“But you…I saw you…you went to his bedroom…” The old woman’s voice faltered.
“I may have gone to his bedroom, but I didn’t do what you think there. I’m closing the house anyway. I don’t want to be here.” The thought of staying in a town where they had paraded her through the streets as a collaborator was more than she could bear.
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. Now pack your bags and go.” Apolline didn’t argue with her. She still believed that what she had done, reporting her as a traitor, was right, but she hadn’t thought about the consequences to herself, or that Gaëlle’s mother would die, or that she would close the château and leave. But Gaëlle had no other choice now. She knew she couldn’t stay here. Not now, after being accused as a collaborator. She had to go.
The door closed behind Apolline that afternoon when she carried her two suitcases out. She had been there for twenty-five years. The once-devoted servant knew she’d never see Gaëlle again, or the château. She was going to stay with her sister in Bordeaux. And after Gaëlle heard the door close behind her, she sat in their living room and cried. Gaëlle was totally alone.
—
It took a month for her hair to grow out to a length that looked presentable. It was short, and most people could guess why. But she trimmed it with scissors, and got it to look as fashionable as she could. She was still a beautiful girl, even after everything that had happened to her. She had the resilience of youth.
She spent several hours in the shed, packing the rolled paintings with clean white cotton cloth and tissue paper into three suitcases. It was the end of October, and the weather was starting to get cool. And she wanted to return the paintings to the Louvre. She didn’t want the responsibility of keeping forty-nine major works of art safe.
She had two more suitcases filled with her meager clothes, and the envelope of money her father had left. She had enough for a few weeks in Paris, and after that she didn’t know what she’d do. Maybe Apolline was right and she’d become a prostitute, she said to herself sarcastically, but she knew that was something she would never do. She had to find a job somewhere, but she couldn’t stay in her village now, after she’d been disgraced. Maybe she’d come back to the château one day, or sell it. She draped all the furniture and family portraits with dust covers before she left, locked everything up, and asked one of the tenant farmers to look in on it once in a while to make sure that nothing was broken or leaking. When she closed the door behind her, she never wanted to see it again.
She took the train to Paris with her five suitcases and arrived at the Gare de Lyon, and she asked a cab driver to take her to an inexpensive hotel in St. Germain des Prés. She called the Louvre from the lobby of the hotel, spoke to someone in the administrative office, and asked to meet with one of the curators. She didn’t know who to ask for and wasn’t sure what to do. And when she went to a nearby bistro for dinner, people stared at her short hair, and American soldiers jeered at her and propositioned her. No matter what she had done to it, they knew what the short haircut meant. And in most cases it meant easy women who would sleep with anyone in a uniform, or that was what they’d been told. She went back to her hotel in tears.
She had an appointment at the Louvre the next day. They had no reason to think the meeting was important, and as she suspected, when she arrived at the Louvre, she was led into the tiny office of a young woman who was only a secretary. Gaëlle had the three suitcases with her, and wanted to be sure she put the paintings into the right hands.
“How may I help you?” she asked coolly. She had noticed her hair too. Everyone did. No woman in France wanted to be seen with short hair now. Everyone wanted to show that their hair was long and they’d been loyal to France.
Gaëlle wasn’t sure where to begin. “I have paintings that were sent to a German commandant, who was the commanding officer for our region, near Lyon. He and a friend gained possession of these paintings from other officers who had taken them. He gave them to me when the German troops withdrew and asked me to return them to the Louvre. So here I am.” It sounded like a farfetched story even to her, but it was the truth, as simply put as she could.
“Of course,” the young woman said superciliously. “Just leave them with me.”
“I’m sorry,” Gaëlle said politely, “but I don’t think I can. They’re extremely valuable. Could you please call someone else?” The young woman hesitated with a condescending look, but when Gaëlle didn’t move, the secretary finally picked up the phone on her desk. She told someone on the other end that there was a woman in her office who claimed that she had paintings that had been taken by the Germans and she wanted to give them back. There was a long pause then, while she listened to the person on the other end, who was telling her that they were almost certainly forgeries or outright fakes. “She won’t leave them unless someone comes to see them.” Another pause, and then she hung up, and glared at Gaëlle, sitting nervously across from her. She hoped they wouldn’t accuse her of stealing them, but the commandant had instructed her to give them his rank and name.
Five minutes later a woman with gray hair walked officiously into the room and glanced at Gaëlle impatiently. “Now what’s this all about? And where did you get the paintings you brought to us?” Gaëlle went through the story again in more detail, and something about the way she said it, hesitantly and carefully, told the curator that it might be true. Strange things had happened during the Occupation.