For all the years it had been since Indy had found himself on the grounds, Marshall College looked largely the same. The same stately buildings from the 19th century still overlooked the comforting green commons dotted by students and crisscrossed by pathways. The newest buildings were erected in the 1970s, their modernist looks clashing with the brick and ivy, but at least they were relegated to the outskirts of campus.
The students, on the other hand, changed as always. New clothing, new music, and new cliques. Indy spotted the yuppies, punks, and even some remaining hippies, categorizing the subcultures with an academic's eye. A flock of students passed him, one of them with a boombox on his shoulder blasting hip-hop. "Soul Sonic Force—Can y'all get funky? The Zulu Nation—Can y'all get funky?" went the call and response.
He didn't understand the students, of course. But he recognized something in their desire for new music and clothing—ways to differentiate themselves from their parents' generation. Indy still remembered a time when the Lindy Hop was going to be the death of us all, the final sign that the lodestone had crumbled and Western culture was on the verge of collapse.
He had spent time in Chicago during his youth exploring the blues and jazz while learning to play a passable soprano sax. At the time, jazz was ascendant in popular culture, which meant it was going to upend more respectable forms of music—your baroque and romantic classical compositions. And those forms were themselves once seen as insurgent artforms, corrupting the youth. The "Rites of Spring" caused a riot when it was first played, after all.
As an archeologist, he knew change is inevitable and what was once ascendant won't necessarily last. But he found comfort that Marcus Brody's statue still stood gallantly right in front of the library. It had been repaired rather quickly after his unfortunate decapitation some decades earlier. Indy owed so much to that man. So did the university. Whole stacks of the library could be filled with the knowledge he either helped fund or discovered himself.
Indy took a minute, just to take in Brody's bronze form, a monument to both the man and the mission they shared, and then he entered the arts and humanities building.
It wasn't difficult to find Dr. Zhao's office. When they were last colleagues, Zhao was a lowly assistant professor at Hunter College, but now, after moving from New York to Connecticut, he had become a full professor with the full privileges of tenure. And his office reflected that rise in statue.
Zhao sat flanked by two filled bookshelves and surrounded by prints of Renaissance paintings, Boticcelli's "Primavera" and Raphael's "The School of Athens" handing behind him.
"This office fits you nicely," Indy said.
"Well, thanks. It's a step up from when I first arrived at Hunter College," Zhao replied.
"I remember when you first arrived you tacked up posters. No frames. Just reprints I'm sure you bought from the campus bookstore."
Zhao laughed at the memory. "I didn't know any better."
"We used to joke that maybe you thought it was your dorm instead of your office. You looked so young."
"I remember. But I'm not so young anymore."
"You've got a lot of time left, believe me. And your tenure and office are well deserved."
"Thank you. Now, what did you want to talk about?"
"I had some questions I was hoping you could help me with."
"I'll do what I can."
"Have you ever heard of the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives program, MFAA for short."
"It sounds familiar."
"They were also known as the Monuments Men."
"Of course. Yes, I've heard about the program. They were a group of people working in museums and universities who helped recover artwork stolen by the Nazis, right?"
"Good. You know your history. They embedded with the Allies to try and limit damage to culturally significant artifacts—architecturally significant churches and buildings for instance. But they also uncovered caches of art stolen by the Nazis. Without their work the losses to history, to humanity, would have been incalculable."
"I bet the commanders loved having to listen to art museum directors."
"There were some who resented them. But you would be surprised by how many of the brass bought into the idea that we should avoid needlessly damaging architecture that had stood for centuries. Those who didn't understand the lofty ideals of saving our cultural treasures could be convinced when we brought up the propaganda purposes. It's much easier to win over the citizens of a German town if you haven't destroyed the Lutheran church at its center that stood for centuries."
"It sounds like you have lived an interesting life."
"I worked for the Office of Strategic Services during the war, and I had a few occasions where I worked with the MFAA."
"You know a lot more about it than I do. Why come to me?"
The two were interrupted by a knock on the door. "Come in," Zhao said.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt you, Dr. Zhao," a young, timid student said, while peering into the partially cracked doorway. "I had a quick question, and I thought it was office hours."
"Of course it is," Zhao said, suddenly remembering. "If you don't mind, Dr. Jones."
"Not at all, Dr. Zhao. I don't want to keep you from your students."
The student entered the room holding a book turned to a page with an illustration of ancient structure of white Grecian columns alongside a river and covered in exotic trees and shrubs. It was clearly a depiction of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. "I came across this 19th century painting, and I know that this is a depiction of the Hanging Gardens, but I'm confused as to this structure in the background." The student pointed to a large building that corkscrewed upwards until it was out of frame.
"This appears to be a depiction of the Tower of Babel in the background. It's very much reminiscent of Brueghel the Elder's painting from the 16th century. I would surmise that he's an influence here."
"But aren't the Tower of Babel and The Hanging Gardens separated by thousands of years?"
"Well, yes. But in the imagination of a 19th century artist, they're going to take liberties. European artists especially like to mix and match periods and geographies of ancient times." Dr. Zhao looked over and saw that Indy was clearly holding back. "And maybe Dr. Jones has something to add. I know you have plenty of expertise in these areas. Why do you think the artist may have included the image of the Tower of Babel behind the Hanging Gardens?"
"You're the expert on paintings, but maybe I can help on sourcing. In theory, the Hanging Gardens and the Tower of Babel were separated by centuries. We're not even sure if the Hanging Gardens were real, and the Tower of Babel almost certainly was just myth. Does Babylon and the city of Babel refer to the same place? That's unlikely."
"So, how did they end up in the same painting together?" the student asked.
"Much of our Biblical stories have been added and embellished by early historians over the years, one of the most important for understanding the first century is Josephus. His work on the First Jewish-Roman War is invaluable, but as you might imagine, the farther back in time he reaches, the more he reads like myth than just simple history. He popularized the idea that Nimrod was the ruler who ordered the construction of the Tower of Babel, something that never appeared in the Bible. Ask anyone today who ordered the Gardens of Babylon built and most will say it was Nebuchadnezzar II who built it for his wife because she missed the green hills of her homeland. If you're interested in why a nineteenth-century painter is putting these two stories side-by-side, then Josephus is almost certainly your culprit."
"Well, there you go," Dr. Zhao said. "I think it's a great idea to read some Josephus. He might give you some insight into how artists of the nineteenth century understood the ancients."
The student thanked both of them for their time and scurried away.
"It feels good to be useful again," Indy said.
"I've always believed we don't do enough interdisciplinary work. Art and history and science are all connected. We limit ourselves by working in our little cubicles. If you don't mind, I might have to call on your help in the future."
"I would be honored."
"But, back to our original discussion, why are you coming to me about the Monuments Men? You clearly know much more than I do."
"I'm trying to track down someone I once knew during the war. He worked for the MFAA, but I haven't spoken with him in many years. Last I heard, he was running an art museum in Columbus or Cincinnati. I remember that it was Ohio. His name is Aaron Roark, and I thought you might be able to help track him down for me."
"Aaron Roark," Zhao said to himself. "That does sound familiar. I'll see what I can do."
"I also had a question about a painting. It's of a girl, maybe in her early teens. It has an eerie, almost ghostly quality. Her face is clear but the rest of her isn't. She's standing there with her arms straight to her side. Does this sound familiar at all?"
Zhao went to his bookshelf and scanned his collection before taking out one particular volume. He opened it up and showed the very same image to Indy. "Is this what you saw?"
"That's it! I saw it in someone's house recently."
"Well, it must be a reprint."
"Why do you say that?"
"This is Gustave Klimt's 'Portrait of Trude Steiner.' The moment you referred to it as a ghostly painting of a young girl, I immediately thought of this portrait. But it's lost. The Nazis seized it. It sounds like you have plenty of experience with that sort of thing."
"It seems like I can't escape it. If I could get you a copy of this painting, could you determine its authenticity?"
"Sure. But the likelihood of a lost Klimt appearing out of nowhere seems slight."
"Just humor me. And there's one more thing. This same guy I think has Mapuche pottery, and I know we have some in our collection. I was hoping to take a look at it in order to authenticate it."
"Mapuche pottery? Indigenous work like that is more your expertise than mine. I rarely examine anything earlier than the 15th century. Why do you want to authenticate the pottery? Surely, your friend can find an art expert to determine its legitimacy and even issue a certificate."
"He's not my friend, you see. I believe that he may have come into these artifacts through less than legal means."
Indy didn't exactly know how Fred obtained Mapuche pottery. It could have been completely above board, for all he knew. But Fred's reaction indicated he didn't want someone investigating his artwork, perhaps because he had procured it through unsavory avenues, but also perhaps because it provided a clue, an indication that Fred wasn't who he seemed.
Fred's German accent and South American ceramics were hardly enough to accuse the man of being a Nazi, but Indy was just as convinced by his reaction to Indy's questioning. Fred seemed genuinely unsettled when Indy noticed his accent and the origin of his artwork. It wasn't enough to put the man on trial for crimes carried out by the Third Reich, but it was enough to excite Indy's curiosity.
"There are agencies for this sort of thing, Dr. Jones. I'm sure smuggling ancient artifacts is something you don't take lightly considering your past work, but I wouldn't suggest going on a one-man crusade."
"The thing is, I just want to confirm my suspicions first. I wouldn't want to accuse the man of smuggling indigenous artwork without at least some evidence."
"I see," Dr. Zhao said while contemplating the request.
"It wouldn't take much time."
"The thing is, those in charge of our collection are very tight fisted when it comes to the public handling our artifacts. But I could put in a request."
"You and I both know that a request would take months, if not years."
"The gears of the university grind slowly. You know that. But there's not much I can do."
"You must have access."
"You do know how much trouble I could get into by violating another academic's borders. You know how territorial we can get."
"Not even for an old colleague?" Indy asked, although he knew the answer.
"I might, but I also have to consider my career. I have my eye set on becoming the dean of the college of humanities. It's a big promotion, and I just can't jeopardize my chances right now."
"I understand. It looks like the university is a bit more tightly run than in my heyday."
"That's an understatement. Believe me."
"Thank you for your time."
"I do hope we get together for dinner at some point."
"Of course. No hard feelings."
Indy got up, put on his hat and headed towards the door, but before exiting he turned around. "I know that becoming dean is a big promotion. It might seem like a big achievement, especially so early in your career. But you should give it some more thought. For any professor, any real professor, our place is in the field or in that classroom. I may not have appreciated my teaching responsibilities when I was here, but it's why we got into this line of work: to spread knowledge. Just keep that in mind." And with a nod, he left.