When the Louvre was Empty

Chapter One

2015

'I understand why they emptied the Louvre when they knew war was coming, but you said that they had moved everything to the château de Chambord. So why did you have to move it all again in such a rush?' Jean-Pierre asked.

He was sitting outside in the sun in the garden of his grandfather's house. The old man liked to keep up with what his grandson was doing and often invited him over for lunch. As he grew older he found it was much easier to have a good conversation when just the two of them were round the table. However this time he had invited him for a special reason.

Jean Despagne was fond of his grandson and had finally made up his mind to tell him about an incident which took place when he was a guard working for the Louvre during the evacuations of all its treasures. It was a story he had kept to himself for over six decades. But he knew now was it was time to tell the story to Jean-Pierre, otherwise the story would never be known. The others who witnessed it were long dead, Jean was the last of the Louvre guards of that detail still alive.

'Well, as I said, it was decided long before the war started that we would move everything to Chambord if ever war were declared.

'For months afterwards during the drôle de guerre, as we called it then, nothing happened. The so-called phoney war. And it did seem phoney. There were even calls to move everything all back to the Louvre!

The old man took a breath and reached for his glass of water.

'Then, suddenly, as it seemed to us at the time, the following May the Nazis simply ignored the Maginot Line by just walking round it! They crashed through the Ardennes to the north, took Belgium and opened up the road leading straight to Paris. Our army was under-equipped and simply not ready for how quickly the Nazis overcame any resistance and advanced on Paris. They could nothing to stop it.

'Pétain declared Paris an open city to stop it from being destroyed. That was brave decision when faced with the inevitable or an ignominious surrender, depending on your point of view.'

He paused again, the pain of the story showing in his expression. Jean-Pierre topped up his glass, a worried look on his face.

'So the Nazis simply walked in to Paris on the 14th of June. Huge Swastikas quickly appeared, draped on the facades of all our public buildings. For France, for us, it was all over.

'The German troops didn't stop there of course. They advanced further and further south. There were no French troops to prevent them – a million and a half of our soldiers had already been taken prisoner. Can you imagine what that means? A million and a half! So the Nazis could go anywhere they wanted, and take anything they wanted. It was terrible, and terrifying.

He paused as dark memories flooded across his face. Jean-Pierre put out his hand to steady the old man who had abruptly stopped talking and looked as if he might topple forward onto the table.

'That's enough for today, Gran'père. You should rest and tell me more of the story another day.'

The old man shook himself and looked fondly at his grandson.

'Non, Jean-Pierre. I need to tell you what happened when the order came from the Director to evacuate everything from Chambord. It is something I have kept to myself all these years, something I never even told your father for reasons you know about.

Jean-Pierre looked surprised at what his grandfather had said, but stopped himself from interrupting. He picked up his wine, took a sip and waited for Jean to continue.

'The Armistice was signed on June 22nd and the Vichy Zone established, but by September Jacques Jaujard, the Director of the Louvre, decided that the treasures were not safe, since Chambord was too near to Paris and in the Occupied Zone. His excuse was that the château was in range of the British bombers. The real reason was that the Nazis were pressuring him to return everything to the Louvre.

'He couldn't refuse point blank, but over and over again he found ways to avoid complying. They had agreed that the evacuation had protected the artworks from their own bombing; now he argued that the threat would come from British bombing. British planes were already flying low over the Louvre and as far down as Chambord.'

Jean smiled as he remembered how Jaujard had reversed the reasoning to delay the Germans. His grandson topped up his wine glass and pushed the cheese board to within his reach. After cutting himself a slice of goat's cheese and breaking off a piece of bread, Jean continued:

'Jaujard ordered us to move everything again, to protect the artworks, but frankly as much from the collaborators in Vichy as from the Germans. First, we moved as much as possible to an old abbey called Loc-Dieu down in the Aveyron.'

He reached forward to cut himself more cheese , which seemed to be reviving his energy.

'It was a huge operation. But not long after we had installed everything in the abbey and found lodgings for all the 250 people who accompanied the transfer, it was realised the dampness of the site was damaging the paintings. The abbey had been built on a swamp which the monks had drained, but mist still rose from the large ponds they had created.'

He laughed and said: 'The administrator was so worried about the Mona Lisa, he removed it from the chapel where she was stored and kept her in his bedroom on the first floor!'

'That's amazing, Gran'père. I didn't know the Mona Lisa was involved.'

'Oh yes. She was moved five times. The Naxis never caught up with her.' He paused, took up the story again: 'So we were ordered to move everything again, this time to Montauban.'

He leant back in his chair, reached for his glass, took at sip and let Jean-Pierre light his cigarette.

'Mais dépêchez-vous, les gars. Get a move on. Get those trucks loaded. At this rate it'll be dark before we reach the decent roads.'

The Sergeant in charge looked around him at the chaotic scene on the forecourt in front of the abbey. The guards and the museum staff were all straining to load the crates onto the ageing trucks they had managed, with some help from the Director in Paris, to scrabble together.

Whereas for the move to Chambord, everything had been meticulously catalogued and packed over several months, this move from Loc-Dieu was done in such a frantic rush, much of the original careful organisation had suffered.

'Careful with those crates,' the Sergeant shouted, watching a crate being manhandled onto a truck, a tarpaulin thrown roughly across it.

'Ça suffit, Charlie. Your truck can't take any more weight. Move out.' He turned and spotted Despagne. 'Jean! Get on that truck, you've done enough.'

Jean Despagne ran alongside the slowly moving vehicle and hoisted himself up into the cab where his friend Charlie was driving the truck across the gravel to join the back of the convoy as it wound its way slowly along what was fast becoming a muddy track away from the abbey. The September rains had already begun.

Jean looked back and saw that nearly all of the crates outside the abbey had been loaded. A few still remained in the forecourt. It was touch and go as to whether there would be enough room on the waiting vehicles to take them. Staff cars had been pressed into service too – at least those which had enough fuel for the journey to Montauban.

After the first bend in the road Jean lost sight of the abbey. He peered forward through the dirty cab windscreen. The scene up front was not reassuring. Over-laden trucks were wheezing their way along narrow road. The overhanging trees hid the grey light from the brooding sky. Visibility was low.

'If it rains again, we're buggered,' said Charlie, looking at him. 'Half these trucks are barely capable of making it along this road, let alone climbing steep hills laden with heavy crates. And the roads will be slippery.'

'Quel pessimiste! Don't be such a misery, Charlie! We'll make it.'

'That's what I like about you, Jeannot, always looking on the bright side. But this time you're wrong. I sense trouble ahead.'

The convoy crawled along. Charlie, at the wheel, was constantly fighting the potholes, the slithery mud on the road, the rain on the windscreen.

Jean had wound his window down and leaned out to watch for fallen branches. The wind was getting up and the trees were shedding their autumn leaves early, swirling across the road and obstructing the visibility.

'Look! That truck, two ahead,' he said, ducking his head back inside the cab. 'That one's not going to make it.'

The truck was one of the last of the requisitioned theatre trucks, designed for transporting scenery from one venue to another on the well paved streets of Paris. That it had survived this far along the rough roads between Chambord and Loc-Dieu was already an achievement. They could see the wind catching its high sides, the driver struggling to keep it on a line.

Charlie stood on the brakes as the convoy slithered to a halt.

'What now?' growled Jean, who had been nodding off with fatigue.

'Probably overhead wires again. Yes look, they're climbing that pole and detaching them. Now we will all have to pass that pole and wait for the last truck to signal they are clear. Then they will reattach them and we all move off again. At this rate it will be dark before we reach Montauban.'

'Merde! So we'll need the headlights in these woods. Nazi fighters will soon spot us.'

'But if we don't use them, we'll soon end up in a ditch,' Charlie grumbled, wiping the windscreen with his hand and scrunching his eyes to see into the gathering gloom. 'Nom de dieu! The rain's getting harder. That's all we need. It's slippery enough already.'

The convoy continued at a snail's pace for another hour before coming to a halt.

'Merde, et remerde! A damned truck up ahead has gone into the ditch! It'll take hours to get it back on the road. Come on! They'll need help.'

They jumped down on each side of the cab, swore in unison as they landed in muddy puddles which slopped over the tops of their boots.

'There, Jean. You see? Burst tyre,' Charlie said pointing.

Jean walked forward to take a closer look. He bent down to run his fingers round the rubber, stopped, looked at Charlie and stood up. All around them men were standing and debating how to pull the truck out. A couple had crawled under to reach the tool box fixed to the side and were retrieving the jack. No-one took any notice of Jean and Charlie in their guards uniforms as they drew aside and spoke quietly to each other.

'That's no puncture, Charlie. The tyre has been slashed,' he said quietly, looking around him.

'You're sure?'

'Certain.'

A group of guards approached from the trucks further back. The Sergeant scratched his head and announced: 'Alors, les gars. We'll have to unload some of the crates. There's no way we can push the truck back on the road with all that on board.'

Charlie stepped forward: 'That's completely against orders, Sergeant. And the ground is wet and muddy.'

'So, do you have any other ideas, Corporal?'

Charlie shook his head.

'Right! Get to it, but be careful. You two,' he said pointing to Jean and Charlie, 'get as many tarpaulins as you can and spread them on the side of the road. We'll put the crates on them.'

Jean and Charlie walked back along the road. The other drivers began to pull the tarpaulins off the their trucks and hand them over.

'Attention! Leave enough to keep the rain off the paintings,' Jean shouted up to one of the drivers, pulling his collar tighter round his neck.

He looked at his friend and spoke quietly: 'Charlie, did you recognise those guards? I certainly didn't recognise the Sergeant.'

Charlie shook his head. 'Moi, non plus,! So, this is a ambush, you think?'

'I'm certain. That tyre had been slashed. This was no accident. So what do we do? Shall I go and find the other guards we recognise?'

'That lot are all better armed than us and showing it. If we challenged them there would be stand off at best and we would have to back down. Otherwise it would just be a massacre. This is no amateur group, it's a well armed gang.'

'So, when they reload the truck we just stand and watch and do nothing?' Jean asked angrily.

'That's right. My guess is they will put back most of the crates but leave a few on the ground saying they will load them onto a truck further back which has some spare space. We all move on, they take up the rear with the other paintings and then disappear.'

Jean sighed: 'So losing a few crates is better that losing a few lives?'

'Oui, désolé, mon ami,' Charlie said, patting Jean on the back. 'That's the choice we have to make, and they know we know that. That's why they sent us off, to think about it.'

'OK, let's take these tarpaulins back to them. They'll ruin all the crates if they put them down in the mud.'

Followed by others from the convoy, they walked back to where the truck still had its front wheels in the ditch and spread the tarpaulins out to protect the crates. A couple of the drivers rigged up a crude awning under the trees to cover them.

Jean Despagne stopped talking and stood up to stretch his legs.

'Walk with me, Jean-Pierre. I'm getting stiff. And no!' he raised his hand. 'There is not much more and I want to finish the story.'

Jean-Pierre took his grandfather's arm and they began to walk in the garden.

'Well, we helped unload the truck, pushed it back onto the road and put the crates back. As Charlie had guessed, some would not fit, so remained on the tarpaulins by the side of the road. The convoy moved off. We heard later that the so-called guards waved each truck on past the extra crates. Those guards in the last of our vehicles said they noticed there was another truck following behind them which they didn't recognise and assumed it must have caught them up after leaving the abbey.'

'That's the one the thieves loaded the remaining crates onto, never to be seen again?'

'Nearly right, Jean-Pierre,' the old man said, as they returned to the table. 'I am tired now and must rest. No! I'll be alright. But come again tomorrow and I'll tell you what happened next.'

Jean-Pierre returned the next day at the same time. He had spent the previous evening wondering what else there was to tell. Did it have something to do with newspaper reports he had read about 'lost' pictures which were coming back onto the art market? He knew it was no good trying to hurry his grandfather. They would have a leisurely lunch together and only then would Jean take up the story again.

It all happened just as he had surmised. The lunch passed oof in the time honoured way, Jean asking questions of his grandson and offering no clue as to what would follow. Finally, Jean sat back and looked fondly at his grandson.

'I have made you wait long enough for the final part of the story, Jean-Pierre. I appreciate your patience.'

'I can wait a little longer, Gran'père. First I shall make us coffee before you continue.'

He stood up, gathered up the plates on the table and went into the house. Jean shifted in his seat making himself comfortable. When Jean-Pierre returned with the coffee and a bottle of armagnac, his grandfather was gazing into the garden, lost in thought. He shook himself out of his reverie and they helped themselves to coffee and the digestif without a word.

'Charlie and I,' he began, 'decided to say nothing at first about our suspicions. Everyone had assumed that the last truck had picked up the remaining crates from the tarpaulins, as indeed it had, but not for the reasons they thought.'

'But when you arrived at Montauban and began to unload, didn't anyone notice there was a shortfall?'

'Not at first. It was dark by then and the rain was even worse. The trucks backed up to the barn one by one and were unloaded in a hurry. No inventory was taken. That was left for the following day. It was an enormous task and hardly surprising that someone just assumed the missing items were still in Chambord, I suppose.'

'Are you sure the crates really were stolen? Perhaps the guards you didn't recognise were genuine?'

'Well, at the time we were so tired and so busy we did begin to think we had imagined what had happened or at least misinterpreted it. But later when the inventory was completed and Chambord had been contacted, it was realised that some crates were missing. So we reported what we had seen.'

'That was brave. What happened?'

'It was reported, to the Director in Paris, of course. We were all so busy preparing for a further move of some of the crates to smaller châteaux in the area, including Montluc, that it was accepted there was nothing to be done.'

Realising there was still more to come, Jean-Pierre poured his grandfather another glass of Armagnac and waited.

Jean looked at his grandson with a smile: 'You're right there is a little more to tell. You know that after a couple of years when the Allies were threatening to land in the south, the Nazis invaded Vichy and the whole area was swarming with troops trying to smash the maquis, as the Résistants were called. It was a violent time and many innocent people were shot in reprisals. I lost many friends.'

He paused. Jean-Pierre watched as he picked up his glass. He put his hand on Jean's arm, but the old man finished the drink and continued: 'It was 10 years after the war that Charlie and I decided to go looking for the crates.'

'What? Did you really think …'

'Ssh!'

For several months they parked their car as near to the spot where the last driver thought the thieves had turned off the road all those years ago, pulled on their boots and coats, slung their hunting rifles and game bags over their shoulders and set off into the forest. They walked towards La Rouquette and on to the Aveyron river. Time after time they found nothing. Nowhere which would serve as a hiding place. There was one large cave, but it was empty and didn't look as if it had been used by anything other than foxes or wild deer seeking shelter.

On the day they finally found the cave the weather was similar to the weather in 1942. They could almost believe all the years in between had not happened and they were back in the convoy. In a change of tactics they had decided to go further up the river to where the Gorges really started. So they drove right up to Cantaloube and set off from there. The dogs were excited and running in all directions sniffing out the tracks of the deer and the rabbits. It was wild country there.

As they walked Charlie had doubts about whether they had done the right thing at the time of the hi-jacking.

'Should we have done more back then, Jean? I know I put you off from resisting those bastards.'

'No, you were right. They were well armed and too many lives would have been lost. A painting is not worth a life. Too many lives were already being lost.'

After a couple of hours of walking they reached another track leading up to le Mauron, a high point. The going was hard. And the rain hadn't let up.

They took a break, sat on a fallen log and and reached into their game bags for bread and chocolate. Charlie never missed an opportunity to have some wine. They needed it. Jean didn't refuse. The dogs found a small stream and lapped thirstily at the cool water. Then they came to sit beside their masters hoping for a treat. The two men sat looking out across the tops of the trees into the valley below. The sun returned and they began to dry out a little.

'So, for how long are we going to continue to search, Jean? We've been looking for months now. Perhaps they drove further away. They could have gone anywhere,'

'I still have this feeling they wouldn't have gone far. There were too many others in the woods at the time, including escaped prisoners. They would have wanted to stash the crates somewhere safe as quickly as possible.'

It was an argument he had put forward many times and even he was beginning to doubt he was right: 'But fair enough. I agree, Charlie. Maybe we should give up. One last try today.'

'Let's just stop for a while, perhaps. Not give up. But even if we are right, the thieves could have returned and retrieved the crates long ago.'

'Assuming they survived the war, Charlie, like us. We're lucky, but many were not.'

The dogs had become bored and gone off down the slope sniffing for rabbits again. They disappeared into the woods below the two men. Jean's Red Setter, Chris, started barking and Igor, Charlie's English Setter soon joined in.

'For goodness sake, what are the dogs getting so excited about. Probably found a rabbit burrow,' Jean said, getting up.

'A bit too rocky for that,' Charlie replied, following him into the wood. They slowly pushed their way through the heavily wooded side of the gorge towards where the dogs were barking, not far from the river below.

Jean sat back, watched his grandson top up his glass, picked it up.'

'So, that's how we found the crates, Jean-Pierre. We reported the find to the Louvre and they came and retrieved them.'

'That's it? Nothing more? You mean you didn't go into the cave yourselves? You surely must have had a look, Gran'père!'

His grandfather picked up his glass again and seemed not to hear Jean-Pierre's question.

Jean-Pierre looked carefully at him, trying to read his mind. Then he smiled and remembered an oil painting in his grandfather's study. It had always been there since he was a child and he had never taken much notice of it. He got up and went to take a more careful look.

The huge painting was of a square-rigger, all sails aloft. Jean-Pierre looked more closely and read the faded label underneath on the frame. The Hermione! The vessel which took the Marquis de La Fayette across the Atlantic in 1779 to help the Americans in their Independence War against the British. He remembered how much grandfather admired the old sailing ships. The painting must have reminded him of the times he went to sea on such ships when he was a boy.

When he returned to the garden, the old man had fallen asleep in the sun. Jean-Pierre kissed him on the forehead and quietly left the garden.