Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  Yvette set the package on the sideboard. She had nothing pressing to do back at the fashion house, so she would wait for Catherine to return.

  “Hand me one of those, will you?” Yvette caught the cloth Sabine threw to her and began dusting the ornaments on the mantelpiece.

  She liked this work, caring for pretty things, speculating about how Monsieur Dior had come by them. She covered her fingertip with the dust cloth and carefully traced the intricate lines of a gilded clock, paying special attention to the detail on the sinuous nude figure that held the clock face aloft. There was a portrait of monsieur above the mantelpiece. It did not flatter him at all but captured the sensitivity behind what some might say—and many did say—was a very average appearance.

  Monsieur Dior did not look like a fashion designer, not like the debonair Lucien Lelong, but even though he did not have his own fashion house, the name of Christian Dior as a premier designer at the House of Lelong was becoming known. Every time a chic member of the Paris élite wore one of his gowns to an event, more clients flooded in. It was as if to these people, the war did not exist. They went to horse races and receptions and drank champagne in the company of high-ranking Nazis, while their countrymen suffered and starved.

  Monsieur Lelong had explained to Yvette that couture was a vital industry to France, one that bolstered the economy. It was imperative to keep it operating, even if that meant clothing people one might not personally admire. Though he did not say it, Yvette knew that Monsieur Lelong had resisted the Germans as much as anyone. As president of the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture, he had blocked several attempts to move the entire Parisian fashion industry, its couturiers and artisans, to Berlin.

  “Yvette?” Sabine’s voice sharpened. “Are you listening to me?”

  “But of course.” Sabine had been prattling on about her latest boyfriend, as usual.

  “He is so nice and polite,” said Sabine, “you’d never know he was a German at all. And very handsome, don’t you think?”

  “Pfft. I suppose so. If you like that sort of thing.” Yes, Sabine’s German was handsome, but that hardly made up for the rest.

  “I know you don’t approve,” began Sabine, “but—”

  “There are no ‘buts,’ Sabine,” Yvette said, setting her jaw. “The only good Nazi is a dead Nazi.”

  “If you knew any, you might not say that. Many of them are ordinary soldiers, caught up in the war against their will, just like us.”

  Yvette bit her tongue, knowing it was futile to argue. You never knew what might happen, these days. If she thought herself so in love, Sabine might report on Yvette’s opinions to her Nazi boyfriend.

  Yvette gave a little laugh. “Don’t mind me. I’m just jealous.”

  Sabine smirked. “You said it, not me.”

  Rolling her eyes at the mantelpiece, Yvette replaced the candlestick she had been dusting. Perhaps she was a little jealous. Not of having a German sweetheart—she would starve in a ditch before she consorted with the Boches—but she had never had a boyfriend. France had been at war ever since she might have taken an interest in young men, and unless she counted the occupying forces, which she did not, the pickings were very slim. Frenchmen were all in work camps, dead, incapacitated, or old. Or they were collaborating with the enemy. The odd, experimental embrace with Jean-Luc did not count. They had both agreed there was simply no spark of attraction between them. They were more like brother and sister.

  Sabine lowered her voice like a conspirator, and that made Yvette concentrate again on what she was saying. “There were some funny goings-on here last time Catherine visited. I heard voices in the night.”

  “What is so strange about that?” Monsieur Dior often had unconventional friends come to stay. He was an intimate of Jean Cocteau and Salvador Dalí, and many others in the avant-garde world of Parisian literature and art.

  Sabine went to a potted palm by the window and began to wipe dust from each spiky frond. “Well, no one was here when I came out in the morning. Whoever it was had left before dawn.”

  “You must have dreamed it,” Yvette said. These days, curfew was set at one in the morning and lifted again at six. Ordinary Parisians did not dare to break it.

  Catherine Dior let herself into the apartment then, putting a stop to the conversation. “Yvette? What are you doing here at this time of day?” She eyed the duster in Yvette’s hand and smiled. “My brother will have to start paying you wages.”

  “I came to find you.” She told Catherine about the Café de la Madeleine. “But Mademoiselle Dietlin told me your meeting with her was for tomorrow, so I tried here instead.”

  Catherine’s eyebrows drew together. “Christian sent you there? How odd of him to do that.”

  “A misunderstanding, but never mind. Now I’ve found you.” Yvette handed Sabine her duster and fetched Catherine’s package. “From Monsieur Dior.” She presented the gift, bouncing a little on her toes, as excited as if she were the one receiving the present.

  Catherine, who had been looking pale and drawn as she came in, laughed with true pleasure. “Dear ’Tian!” She shook her head fondly and lightly touched the floral decoration. “I am spoiled, am I not?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Yvette said. “But it is such a pleasure for Monsieur Dior to spoil you, I think it is equally a gift for him as well. You will note how carefully he wrapped your little present.”

  “Lily of the valley.” Catherine raised the package to her nose to sniff. “How it reminds me of home.” She held the box but made no move to open it. Yvette did not like to insist that she do so, even though she was dying to see what was inside. Catherine’s mind seemed to be elsewhere, her dark eyes clouded with worry.

  “Is it very beautiful in Callian?” Yvette asked, trying to stretch out the conversation so that she might glimpse monsieur’s gift. She had never been to the flower fields in Provence, where seas of blossom covered the countryside throughout the warmer months. Often, she had envied Catherine, living in the rural south, where surely one might grow one’s own food to eat and restrictions had not been as harshly enforced as they had been in the capital. But of course, Yvette would not have left Paris for anything in the world.

  Catherine nodded, setting the pretty box on the mantelpiece. “You must visit sometime.” But both of them knew that would never happen. Yvette was a delivery girl, the daughter of a concierge. Catherine was the sister of a tenant, the daughter of a factory owner. Yvette would never be a guest at her house in Callian.

  “Well, I must be going,” Yvette said reluctantly, as it did not seem Catherine intended to open her gift. “Do you think Madame LaRoq would like me to call in later?”

  Catherine’s gaze darted toward the door. “I think not, my dear. She is tired today. Perhaps you might attend her with your sister tomorrow?”

  “I’ll do that,” Yvette said, and with one last glance at the gift she had taken such trouble to deliver, she made her farewells and left.

  Chapter Four

  Paris, February 1947

  GABBY

  Gabby’s pencil flew over each page as she raced to keep up with the mannequins, craning to catch the fall of a hemline or some interesting detail at a cuff or collar before each model disappeared from view. She tried to evoke the essence of a garment with a few bold strokes, much in the manner of the original sketches she’d seen lying about Monsieur Dior’s apartment, labeling each creation as she heard the compère announce its name.

  The sheer volume of fabric in the collection was shocking—frightening, even, when they’d all become so accustomed to rationing and regulations dictating shorter skirts and plain tailoring. Would Monsieur Dior be in trouble with the authorities? How on earth had he managed it?

  “It’s a revolution!” murmured a woman behind her, and Gabby knew what she meant. But with all the beading and billowy skirts; nipped waists; full, padded hips; and accentuated bosoms, perhaps it was not so much a revolution as a revival. From the décor in the salons of t
he atelier to monsieur’s “figure eight” and “flower” dresses, wasn’t his new offering a modern interpretation of prerevolutionary France?

  The instant the first mannequin had stepped into the salon, Dior made every other style redundant. The masculine, blocky torsos and short, straight skirts of wartime were an abomination next to these deeply feminine creations. But was it also a signal for women to return to their function as ornaments now that their men had come home?

  Gabby was uneasy in a way she could not explain. She did not want things to go back to the way they were before the war. But then, for her, wasn’t that precisely what had happened? She smudged a line of skirt with her finger to soften it until it was just right, then flipped the page of her sketchbook.

  A gasp from the audience made her look up, staring intently at the creation that was causing such a stir. The jacket was made of cream silk shantung, nipped in at the waist and flaring at the hips over a pleated black crêpe corolle skirt.

  Gabby captured the ensemble with quick, emphatic lines before the mannequin glided out of sight. She ignored the next model as she filled in remembered detail—the buttons, the black gloves, the shoes, the tilt to the hat, a suggestion of the pearl choker at the mannequin’s throat.

  Finishing the last bit of shading on the Bar Suit, Gabby raised her head again to watch the next outfit: a more fitted dress this time, black, with a sweetheart neckline, small puffed sleeves, and long black gloves. From this angle high above, the mannequin’s face was obscured by the brim of her hat. Yet, there was something familiar about her, a way of holding her head, that made Gabby’s heart quicken. Then the mannequin performed an elegant turn, one hand hovering near her hip, the other not quite touching her hat, as if to announce, “Et voilà. Here I am.”

  A jolt of shock made Gabby drop her pencil. Yvette? Her heart hammered; her body turned first hot, then cold. Gabby’s pencil rolled off the tip of her shoe and slipped down behind the back of the woman on the step below. The woman flinched, shifted awkwardly to fish the pencil from underneath her, and handed it back to Gabby with a displeased frown. Too astonished to do more than murmur an apology, Gabby blinked and craned her neck to see better.

  Oblivious, Yvette gave another smooth twirl, then passed through the crowded landing and into the salon. She walked with an arrogant tilt to her head, as if she was born to be a mannequin. As if she’d never been a naughty toddler who had gotten powdered sugar through her hair, or an awkward twelve-year-old, all gangling limbs and big feet. As if she’d never come home after curfew with her clothes torn and eyes wild and her hands covered in blood.

  But how could it be? Yvette was supposed to be in New York. Gabby’s mind cast about for meaning in a situation that was clearly impossible. Her sister was in Paris. In Monsieur Dior’s show . . .

  Yvette. Here. And she had not even bothered to visit her sister and mother. Since the resistance had smuggled her out under the Germans’ noses three years before, Yvette had maintained complete silence, ignoring Gabby’s letters. Did she resent her so much for trying to keep her safe?

  Suddenly, a great wave of nausea rose up, and Gabby’s vision swam. She couldn’t think. She certainly couldn’t sketch. She couldn’t rest inside her own skin until she spoke to her sister again. She wanted to stumble down through the crowd on the staircase to accost Yvette and wrap her in a tight embrace.

  Even had she wished to make a spectacle of herself, Gabby could not have reached Yvette, not with several rows of people sitting on the steps below her and several more rows of them seated on the landing as well.

  As the parade went on, shock and yearning gave way to growing anger. How could Yvette simply turn up like this, after all this time, without a word to her family? To be included in this show, she must have attended weeks of fittings . . . But no, that could not be. Monsieur Dior would not have failed to mention it, had Yvette appeared at his atelier.

  Gabby could not even imagine how Yvette came to be at Dior at all, much less in the show itself. But then, hadn’t Yvette always possessed diabolical good luck? Or perhaps, rather, an instinct for being in the right place at the right time, for grabbing every opportunity with both hands, always asking for more.

  Despite everything she had been through during the occupation, Yvette had achieved her dream, to walk among the best mannequins of Paris in an haute couture parade. And not just any parade. The first showing of the first collection of the most ingenious couturier in the world.

  The collection had moved on to cocktail wear, and the next mannequin wore a deep-midnight-blue gown that made Gabby gasp with longing. Almost without conscious thought, she took up her pencil to sketch, her hand a little unsteady. She made sure to suggest the intricate detail in the full-bosomed, tight-waisted bodice and the way the skirt bloomed around the model’s hips.

  Yvette came out again, this time supremely confident in one of the flower dresses, a pale, strapless gown, with a bell-like skirt and large silk flowers at the breast. Her long throat rose elegantly from her pure white décolletage. The neckline of the gown cut across her lovely bust, and her waist seemed impossibly tiny, emphasized by the cinched-in bodice. Slipping her hands into the pockets of her skirt, she sauntered off toward the salon.

  Later, she made another queenly entrance in an indigo evening gown with a skirt of tightly pleated silk. The audience gave loud applause. Yvette looked so poised and chic that Gabby’s heart ached with pride and her eyes burned with unshed tears. She smiled and shook her head. Where was the sense in being angry or upset? Her sister was alive and in one piece. And in Paris. That was all that mattered.

  Gabby’s fingers were covered in shiny grey splotches of lead pencil and her hand was throbbing by the time the show ended. Yvette had carried herself with poise and aplomb, never stumbling, never appearing awkward or self-conscious. How Gabby envied her. What must it have been like to wear those creations, to feel so beautiful?

  At last, Monsieur Dior appeared to humbly accept his clients’ acclaim. Watching him, Gabby’s heart overflowed. So much work, such brilliance and dedication—it had all come to fruition in this triumph of a show.

  When it was over and the staircase began to empty, Gabby put her sketchbook and pencil away and rubbed her aching wrist. It had been an emotional morning. But the time . . . She checked her watch. Oh, dear! She must get back to work.

  There was no hope of talking with Yvette. The mannequins were all busy posing for photographs in each of the outfits they’d modeled in the parade. Monsieur Dior was mobbed by the press and clients alike, so there was no opportunity to congratulate him, but there would be time later to express her admiration and wonder. Gabby spotted Catherine in a small cluster of guests. A waiter was serving them champagne. She might slip away. She did not wish to impose . . .

  “Gabby!” Declining champagne, Catherine excused herself and hurried toward her, taking Gabby’s hands and squeezing them. “Did you see her? I nearly fell off my chair.”

  Gabby’s throat tightened. “It was . . . a shock.”

  “Thoughtless of her not to come to see you first, but knowing Yvette, there is some wildly random series of events to account for it.” Catherine searched Gabby’s face and her expression softened with sympathy. “Why don’t you slip into the cabine and say hello?”

  Gabby shook her head. “She has a job to do. I’ll just get in the way.” Besides, it was not the kind of reunion she could imagine taking place in a crowded dressing room.

  Why hadn’t Yvette come home at the first opportunity? She hadn’t answered any of Gabby’s letters, so perhaps she was still angry with Gabby for her harsh words that horrible summer’s night. Or perhaps, like so many French people, Yvette wanted desperately to forget . . .

  Forcing herself to smile, despite the ache in her heart, Gabby embraced Catherine, kissing her on both cheeks. “Will you please tell monsieur everything was beyond perfection? Thank you for inviting me.”

  Resisting Catherine’s urging that she stay for champagn
e, she made her way to the door. Approaching the threshold, she hesitated. Her feet felt heavy. Once she left the Maison Dior, the spell would be broken for good. By contrast with this wonderland of exquisite and extraordinary beauty, her ordinary life seemed to yawn before her like a desert canyon. Yvette’s attainment of her long-held dream only underscored how static and banal Gabby’s life had become.

  She stepped out onto the pavement and forced herself to turn toward home.

  * * *

  GABBY’S SHOULDERS DROOPED when she reached the apartments at number 10 rue Royale. Maman’s pale little face, with its thin eyebrows and worry lines, stared out the window of the concierge’s loge. Gabby waved and motioned for her mother to let her in. A buzzer sounded. The latch clicked and Gabby pushed through.

  The vestibule was like a short, cavernous tunnel, but beyond it, pale sunlight illuminated the square, uncovered courtyard around which the apartments had been built. The garden beds were bare. She must plan for something pretty in the spring.

  Gabby hesitated, staring at the door to the loge that gave onto the vestibule, as if lost. To return to the drudgery of her work as concierge after the glamor and beauty of the Dior fashion show seemed a travesty. At least she had her sketches to remind her.

  She looked down. The fat mailbag squatted by the wall beneath the tenants’ pigeonholes. Gabby sighed. She had not even taken off her hat and coat, and here was work to be done.

  “What took you so long? There is still the mail to sort.” Maman stood at the door to their tiny apartment, her chapped hands gripped together.

  Gabby followed her mother inside, dragging the mailbag with her. She shrugged off her coat and put her hat and scarf on the hook by the door. “The work will get done, Maman. I do not take too many mornings off, you will admit.”

  She opened her mouth to tell her mother that Yvette was back, but the words didn’t come. She took out her art satchel from the armoire by the window and slid her sketchbook and pencil inside. She owned a fine drawing set given to her by the mother of a little girl Gabby used to look after from time to time in apartment number eight. Before the war, she wrote fairy stories and illustrated them, too. Elisabeth had loved those tales and begged for more.