Once More Unto the Breach by Meghan Holloway

Author:Meghan Holloway [Davidson, Bobby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Polis Books

8 April 1942

Dear Nhad,

We are now all required to carry an identity card.

Every one of us over the age of sixteen.

I think no good will come of this.

-Owain

xiii

Henri

I knew from their faces what the man and woman found in the caves. The woman’s eyes were wide and dark, her face colorless; the man’s features were grim and set. The nun he carried in his arms would not last the night.

Once they were out of sight, retreating to the farmhouse where they had made camp the night before, I searched the caves myself. It would be a terrible place to store paintings with the dampness of the underground river. Owain dabbled at drawing, and though he was not talentless, he knew nothing of art. He simply wanted to make a difference in the war effort on the side of the Jews.

I chuckled to myself as I followed the labyrinths deeper. Make a difference. Individuals were but a drop of rain compared to the ocean of existence. The arrogance of those eager to lend their lives, believing they could make a grand contribution to some effort never ceased to amuse me.

I had never fooled myself. My name would be forgotten, and I would fade from memory. Perhaps even before I was gone. Nothing survived but art.

I did not mind so much that Göring confiscated the majority of the ownerless collections I retrieved for the Paris Hauptarbeitsgruppen. He did not have a love for it. The fat, shrewd bastard collected it because he thought it made him appear cultured. But that was more acceptable than Hitler getting his small weasel hands on it. That dummkopf would not know Rococo from Baroque from the paper he used to wipe his ass.

I kept the best for myself, of course. It had been my downfall. I had been arrogant enough to think my purloining would go unnoticed. It had cost my loyal, faithful Gerhardt his life. My stomach churned at the thought of those bastards in my home, drinking my best vintage, lounging on my furnishings. Touching, hurting my wife.

I followed each narrow tunnel deeper into the belly of the earth, searching the caverns for the paintings. You must find them, Heinrich, Göring had said. His work is part of the heart of Blut und Boden. It would not do to have the pieces left in those filthy hands. I had found them two years ago, though I had not bothered to tell Göring. I had found them in a tiny attic in Paris and had immediately imagined how the paintings would look hanging together in my library.

Now, they may very well cost my Mila her life. I closed my eyes. Years I had been away from home now, but I could remember every detail. Which board would creak underfoot, how the breeze carried the scent of the ripening vines, the fine texture of Mila’s hair between my fingers, the depth of Gerhardt’s bark and the weight of his warm bulk draped over my feet. I would not be returning to the same home, I knew that now.

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