Lana's War

by Anita Abriel

  Lana watched passengers taking down their suitcases. Outside the window, the lavender fields had been replaced by small towns nestled into the hills.

  “I should get ready, we’re almost at my stop.”

  “Here’s my card.” He reached into his pocket. “If you find yourself in Menton, please look me up.”

  Lana slipped the card in her purse and waited while he took her suitcases down from the overhead compartment.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” he said, handing her the suitcases.

  “Lana Antanova,” Lana replied.

  “Charles Langford, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He pointed to the swath of blue Mediterranean outside the window. “Enjoy yourself, but be careful. There’s a reason why they say the Côte d’Azur is magical; no one leaves with their heart intact.”

  * * *

  Lana stood under the clock and glanced around the Nice train station. She wanted to go outside and breathe in the sea air, but she worried about missing her contact.

  She read the paper Henri had given her again.

  Guy will meet you at the station at 4:00 p.m. Wait under the clock in the main terminal. Guy will be eating a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. He’ll offer you half the sandwich.

  Lana slid the letter back in her purse. What she would give for that sandwich! She had been too nervous to eat on the train, and now it was well past lunchtime. But she had been waiting for an hour, and there was no sign of Guy.

  She noticed a kiosk on the other side of the terminal and was tempted to leave her spot and get something to eat. But she couldn’t haul two bags across the station. She decided she would leave them against the wall—it would take only a minute, and she could keep her eye on them the whole time. But when she reached into her purse for her wallet it was gone. She riffled through her suitcases, but it wasn’t in there either. Someone must have taken it when she walked through the station.

  A young man of about nineteen lounged against the wall. A scarf was tied around his neck, and he wore a beret.

  “Are you all right?” He approached her. “You look like you lost something.”

  “My wallet!” Her eyes were wide. “I had it when I got off the train, but now it’s missing.”

  “I’m afraid it happens all the time,” he said somberly. “The pickpockets are some of the most skilled workers on the Riviera.”

  “How do I get it back?” She glanced around the station. “There must be a policeman.”

  “The pickpockets work in partnership with the gendarmes,” he explained. “They give them a small cut for looking away. The tourists go to the gendarmes to get their wallets back, and the gendarmes shrug and say the tourists should have been more careful.”

  “I can’t do anything without my wallet,” Lana said anxiously. “I was supposed to meet someone, but he isn’t here. I don’t have any way to get to where I’m staying.” She sighed. It was obvious that Guy wasn’t coming. She would have to get to the villa on her own.

  “I drive a taxi. I’ll take you,” he offered.

  “You drive a taxi?” Lana repeated.

  Was it possible that he had something to do with her stolen wallet? Was this some kind of test from Guy and Henri? That was ridiculous; she certainly couldn’t assume that everyone was part of the Resistance. And she hadn’t noticed him when she got off the train.

  “What if no one is home?” she wondered. “I won’t be able to pay you.”

  “Then it will be my treat.” He picked up one of the suitcases and grinned. “If I don’t, you’ll think everyone in Nice is as bad as the thieves who stole your wallet.” He held out his other hand. “I’m Pierre.”

  Lana introduced herself and carried the other suitcase. Outside the station, the sky and the ocean were the same shade of cobalt blue. The people milling by wore bright colors, and even the air smelled different. Lana inhaled deeply and decided one day she’d create a perfume that smelled of flowers and the sea.

  “Where to?” Pierre asked as they walked.

  She opened her purse and was relieved that Henri’s note was still inside.

  “Villa du Soleil,” she read aloud. “Cap Ferrat.”

  Pierre turned and nodded approvingly.

  “Cap Ferrat has the most beautiful homes on the Riviera, you won’t be disappointed.”

  Lana already felt better. The sun warmed her shoulders as they approached a row of taxis.

  “How can there be so many taxis?” she wondered, as Pierre opened the door of a rusty old Peugeot. “In Paris, only the Germans have cars. Everyone else crowds on buses.”

  “The locals on the Riviera have made money off tourists for decades, and during the war it is no different.” He stepped on the gas so quickly that Lana was thrown back in her seat. “My father sold his fishing boat a few years ago and bought this car. It’s quite profitable. There’s always a drunken soldier stumbling out of the casino who needs a ride.”

  They reached the center of Nice, and Lana pressed her face to the window. Nice was the opposite of Paris’s orderly boulevards. Streets bled together, and the taxi sped through alleys that were so narrow, Lana held her breath. Eventually, the scenery began to change. Fruit trees with orange leaves slipped by, and vineyards were laid out in neat rows. The Peugeot climbed into the hills, and Lana’s fingers gripped the dashboard. The Mediterranean was far below olive trees that clung to the cliffs.

  “Don’t look so scared!” Pierre glanced at her. “This car is nimble as a goat. And I’ve been driving these roads since I was fifteen.”

  “It’s beautiful, but the cliff is so steep.” Lana watched the road tumble away in a blur of pink and white flowers.

  They stopped in front of a row of villas, and Lana stepped out of the car. The air smelled of honeysuckle. She felt like she could reach up and touch the clouds. Suddenly she had a longing for Frederic that was so overwhelming it weighed on her chest.

  “Villa du Soleil.” Pierre waved at a yellow villa shaded by palm trees. It had green shutters, and there was a fountain flanked by rosebushes.

  Lana went to the door and knocked. There was no answer. She tried again.

  “There’s no one here,” Lana announced, returning to the taxi. She couldn’t just sit here and wait. It was getting late, and soon it would get cold. She was about to ask Pierre to take her back to the station when she noticed a young woman with a wide hat and a basket on the other side of the road.

  “Are you looking for Guy?” the woman asked as she approached them.

  “Yes, he was supposed to pick me up at the train station,” Lana replied.

  “He went out a few hours ago. He said he had to go to a party.”

  “A party?” Lana repeated. The fear and uncertainty that had been building since the train arrived in Nice turned into rage. It was one thing for Guy to be delayed with Resistance work. But did he really stand her up to go to a party?

  “You look tired and thirsty, why don’t we go inside and have a drink?” the woman said, indicating the villa—the one Lana had been unable to enter.

  “You have the key to Guy’s house?” Lana asked, in surprise. She wondered if they were lovers.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking; I’m not involved with Guy.” The woman laughed as if she could read her thoughts. “We’re just neighbors. My name is Giselle.”

  She pointed down the road. “I’m the last one on the right. Villa Grasse.” She entered the garden and dug a key out from under a rock. “Up here, we tell one another where we keep our keys in case of emergency.”

  “It would be nice to go inside and sit down,” Lana said gratefully. She turned to Pierre. “I don’t know how to pay you.”

  “I’ll take care of that.” Giselle reached into her basket and took out a two-hundred-franc note. She handed it to Pierre.

  “I can’t let you pay for my taxi too,” Lana protested.

  Giselle couldn’t have been much older than Lana, but she had an air of authority combined with a gracefulness that made
her seem older. Her French was fluent, but she had an accent that Lana didn’t recognize.

  “I’ll put it on Guy’s account.” Giselle laughed. “I keep chickens, and he always takes my eggs without paying me.”

  Lana said goodbye to Pierre and followed Giselle inside. The villa had wide rooms facing an inner courtyard. The floors were dark wood. Heavy drapes covered the windows. A sheet was thrown over a sofa.

  “Doesn’t Guy live here?” Lana asked. The air felt stale, and there was dust on the coffee table.

  “His housekeeper has been away. He says it’s easier to live in the kitchen.” She guided Lana through the hallway.

  The kitchen was the opposite of the front rooms. Late afternoon light flooded through French doors, and the marble counters were spotless. Open shelves held spices, and there was an enamel stove and small refrigerator.

  “It’s so different from Paris.” Lana ran her hands over the marble. “In Paris, the war is everywhere. The cupboards are empty.”

  “We had a fairly easy time until the Germans arrived; now it’s getting harder,” Giselle explained as she took off her hat. “But you can get anything on the black market if you’re willing to pay for it.”

  She found a bottle of Scotch under the sink. She filled two glasses with soda water and added one shot to each drink.

  “How do you know Guy?” She handed Lana a glass. “I ran into him this morning, and he told me he had a visitor coming but said nothing else.”

  “I’m Lana. We met in Switzerland before the war,” she answered, remembering Henri’s instructions. “Guy said I could stay whenever I wanted.”

  “You don’t look old enough to have been doing much before the war,” Giselle commented.

  “I’m twenty-four. I was on holiday in Montreux with my family.”

  “Guy mentioned that he has a château in Lausanne. I asked him why he doesn’t stay in Switzerland, especially with the Germans breathing down our necks,” Giselle said thoughtfully. “He said his business interests on the Riviera don’t take care of themselves. Plus, Switzerland is boring. We still hold parties here. You’ll have to ask him to bring you to some.”

  Lana wanted to know more about Giselle. Was she a member of the Resistance too? Or could she be friendly with any of the Germans—one of the people Lana was supposed to get close to?

  Giselle finished her drink and put the glass on the counter.

  “I should go,” Giselle said before Lana could think of a reply. “I’m making fish stew, and I was just picking tomatoes.”

  “I haven’t had fresh vegetables in months,” Lana said. She noticed the tomatoes in Giselle’s basket.

  “Here.” Giselle handed her one. “Guy must have some bread and a bottle of olive oil. That’s all you need to make dinner.”

  “Thank you for everything,” Lana said. “If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” Giselle turned to the door. “I hope you stay awhile. I’m often alone, and it will be nice to have female company.”

  A few minutes later Lana was slicing the tomato when a man appeared in the doorway. He had dark hair smoothed back and a tan complexion. His eyes were the brightest green Lana had ever seen.

  “You must be Lana. I’m Guy.” He put a pastry box on the counter. “I went to the train station and ran into Pierre. He told me he drove you to the villa.”

  “You know Pierre?” Lana put down the knife. She was so embarrassed that she was making herself at home in Guy’s kitchen without permission. For a moment she forgot that the reason Giselle had let her into Guy’s house was because he had abandoned her at the station.

  “Everyone knows Pierre. His father, Louis, was one of the few honest taxi drivers on the Riviera.” Guy peeled off his jacket. “Louis was killed two years ago by the French police. Now Pierre drives the taxi, poor kid.” Guy poured himself a shot of the Scotch.

  Lana pictured Pierre with his jaunty beret, and her stomach tied in a knot. The war that had seemed far away suddenly returned.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Well, that’s why we’re here. To get rid of Nazis and end the war.” He drank the Scotch, and his face broke into a smile. “Unless you came all the way to Nice to drink my Scotch and eat tomatoes in olive oil.”

  “You did strand me at the train station.” She remembered why she was angry. “If your neighbor Giselle hadn’t let me in, I’d be waiting outside or back at the terminal.”

  “I planned on getting you; I was just a little late,” he corrected.

  “You went to a party,” she retorted.

  “Did Giselle tell you that?” He shrugged. “I didn’t mean to miss the train, but sometimes things happen that I can’t control.”

  Lana picked up the knife and went back to slicing the tomato.

  “I didn’t eat on the train, and someone stole my wallet at the station, and then you weren’t home,” she said, arranging the tomato on a plate. “I’m very hungry.”

  “You’re angry because you missed lunch?” Guy whistled. “I told Henri I needed someone with ice in her veins. The Germans have been in Nice for only two months and already five hundred Jews have been transported to Drancy and then Auschwitz. SS officers enter the hotels and drag the guests out in their nightgowns. Last week a woman drank the cyanide she kept hidden in her suitcase.” Guy’s face was hot, and he refilled his glass. “Just yesterday, they made a sweep of the Hôtel Negresco. I watched an old man jump out the window to avoid being taken away. If you’re going to give up because you haven’t had a meal since breakfast, then you probably should leave now.”

  Lana’s cheeks flushed, and she held back the tears. What was she doing here? And how could she live with someone so rude?

  “I didn’t think it was too much to ask to keep the arrangement planned.” She grabbed her purse. “I didn’t intend to be a burden. I’m going to freshen up, and then I’ll go.”

  She walked down the hall to the powder room. The door closed behind her, and she leaned against the vanity. What if Guy was right; what if she wasn’t strong enough to be in the Resistance?

  Her reflection stared back at her, and she thought about Pierre, about Frederic and the baby. Sister Therese had given her this opportunity, and she couldn’t pass it up. Even her mother understood how important it was to help the children. Nothing mattered except making Frederic proud and saving as many Jewish children as she could.

  Guy was hovering in the hallway when she opened the door. She started to say something, but he took her hand and led her back to the kitchen.

  “I need to apologize.” He motioned her to sit down. “I bought a slice of cake to welcome you to Nice.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore,” Lana answered.

  “Please, it cost fifty francs on the black market. You won’t find such a moist filling on the Côte d’Azur.”

  “All right.” Lana picked up the fork. The first bite was dark and sweet and reminded her of her wedding cake. Lana’s mother had made it. They’d all had a slice after the ceremony at the registrar’s office.

  “Can we start over?” He held out his hand. “I’m Guy Pascal.”

  “Lana Antanova.” She shook his hand.

  “When I didn’t meet you at the station you could have taken the train back to Paris. And when those thieves stole your wallet you could have been stranded at the station, but you figured out a way to get to the villa. And when I wasn’t here you might have been forced to wait outside,” he said. “But instead I find you drinking Scotch and eating tomato with olive oil in my kitchen. I suppose you’re more capable than I’d given you credit for.” He ate a bite of cake. “Henri was right; you’ll be a wonderful spy. I’m sorry for being rude, and I hope you’ll stay.”

  The sun was beginning to set outside the window, and the sky was a ribbon of purple and yellow.

  “I’ll stay.” She nodded. “As long as you promise not to stand me up again.”

  Chapter Four


  Nice, November 1943

  When Lana woke the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky. A breeze blew through the open window, and the light made patterns on the bedroom wall.

  The night before, she had told Guy she was exhausted from traveling and asked if she could go to her room. In truth, she felt uncomfortable sitting alone in the kitchen with him. It was all so foreign—being away from Paris, from her mother, and mostly missing Frederic. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten dinner with a man who wasn’t her husband.

  Guy had led her upstairs, and Lana tried to hide her anxiety. What if their bedrooms were next to each other and they had to share a bathroom? But Guy led her to a bedroom at one end of a hall and pointed to his suite at the other end. Lana had her own bathroom. Her door even locked from the inside.

  She had been too tired to do anything but strip off her clothes and climb into bed. But this morning she sat against the pillows and admired the furnishings. The bed was covered with a white comforter, and there was a dressing table with an oval mirror in the corner of the room. A floral rug was flung over the wood floor. The bathroom held a claw-foot tub.

  Lana opened the French doors and stepped onto the balcony. The sea was perfectly calm, and the sky was the color of topaz. Below her, the hills were dotted with villas featuring manicured lawns and swimming pools.

  A sadness welled up inside her, and she clutched the railing. It seemed impossible that she could inhale the scent of irises and watch fishing boats bob in the water when Frederic would never smell or see anything again.

  When they married, they couldn’t afford a honeymoon. Now Lana wished they had gone somewhere together: to Biarritz with her mother and Jacques or to Marseille. But they agreed that it could wait until after the war.