An Unlikely Hero

If my pages could speak, they would tell you tales of epic adventure—sneaking through alleys in the dark of night, working with monsters by day, and stealing treasure hordes behind turned backs. Yet, I remain silent—relegated to a dark corner of a drafty attic, my mysteries covered in the dust of decades slipping by at the speed of modern distraction.

Even if you lifted me from my dark prison, you could not understand my secrets without careful study. The sketches and scribbled notes would seem like gibberish at first glance. Perhaps the recorded ravings of a mind on the precipice of sanity, the rocks crumbling beneath him.

No, if you picked me up, blew the years of my coal black cover, and skimmed my lines, you would likely toss me back into the box from which I came without a second thought. But that would be a mistake.

You see, I once was the faithful companion of a young man, not yet 20 years old, an aide to famed art dealer Bruno Lohse at the Museum Jeu de Paume in Paris. It was Monsieur Lohse’s responsibility to inventory looted artwork and prepare expositions from which Nazi leaders selected items for their vast collections. My friend, Lucien, assisted Lohse as instructed. Some days found him packing delicate artifacts and priceless paintings for shipment. Other days, in particular those featuring poor weather, found him dripping and cold as he protected Lohse’s Schnauzer from the elements with his umbrella.

In the early days, before the museum, my role was that of sketchbook. Lucien had dreams of becoming a master artist. He kept me tucked under his arm to jot his ideas for paintings and practice shading techniques. He was happiest behind an easel, but when that luxury was not possible, he had me. I was with him the day he met Picasso and began dabbling in the cubist style. Thankfully, his curiosity in that vein was short-lived. Not long after, Lucien received a brief tutelage on perspective from Monsieur Henri Matisse. The great artist noticed him sketching the Arc de Triomphe and stopped to offer his advice. Those pages are well worn as he referred to them often over the next several years.

By the time Lucien reached university age, Parisians were quite uneasy regarding news reports coming out of Germany. Lucien’s father, having fought in the Great War, encouraged him to seek employment and save money for the unknown rather than continue his studies in art. Lucien agreed and applied to the Museum Jeu de Paume. Nearness to the masterpieces eased the sharp pain of his disappointment.

Lucien spent any spare time between tasks in the restoration room watching the ongoing work to keep the museum’s collection in pristine condition. In the evenings, he spent hours behind canvas mimicking the brushstrokes of the masters, duplicating every detail and mixing various elements together until the colors looked just right. Lucien’s keen eye and determination catapulted his natural talent into unmistakable excellence.

The first time Monsieur Lohse visited the museum, the true intent of his meetings with the curator escaped Lucien’s understanding. By the second visit, Lucien’s youthful optimism had been crushed under the black boots of Nazi troops marching through the cobblestone streets of his beloved Paris, replacing the Tricolour with swastika banners. It was then that Lucien became Lohse’s assistant, and my creamy pages shifted from pastime to partner-in-crime.

As artwork collections of wealthy Jewish Parisians began flooding the storerooms, Lucian helped organize, itemize, and prepare each piece for display. He was a model employee, accomplishing every task with care and precision. As trust in his abilities grew, so did the amount of time he was left alone to his work. During these interludes, Lucien began removing certain pieces from their frames and replacing them with his own reproductions.

Behind the blackout curtains hanging in his parent’s home, he painted until his eyes ached from strain and sleeplessness. As Lucien caught a few hours of rest before dawn, Lucien’s father dried the pieces in the oven and prayed his son would remain undetected.

Lucien detailed each piece on my pages using the date the genuine works of art were exchanged for the forgeries. Following the numbers, he listed the first letters of the title and the artist’s name. As hiding places were located around the city and at the homes of family in the country, coordinates were added to the descriptions. Lucien would then include a quick sketch of the room or property both to aid his recovery effort and to distract anyone who might look through the notebook.

The work caused great strain physically and emotionally. To motivate himself to continue, Lucien would dream of the moment when the masterpieces would be recovered and returned to their original owners. Their joy propelled him as months turned to years and meals turned to scraps and the Nazi regime grew more and more glutted on the suffering of others.

Lucien’s secrets remain safe with me, decades after his tired and malnourished body surrendered to the ravages of tuberculosis mere weeks before the liberation of Paris in May 1944. Blind with grief, Lucien’s father laid me to rest in a box of his son’s keepsakes nestled high in the attic.

The house has witnessed several generations of the Dubois family since Lucien lived in the rooms below. I’ve been picked up on occasion, but never given more than a curious glance. That is until today.

“Liam, come see what I’ve found.”

“Didn’t Grand-Mère say once that her older brother was an accomplished artist before the war?”

“Maybe. He worked at a museum I think.”

“Look at these sketches and paintings. They’re beautiful. Do you think he did these?”

“We could take them to her when we visit this weekend. She would have been young when he died, but I bet she would still remember.”

I feel the warm breeze of a young man’s breath blow the dust from my moleskin cover. My pages bend slow with age as gentle hands admire Lucien’s experiments with shade and shape.

“Camille, check out these numbers and letters. I wonder what they mean?”

“It looks like a secret code.”

“You read too many spy novels.”

“No, really. He died at the end of World War II, right? He could have been part of a resistance group or something.”

“Grand-Mère will know. Wait, go back.”

“What?”

“That sketch. The one by itself on the page beside the Arc de Triomphe. It’s in a different style than the rest.”

“How can you tell?”

“I’m an art history major, remember? Besides, look at the perspective of this arc versus the one on the left. It’s much more precise. Camille, this is a Matisse.”

“Do you recognize it from one of your textbooks?” Perhaps Grand-Mère’s brother copied it as practice.”

“No, I’ve never seen this image before, but I’d recognize the style anywhere. And here at the bottom, he signed it.”

“Do you mean to tell me you’re holding a never-before-seen original artwork of Henri Matisse in your hand right now?”

“We’ll have to get it authenticated, of course, but yes, I think I am.”

“Liam, are you joking with me?”

“Not at all. I wouldn’t joke about something so precious. This sketch is worth thousands of dollars. I’d wager $20,000 at least.”

“Maman! Papa!”

The rush of young feet on the stairs brought me back to springtime in Paris, wandering the streets with Lucien, trudging home only when the golden afternoon light faded into dusk. Many dark and lonely years have passed, but I suspect today marks the beginning of a new era.

Soon everyone will know the treasures I hold. The looted masterpieces will be returned to their families. Tears of joy once imagined will fall down cheeks flushed with wonder. And the world will recognize Lucien Dubois as the hero I have always known him to be.