the car window and looked skyward at the numerous displays of blue, white, and red vertical stripes that had symbolized France since the Revolution of 1789. “They’re definitely showing defiance. Since Hitler’s armies marched in, it’s been illegal to show the
tricolore
, but that’s going to change.”

“The French flags are a good sign. That means we’re in a neighborhood controlled by the Resistance, correct?” She sat straighter in her seat.

“You’d think so. Take a look at that poster.” Eric pointed toward his right.

A tall placard, plastered on a building, showed a rendering of a clenched fist with the proclamation
“A chacun son boche!”

“ ‘To everyone his Kraut,’ ” Gabi translated. “Must be a word play off
A chacun son goût.”
To each his own taste.

Eric grunted. “They’re saying it’s open season on German soldiers.”

Gabi shivered as memories of the road outside Rozay-en-Brie returned. Of the cool metal of the soldier’s rifle tip sliding up her leg. She did what she had trained for.
They
had decided their fate.

She returned the apple to her seat and picked up the map, trailing her finger to where they were headed—the Latin Quarter. Eric slowed their vehicle slightly as they came upon makeshift barricades the local populace had erected to stop—or at least slow—German tanks and troop trucks. The resourceful Parisians had thrown old bedsprings, refrigerators, bulky cabinets, and even kitchen sinks into the jerry-built fortifications. At the entrance to one neighborhood, a long line of women and children passed paving stones ripped up from the street to each other. Under their pile of stones, the burnt hull of a German troop truck formed the main bulwark.

Even though the citizens appeared thin and their clothes threadbare, cheeks were flushed. Mostly from the work, but also from the hope that their efforts would make a difference. Chins lifted as their vehicle passed, and tired eyes met Gabi’s for a fraction of a second before they turned back to their work.

“What’s that green thing?” Gabi pointed toward a rectangular stall leaning against the barricade. The rusty green edifice, which looked like an outdoor telephone booth, lay atop a barricade that included cobblestones, old furniture, and even an upright piano.

“Ah, you may not want to know. Might ruin your impression of Paris.” Eric’s humored smile made her want to find out even more.

“Come on.” She enjoyed teasing him, especially when his cheeks colored.

“Uh, French men and German soldiers use them to relieve—”

“Got it,” Gabi interrupted, then wrinkled her nose in disgust.

She returned to scanning the tired faces of Parisians who’d ventured out. More glances followed their Red Cross sedan, one of the few cars motoring down the Avenue d’Italie. The locals probably wondered what a Mercedes bearing Swiss license plates and Red Cross markings was doing in Paris. They passed an old Citroën huffing and puffing to keep up with a half-dozen bicyclists pedaling along the right-hand lane.

“That car looks as if it’s about to explode.”

Eric raised his eyebrows as he peered through the windshield. “That’s because it’s fueled by a wood-burning engine. You need a permit and plenty of money to bribe the Germans to drive a car, especially with the petrol shortage. The wood-burning conversion is the only option—unless you want to pedal a bike.”

Gabi’s eyes moved from the strange vehicle to the map in her lap. “We’re coming up to a roundabout. Look for Boulevard Saint-Michel. It should be straight ahead.”

Eric weaved his way through a half-dozen bicyclists and smoothly entered the roundabout. They swung onto the spoke leading to Boulevard Saint-Michel, which took them toward the Sorbonne.

“A left here at Rue Racine,” Gabi directed.

They turned into a narrow street, where the urban fabric changed dramatically and tall buildings cast deep shadows. Gabi remembered learning about these medieval fortified houses known as
hôtels
, a French term dating back to a time when wealthy merchants sought a solution to defending their homes—or at least closing them off from the street. The residences were built with walls and buildings that lined the edges of the property, leaving a courtyard in the middle.

The address led them to a two-story gated wall. An older man with gray frizzy hair stepped out onto the street to greet their car.

“The Red Cross?” he said, stating the obvious.

“Yes, we’re here to deliver medical supplies,” Eric replied.

“Password?”

“La gloire de Paris,” Eric said.
The glory of Paris.
“And yours?”

“Jean has a long moustache.”

Eric chuckled. “Glad you heard our coded message on Radio London.” He thrust his right hand through the car window and exchanged a brief handshake.

“Right this way, monsieur.” The guard whistled, and a massive gate opened, revealing an arched passage that opened to a courtyard and an imposing four-story residence.

A pair of men dressed in sweat-stained shirts and long pants watched Eric steer the Mercedes into the large courtyard—where he was shocked to see a Panzer tank pointing at him. Eric’s heart pounded and his fingers stretched, preparing to go for his pistol. Then his eyes darted to the faces of the men, whose eyes drooped in weariness. Only then did he relax, guessing the tank to be booty.

With a cigarette dangling from his lip and a carbine slung over his shoulder, one of the men lazily gestured for him to park next to the tank. Eric lifted his hand in affirmation and slid the Red Cross vehicle between the Panzer and some rusting bicycles. In the shadow of the tank, a small flock of chickens flapped their wings and scattered for safety.

Eric hopped out and opened the car door for Gabi. They approached the unshaven freedom fighters, who each wore soiled navy berets and looked like they hadn’t slept in a week. Their brimless felt caps were nonetheless swept jauntily to one side.

The taller one approached Eric. “Welcome to Paris. I’m Bernard Rousseau, and this is Alain Dubois. I believe you know who we are, correct?”

“Yes, Mr. Dulles filled us in.” Eric regarded Bernard, dressed like a scarecrow in fraying olive green pants and matching long-sleeved shirt. Four years of lean rations had left a gaunt face under a beak nose. His sallow brown eyes, however, contained a spark that spoke of quiet optimism.

“The Panzer was a surprise greeting.” Eric gestured toward the long-barreled tank marked with an Iron Cross. “Where did that come from?”

“We liberated the German tank this morning.” Rousseau exchanged a knowing look with Dubois. “Almost out of fuel, though. You have the supplies of medicine?”

Before Eric could answer, the faint sound of church bells pealed in the distance. All four tilted their heads and perked their ears.

“Mon Dieu.” Bernard’s cigarette dropped from his gaping mouth as he crossed himself. “We haven’t heard church bells since . . . the Occupation began.”

“Not even for Christmas or Easter?” Gabi asked.

“Not once. Turns out the Nazis aren’t very religious. The only assemblies they ordain are those in front of firing squads. But the bells can mean only one thing . . .” Emotion caused the man’s voice to tremble.

He didn’t need to finish. Eric understood. The people were winning the streets, and neighborhoods were being liberated.

Bernard found his voice again. “The
boches
must be retreating like stuck pigs.” He slapped his palms together, clearly more energized than a moment ago. “But the fighting is sure to be heavy. Let’s get these medicines unloaded now!”

Rousseau unshouldered his rifle, as did Dubois. Together, the four of them returned to the car, where Eric opened the sedan’s trunk. Four crates stuffed with medicines and supplies were cached inside. He handed out each crate one by one. The two partisans stacked them outside the entrance.

“We have one more small gift for you.” Eric reached inside the trunk for a small tool chest. Then he sat down in the driver’s seat and turned toward the inside door panel. Rousseau and Dubois moved for a closer look. Eric loosened a series of screws until he could pull down the top of the door panel. The cavity was crammed with stacks of French francs and American dollars, each wrapped in a rubber band.

“Gabi, can you get my backpack? It should be on the backseat.”

Gabi handed it to him, and Eric deposited the bundles of cash into the leather-lined bag.

“Sacré bleu. Where did you get—?” Bernard, clearly astonished, left the sentence unfinished. Color filled his weary face.

“Don’t ask, but we almost didn’t make it here.”

“How so?” Though Rousseau raised the question, he and Dubois’ eyes were fixed on the stacks of bills that Eric jammed into his backpack.