by Anita Abriel
They kissed again, and Guy poured glasses of wine and pointed at the village far below.
“That’s Villefranche-sur-Mer. It was a simple fishing village until about forty years ago, when a group of artists arrived. Now artists and poets mingle with fishermen, but it still retains its charm. Everyone knows one another, and you won’t find anyone wearing expensive jewelry.”
Lana peered at the narrow houses clustered around a horseshoe-shaped bay. Instead of elegant villas dotting the hills, there were farms with lopsided barns.
“It was the first place I saw that made me feel I understood art.” Guy kept talking.
“What do you mean?” Lana wondered.
“I grew up visiting museums and galleries, but I’d never been moved by a painting.” He pondered. “I stood in this spot and saw the sun stretching over the horizon and fields choked with color, and I understood. There’s beauty in this world that even Hitler can’t take away.”
Lana recalled that was the way Frederic felt about music. It was wonderful that Guy felt the same about art.
The first raindrops fell as they started on the food. Guy scrambled to load the car, but by the time he closed the hood they were both wet.
“Could we stop and get something hot to drink or maybe a bowl of soup?” Lana asked as the car approached the center of Villefranche-sur-Mer. The wind had picked up and rain splashed the windshield.
“I don’t know if anything is open.” Guy grunted, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Please,” Lana urged. “My clothes are wet, and I’m freezing.”
Guy turned to look at her as she shivered. His expression softened. “All right, I can’t have you catching cold like Pierre.”
He parked and grabbed a jacket from the back seat. He held it over Lana’s head, and they ran into the nearest café.
The waiter brought them menus, and Guy placed them on the table.
“Two potato soups.” He ran his hands through his hair and grimaced. “And a couple of whiskies if you have them.”
Guy’s mood had darkened, and Lana felt slightly irritated. It wasn’t her fault that it had started to rain. And she couldn’t drive back to Cap Ferrat soaking wet. She opened her mouth to say something when an older woman entered the café.
“Monsieur Pascal, is that you?” The woman approached their table.
“Madame Broussard.” Guy looked up. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Nice to see me as if we saw each other yesterday! Stand up, let me see if you’re still so skinny.”
Guy rose reluctantly, and the woman kissed him on both cheeks.
“Too thin but as handsome as ever.” She turned and looked at Lana. “You forgot your manners. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“Countess Antanova, this is Françoise Broussard. She owns the best restaurant in Villefranche.”
“The only restaurant,” Françoise corrected. “The rest are merely cafés that serve food my own mother could make. Françoise’s has a chef. It’s been too long, you must come for dinner.”
“We’ll do that.” Guy nodded. The waiter brought their soups, and he sat down. “Right now we’re having bowls of soup to keep warm.”
“Monsieur Pascal used to be one of my best customers,” she said fondly. “Always with that pretty wife and gorgeous little girl.”
Guy’s soupspoon clattered to the table. Françoise glanced from Guy to Lana and put her hand over her mouth.
“Monsieur Pascal…” she stammered. “I’m sure this is perfectly innocent. I didn’t mean…”
“It’s all right. I’m not indiscreet,” Guy said quietly. He placed his napkin on the table and sat back in his chair. “My wife died.”
Françoise’s chest heaved, and she twisted her hands.
“Merde! I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t tell you,” Guy said, trying to smile. “If you don’t mind, we’ll finish our soups. I promised the countess I wouldn’t let her catch cold.”
Françoise left, and Guy picked up his spoon. His face was blank, and even his eyes seemed drained of color.
“My wife’s name was Marie. We had a daughter named Aimee.”
“I’m sorry,” Lana whispered.
Guy signaled the waiter for another whiskey.
“Let me have one more of these, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
Lana waited while Guy gulped the whiskey.
“I’m Swiss. I was born and raised in Geneva,” Guy began. “My father is a successful businessman, and my mother is American. My mother came to Switzerland on holiday, and my father swept her off her feet.” He smiled fondly. “I had a charmed childhood: skiing in the Swiss Alps and vacationing on the French Riviera. Then I met Marie. I spent a summer in Montreux, and she was working at an auberge where I was staying.” He chuckled. “I had the impression that all French girls were stuck-up and only interested in fashion like the ones I’d met in Paris, but Marie was different.”
Lana started to protest, and Guy squeezed her hand.
“Present company excluded.” He grinned. “Marie was raised on a farm near Reims. She was fresh and young and lovely. We had a wonderful summer, and then she got pregnant. We were married in a stone church in Montreux. I was madly in love; I would have married her anyway.”
Guy signaled the waiter for another whiskey.
“I wanted to stay in Switzerland, but she longed to be near her parents when we had the baby. I understood. My parents had moved to America several years before because my mother wanted to be closer to her parents. Her parents wouldn’t travel to Europe because they were afraid there was going to be a war.
“Marie’s father was Jewish, so when the war started her parents sold the farm and moved to the Riviera. Everyone thought the Riviera was safe for Jews. They bought a little farm above Villefranche-sur-Mer, just a few cows and goats, but enough to get by. I urged them to come to Switzerland, but Marie has a sister, Celine. Celine and her children lived with them in Villefranche, and her parents wouldn’t move to another country.
“Her parents only had a small house, and there wasn’t enough room for all of us. And I didn’t want to intrude; after all, I could afford a place of our own. We rented a place in Nice, and Aimee was born.” Guy nursed his glass. “All the cheesy things people say about becoming a father were true. The minute Aimee set her blue eyes on me through the hospital window, I was head over heels in love.
“Even with the Italian occupation, life was better than I could imagine. In July of ’42 there was an Allied bombing raid on the railway station in Nice. Aimee was only three, and Marie thought it would be safer if they stayed with her parents and sister for a few weeks. The house would be crowded, but it would be better than staying in Nice. I had some business here, but I was going to join them soon. They had been there only a few days when there was a farm accident.” Guy stopped and Lana noticed his hands were shaking.
“Aimee was run over by a tractor. It had nothing to do with the war, but Marie blamed herself. She returned to Nice with her parents. They were going to stay with us in Nice for a while and help her recover.
“A week later the French police conducted a raid on our neighborhood. Hitler was getting impatient that Mussolini was too lenient with the Jews. So at the Germans’ request, the French police stepped up their attempts to get rid of the Jewish population.
“I wasn’t home when the police knocked on the door. Marie’s father pretended he couldn’t find his papers, and they started to drag him away.”
“How do you know?” Lana cut in.
“Our landlady saw the whole thing,” Guy answered. “Marie screamed at the policemen that they would have to take her too. Marie and her parents were escorted to the train station.” He gulped. “I traced them to Drancy, where a Gestapo officer named Alois Brunner put them on the train to a camp.”
“Brunner!” Lana gasped. The familiar scene flashed before her eyes: Frederic opening the piano and Brunner insisting he hand over Esther Cohen. Then h
earing the gunshot that seemed to pierce her own heart.
“Marie must have been very brave.” She faltered, wondering how to comfort him.
Guy stared at the rain on the windowpane.
“The smart thing would have been to go back to Switzerland or join my parents in America,” he said absently. “But I didn’t tell my parents what happened. My mother still thinks I’m eating Marie’s soufflés and hiking in the French Alps.”
“Why did you keep it a secret?” Lana was shocked.
“I wasn’t ready to leave France. I don’t know why. Perhaps I was still hoping that Marie was alive.” He shrugged. “Or maybe I was punishing myself, or I worried that I would leave behind my memories of Marie and Aimee.” His voice was gruff. “I decided I would help Celine and her children escape to Switzerland. I got them across the border, and then I returned to Villefranche. I was going to sell the farm and go back to Geneva. That’s how I met Henri. He heard I helped Celine escape and asked me to do the same for other Jews on the Riviera. Then he told me about Alois Brunner.” His eyes were hard as marbles. “I decided I couldn’t live in a world with men like Brunner, so I made myself a promise. I’m not leaving France until one of us is dead.”
“Is the villa yours?” Lana asked.
For the first time since he started the story, Guy’s expression turned lighter.
“Henri and I agreed to keep my cover as close to my past as possible,” he answered. “It makes it more difficult to get caught in a lie. I come from a wealthy family, so I was able to buy the villa. And if anyone in Switzerland asks about Guy Pascal, they’ll find I was a well-respected member of the community.”
They finished their soup and dashed back to the car. The rain turned into a soft drizzle, and Guy pulled up in front of the villa.
“I’m glad you told me.” Lana watched the wipers crisscross the windshield. “When Frederic was murdered and I miscarried our baby it was the worst day of my life. I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a child.”
“For weeks I asked my doctor for something: a prescription of pills or a vial of poison that I could add to my nightly brandy,” Guy said meditatively. “But that’s the funny thing about doctors. They say they want to help you, but they only want to stitch you back together. They won’t do the one thing that will stop the pain.
“Then I saw the relief in Celine’s eyes when she and her children arrived safely in Switzerland. If I could do something to help others and avenge Marie’s and Aimee’s deaths at the same time, it was worth living with my own pain.”
Lana’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned to kiss him.
“How did you come to own the villa and be part of society on the Riviera?” she asked after they parted.
“Buying the villa was easy. Many houses were for sale; all the Americans were scurrying home. I met Natalia and she introduced me to people,” he recalled. “She is very well connected. She told everyone that a wealthy Swiss industrialist just bought a villa in Cap Ferrat and they must include me at their parties.”
Lana felt oddly jealous. She sat back and smoothed her hair.
“You must have been a hit from the beginning. A single and handsome foreigner.”
Guy noticed her pained expression. He put his hand on her chin and drew her close.
“I didn’t notice any of the women; I still missed Marie.” He kissed her deeply. “Until now. Now all I can think about is you.”
She kissed him back. There was a small rip in the convertible top and a raindrop splashed her nose.
“I bought this convertible for our honeymoon,” Guy grumbled, wiping the rain from his cheek and offering her his handkerchief. “It looked good in the showroom, but it’s been nothing but trouble. Give me a British Rover any day.”
“Nonsense.” She laughed, accepting the handkerchief. “You’re much too handsome to drive a boring car.”
* * *
Guy went to run errands, and Lana sat in the living room. It was the first time Guy had opened up about his past, and she felt close to him. She understood now why Guy hadn’t wanted to stop in Villefranche for a bowl of soup. He’d been afraid of running into someone he knew and having to explain what happened to his wife and daughter. But why had he taken her to the picnic spot in the first place? Was it for the view or to share his past? She rubbed the finger where she used to wear her wedding ring. The people they had loved and lost were impossible to leave behind.
Chapter Fifteen
Nice, December 1943
The Petrikoffs’ party was in full swing when Guy and Lana arrived. A band played in the ballroom, and men wearing dinner jackets and smoking cigars wandered in and out of the library. Guy went to join them, and Lana stood at the bar.
“Countess Antanova, it’s wonderful to see you again.” Natalia Petrikoff approached her. A diamond-studded cap covered Natalia’s hair and she wore a white evening gown with flowing sleeves.
“It’s lovely to be here,” Lana replied, glancing around the room. She was glad she had borrowed Giselle’s gown.
“I was hoping you and Guy would come,” Natalia confided. “So I could see if the rumors were true.”
“Rumors?” Lana repeated, her heart beating faster.
Had someone seen her with Captain Von Harmon the night of his death?
“There’s a rumor that you and Guy are the most romantic couple on the Riviera.” Natalia waved her cigarette holder. “He’s been singing your praises to anyone who will listen. He’s positively devoted.”
Lana took a sip of her champagne and smiled.
“Guy enjoys giving compliments; it’s part of his nature.”
“I’m glad that Guy found love,” Natalia said merrily. “When he first attended our parties, I wondered if he knew how to smile,” she mused. “I even took it on myself to help him. I went to the pharmacist and asked him to blend the most seductive perfume. I thought Guy might enjoy a small dalliance. But then I was afraid my husband would smell it. It would be so inconvenient if my husband was in love with me.” She smiled. “It’s wonderful to see romance blossom in our corner of the war. Especially when one hears terrible stories.” She leaned closer to Lana. “Like what happened to Giselle Saint Claire. A friend happened to be in Berlin last week and heard the most fascinating story.”
Lana put her hand on the sideboard to steady herself. She hadn’t seen Giselle in a few days. Lana had been so busy with the Jews’ escape from Old Town and Guy. Now she felt slightly guilty. Giselle was her friend; she should have checked in on her.
“Giselle?”
“Your neighbor,” Natalia replied. “It’s all very hush-hush. My friend is well connected, but you must promise to keep it a secret. It’s not the kind of thing one would like to get out. After all, Giselle is part of our circle. It could hurt all of us.”
“You have my word,” Lana said, trying to keep her expression calm.
“I should have suspected something about Giselle from the beginning,” Natalia reflected. “She used to attend our parties, and she was always alone. I thought she was too beautiful to be without a man. She never even flirted; for a while I thought she liked women.” Natalia shuddered. “But apparently she had a German lover.”
Lana felt like she had been punched in the stomach. She waited until she caught her breath.
“There’s nothing wrong with having a German lover,” Lana answered smoothly, in character.
“Nothing at all,” Natalia agreed. “I’ve considered taking a German lover myself. They’re so virile; they’re supposed to be wonderful in bed. My friend said that Giselle’s lover was part of a plot to kill Hitler last March—the brandy bomb. A German officer named Henning von Tresckow gave Hitler two bottles of Cointreau brandy to take on his plane to Berlin. The brandy held a bomb, but the fuse didn’t go off. If it had, the führer’s plane would have been blown to bits over the Bavarian Alps.”
“Is that so?” Lana asked, and wondered if her voice was too bright. Could Natalia tell that her whole
body was trembling?
“Apparently the case went unsolved for months. Come to think of it, we rarely saw Giselle during that time. But many members of our set have their little quirks. You might see them at three parties in the same week and then they hibernate like bears in the winter. My friend confided that Hitler was adamant the Gestapo keep searching until they uncovered who planted the bombs. Two weeks ago, Giselle’s lover, Hans Markel, was implicated. After his capture, he was tortured and hanged.” Natalia clucked her tongue. “One can only hope Hans didn’t mention Giselle’s name. The one thing the Bolsheviks and Germans have in common is they’re not kind to prisoners.”
“That’s terrible.” Lana gasped.
Her mind went immediately to the engraved humidor box in Giselle’s living room. That’s why Giselle grew so flustered when Lana asked where she got it. HM—Hans Markel. It was a gift to her lover.
“You promise you won’t breathe a word of this, not even to Guy,” Natalia insisted. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. But some things are so awful to think about. It somehow relieves the burden of knowing when you share it with someone else.” She smiled. “And for some reason I feel close to you. At first I thought it was because I could see myself in you when I was young. But it’s more than that. You’re different than most of our friends. You listen when someone talks.” She glanced around the room. “Just be careful. These days we should be wearing protective armor like the knights in the Middle Ages instead of these frivolous evening gowns. We have to protect ourselves. If Giselle had a secret lover who was a traitor, who knows what other people are hiding.”
