“I already have,” Achim Fleischer said.

The pen arrested, the commander glanced up. “And?”

“She…sees it as a painting of beauty to enliven the mood of the street.”

“Well, then, Achim, how can we disagree with Sister Mary Frances? Do you wish to spend eternity in hell?”

“Of course not, but I am sure the drawing is more than it appears and bears investigating. There’s the paint, for one thing. Where did she get it? My sister is an artist, and she can’t find the acrylic medium the woman is using. It’s a new artist compound just developed and is scarce even in peacetime. I think it’s smuggled contraband.”

“May the Almighty save us from such danger.”

“Nonetheless, I request that you take a look at it. I’m sure your superiors would agree.”

The commander glared at the lowest-ranked member of his squad. You sheep shit, he thought. He was now sure that this twat was an informant to the higher-ups who were in bed with the Gestapo and Vichy government. Now that America had entered the war, an Allied invasion was coming that would liberate France and all of Europe from under the Nazi boot heel. Who knew where and when, but it was whispered about on every corner, in every household by those not deaf to reality. Come that blessed day, he would see that Achim Fleischer got his just due.

It was late in the day and unusually cold for the eleventh day of October. As commander he would soon be able to go home to his meager supper and skimpy fire that would at least be shared in the warm lap of family. He had no desire to go traipsing off in the falling night and cold to view a harmless painting on a wall, much less with a flic on the eager lookout for curfew offenders that would mean an arrest and a trip back to the station for an interrogation. He swallowed his chagrin, sour as cheap wine, and growled, “All right, Fleischer. Let’s go see what has got a stick up your rump.”

His mouth dropped open the moment he saw the object of his intern’s suspicions. Awe flashed across Achim’s face as well. Neither man paid attention to the small knot of people who had dared to risk breaking curfew to admire the unfinished aquatic scene developing on the convent wall. They scattered before they could be noticed, but the policemen paid them no mind as they approached the wall. The artist was nowhere in sight this close to curfew.

“It’s…beautiful,” the commander said softly, face filled with admiration. “And you have a problem with this, Fleischer?” he asked incredulously.

“The artist has…added more to the drawing since I was here Friday,” his intern defended his report. “She must have worked on it this weekend. It…gives a larger picture.”