Lilac Girls

by Martha Hall Kelly

  “How can that be? You have to call—”

  “Call whom, Caroline? The embassy in Paris is no more. And this office is officially closed. Just heard. I’ve been ordered to destroy anything of consequence.”

  “What do we do?” I asked.

  Roger stood and looked out the window at the skaters.

  “I’ve been told to go through the Swiss Consulate.”

  “Please. They’re in Germany’s pocket.”

  “Our flag has to come down. I’ll keep the lights on as long as I can, but it won’t be easy. No more funds will be transferred here until further notice.”

  “Will we at least have contact with France?”

  “Hopefully we’ll get packets from Free France in London, but they’ll have a hell of a time finding boats willing to bring them. The Swiss may come through and the Brits have been reliable.”

  “I appreciate your help locating Paul, Roger.”

  “Well, there’s one more thing, Caroline. About Paul.”

  I braced myself. What could be worse?

  “I found his wife’s name on the deceased list. Auschwitz-Birkenau. Rena Rodierre.”

  “Rena? Oh no, Roger. It can’t be.”

  “Typhus. Or so it said. I’m sorry, Caroline.”

  I sat stunned. How was it possible? Poor Rena. Paul surely didn’t know. Paul. How would he react to Rena’s death? It was all too horrible.

  I picked up a magnifying glass and searched the photo. If Paul was alive, I would find him. I would be there for him if I had to swim the Atlantic.

  —

  IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, I made more trips to Snyder and Goodrich. The little money Mr. Snyder provided helped keep my French Families Fund afloat, and Roger didn’t seem to notice. But the specter of shutting down the consulate for lack of funds loomed large. With no official contact in Paris and the rest of France in chaos, the shutdown made sense. But closing down just when people needed us most seemed so unfair. Plus, it was my only link left to Paul.

  “You’re going to tear a retina with all this research,” said Roger one night as he headed home, attaché case in one hand, hat in the other.

  “I’m fine,” I said, stuffing the frustration down deep. “I guess it’s just hard on the nerves, with our own navy planes bombing German submarines in Long Island Sound. And now this news about Paul.”

  “I know, C. Are you going to the Vanderbilt party? You need to get out of here and have some fun.”

  Roger was right. I was no use to anyone frazzled and burned out.

  I ran home and changed into my best black dress, slipped Father’s retailored tux jacket on over it, and put my hair up. Did it make me look taller? I took it down. I looked pretty good for forty years old.

  By the time I made it to the Vanderbilts’ brownstone home at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-first Street, just around the corner from our apartment, I was looking forward to getting out, even if it meant seeing Betty, who’d probably deny knowing me. I shuddered at the thought of seeing Jinx Whitney, for I’d inherited an intense dislike of the fatuous Whitneys from Father. I would simply avoid Jinx and reconnect with old friends. Didn’t I owe it to myself to at least stay on speaking terms with society? I couldn’t work all the time.

  The Vanderbilts’ home was a lovely old place, one of the last remnants of the Gilded Age, and it was a shame to tear it down, but the area had become somewhat unfashionable, and the Queen of Fifth Avenue needed to downsize after her husband’s death. She had cut her staff from thirty to eighteen and moved to an even lovelier mansion. Mrs. Vanderbilt used the occasion to have one last party at the house, a fundraiser. It was a curious mix of bridge tournament, dancing, and feasting, all for twenty-five dollars admission, the proceeds going to charity.

  It was the public’s first and last time invited into those hallowed halls, and many stood and stared. A young couple, still in their hats and cloth coats, walked about the first floor, mouths agape. They ogled the gold-inlaid woodwork and caressed the onyx pillars. A group stood before a Pompeian fresco in the entryway. That foyer alone could have housed ten needy families.

  “Merle Oberon is here,” said a little man, fedora in hand.

  The bridge players drifted into the library and took seats at the thirty card tables under the rock crystal chandeliers. The teams were arranged according to group: Junior League. Chapin School. Collegiate. Princeton. The Chapin group was one of the largest.

  In front of a fireplace so large I could almost stand upright in it, two waiters in tuxedoes chalked in names on an enormous bridge scoreboard that looked like the pari-mutuel machine at Hialeah. The points of a compass designated the players. North and South. East and West.

  As the jeunesse dorée took their seats at the bridge tables, I wandered the dining room, lured by the heavenly scent of rib roast and popovers. Trays of cold meats and seafood on the half shell, a stiff hothouse iris centerpiece, and a silver punch bowl of syllabub big enough to bathe in sat on a landing strip of white damask. The orchestra played Cole Porter and Irving Berlin while a waiter stood guard. Counting the silver?

  Since the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor, it seemed every young man in New York had enlisted. Some college boys had come home at Christmas break and gone right into the service. Overnight, the armories filled with soldiers gearing up. Mrs. Vanderbilt allowed servicemen free admission to the party, and it was quite a sight to behold all of them in their uniforms. Naval aviators from Floyd Bennett Field in their navy-blue jackets with gold trim discussed war strategy with army reservists.

  Most of our set trained at the lovely Park Avenue Armory, drilling in that soaring hall reminiscent of Europe’s great train stations. One could always tell those boys from the others, for they often had their uniforms custom made by the best bespoke tailors in New York. As long as they followed uniform protocol, servicemen could have their uniforms made of the best wools and silks, with the finest brass and tortoiseshell buttons.

  “Not playing, Caroline?” asked Mrs. Stewart Corbit Custer, Mother’s bosom friend.

  My lips brushed the smooth powder on Mrs. Custer’s cheek. It was especially good to see her that night, done up in aquamarine chiffon. She and Mother loved to tell the story of how angry Father got when they took me to the poultry show at Madison Square Garden a few weeks after I was born. They had brought me home to Southampton in a Moses basket atop stacks of feed bags in the backseat of the car.

  “Trying to give the other girls a chance?” said Mrs. Custer. “Good of you, dear. You would surely skunk them all.”

  From the looks of the scoreboard, the bridge teams were formidable. Mrs. M. Field and Mrs. Cushing. Mrs. Noel and Mrs. Dykman. Mrs. Tansill and Mrs. Auchincloss.

  “I’m sorry Mother couldn’t make it,” I said.

  “Me too, dear. Would you mind doing the tally for me? Your mother usually does it, and you are the most honest person in this room, I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m happy to, Mrs. Custer.”

  “We’re doing a two-hour time limit. Just gather the tallies at the gong and bring me the winner. You’ve seen it done a million times, of course.”

  I dropped a pack of tally sheets and a box of little green pencils at each table and found Betty in the library, standing with Prudence Bowles, a sweet, doe-eyed Vanderbilt cousin; Jinx Whitney, a not-so-sweet Rockefeller cousin; and Kipper Lee, a dim girl with a gummy smile, one of Jinx’s furies.

  The four stood in a huddle—something between rugby scrum and papal synod—as Jinx told a story. Was Betty still cross with me? Surely she’d soften once I made an effort.

  “…and then I told her,” Jinx was saying, “the man is the member. We can’t make an exception. I don’t care if her father was the president of the United States. We’re simply full up now.”

  Seeing her companions’ eyes flash to me, Jinx turned.

  Jinx, who’d somehow managed to marry money, resembled a Frigidaire in both shape and hue.

  “Oh, Caroline,” Jinx said. “My
goodness, you’re in costume?”

  “Nice to see you, Jinx.”

  “Aren’t you lovely in black?” Jinx said.

  “Yes, you look pretty,” Pru said. “It takes a certain skin tone to wear dark colors.”

  “True,” Jinx said. “My grandmother wore that very shade for her viewing. Everyone said she looked so natural.”

  Pru chimed in. “But Caroline, of course you look lovely. You were chosen as Poppy Girl after all.”

  Jinx turned away. She still hadn’t recovered from me beating her in the contest to be Poppy Girl in 1921. It had been quite an honor to be singled out from all of that year’s debutantes. At nineteen, I became the face of the new poppy effort, sponsored by the American and French Children’s League, my photo in every magazine and newspaper to promote the sale of silk boutonnière poppies. It was all to aid wounded American Great War servicemen and sick French children back in France.

  “Of course, half of that poppy money went back to France,” Jinx said.

  “To help tubercular children. It was a reciprocal effort, Jinx. Half of the proceeds from the poppies sold in France were used to mark the graves of American soldiers.”

  “Who’s ready for bridge?” Jinx said in Betty’s direction.

  “Does anyone need a partner, Betty?” I asked.

  “I’m playing with Pru,” Betty said, suddenly interested in the baguettes of her engagement ring.

  “I hate to say it, but we’re full up for bridge,” Jinx said with a pout. “The teams have been set for weeks, darling. I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “Caroline’s been busy at work,” Betty said.

  Jinx stepped closer to Betty. “Who are you and Pru playing for, Betty?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” Betty said. “Not that we’ll win.”

  Betty was right. She and Pru were miserable at bridge.

  “Kipper and I are playing for the American Soldier Services,” Jinx said.

  “Delightful,” I said.

  Jinx turned to me. “You have a problem with that, Caroline?”

  “Well, it’s just that most of that money goes to parties.”

  “Someone has to support our troops,” Jinx said.

  “I guess. If you call civilians drinking gin while the troops are off fighting support, then yes.”

  “Betty, do let’s partner next time,” Jinx said. She fiddled with the accordion-pleated scarf at her neck, which brought to mind the undergills of a toadstool. For fun, I considered pulling the scarf tight around her neck. This crowd would be happy to see someone do that, something they’d all imagined themselves.

  “So where’s your mother, Caroline?” Jinx asked. “Does she even come to town anymore or just stay up in the country in that big house alone?”

  “The cook is there,” I said.

  Jinx sipped her club soda through a tiny straw. “Alone with the Russian chef?”

  “I really need to be going,” I said.

  “And that handsome Negro gardener? Well, times have changed.”

  “Mr. Gardener has been a tremendous friend to our family through difficult times, Jinx. Certainly a better friend to us than many others in so-called polite society.”

  “Caroline, I sent a check for your French children,” Pru said, one hand on my arm. Trying to defuse the tension? She had a lovely feline way about her and gave one the impression that, given the right circumstances, she would curl up in your lap and purr.

  “Thank you, Pru. We can use the donation.”

  “You know, they don’t allow soliciting here tonight,” Jinx said. “It’s printed in the program. I was thrilled to see that. There’s a limit to charity.”

  “At your house, certainly,” I said.

  “We can’t all nail ourselves to the cross, Caroline, like your mother the wet-wool type. Not happy unless she’s wearing it, attending the needy.”

  Betty stirred, shifting from one foot to the other. Breaking in new alligator pumps or uncomfortable that my mother was being maligned?

  “How is Big Liz?” I asked. Jinx was named Elizabeth after her mother, who became known as Big Liz to differentiate them, a name that suited her. “Home from the ranch? You know they sell Slenderella courses by mail now.”

  “She’s loving Southampton,” Jinx said. “The Murrays had her over to Gin Lane. They’ve gutted the place, your Mitchell Cottage. They brightened it up considerably. It was so dreary, they said, with the roof practically coming down and all.”

  “I’m happy for them,” I said.

  “So sad you had to give that place up,” Jinx said. “All because of your poor young lungs.”

  “Don’t you need to be getting to the tables, Betty?” I asked.

  “Poor little you, not being able to take the Southampton air. I adore that salt air rolling in off the Atlantic. Comes all the way from Africa.”

  “Jinx, stop,” Betty said.

  “So your parents ended up in Connecticut because of you, Caroline?” Jinx said.

  What would happen if I slapped Jinx right there in front of everyone? It would feel good—my hand grazing her fat cheek.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” Jinx said.

  “Honestly, Jinx,” Betty said. “That’s enough.”

  “Ironic because, after all that, your father’s lungs were the ones to go. Tragic, really.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Kipper said.

  “It was years ago, Kipper, but thank you,” I said.

  “I can’t imagine the guilt, him lying there in your apartment, nothing to be done,” Jinx said with the pained look of concern she did so well. “I just hate the word ‘pneumonia,’ and I imagine you do too, dear. Such a terrible word.”

  At least Betty had the good manners to look away.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go…”

  I spent most of the match eating more shrimp than was socially acceptable and then pretending to listen to a corporate lawyer discuss his wife’s difficulties with her maid dressing better than she did while considering ways to bring Jinx Whitney down.

  At last, the gong sounded. I walked to the library and collected the tallies, the tension in the room palpable, for the only people more competitive than those bridge groups were Wall Street traders and Brazilian jiu-jitsu competitors. At least the Brazilians had banned eye gouging.

  Guests mingled close to the scoreboard, bordering on jostling but trying to appear casual while awaiting results. Jinx stood with Kipper, Betty, and Pru, and after her strenuous rounds of bridge, looked more rumpled than a Bergdorf catalog at a Smith College reunion.

  “How did you do, Betty?” I asked, attempting to mend our fence.

  “Well, Pru got lucky on a slam.”

  “I think we edged you out, Pru,” Jinx said.

  I flapped my stack of tallies. “We’ll see,” I said.

  “You’re tallying?” Jinx said. “Have someone double-check your math. I’d hate for you to make a mistake.”

  “Don’t worry, Jinx,” I said. “How could anyone but you and Kipper come out on top?”

  I ferried the fat stack back to the powder room, a gilded affair with golden swan-headed lavatory taps Marie Antoinette would have liked, and tallied the scores. Jinx and Kipper were the team to beat, having trounced Betty and Pru.

  The gong to gather sounded, and I hurried to the library. Mrs. Custer stood with Mrs. Vanderbilt near the chalk tally board. Mrs. Vanderbilt, ablaze with old mine diamonds, was lovely in steel-gray taffeta and matching turban. Was it the champagne or the exertion of the noblesse oblige that brought high color to her cheek?

  “Come, dear, who are our winners?” Mrs. Custer asked. “I’m afraid there’s no time to put it on the board.”

  I handed her the stack, the winning tally on top. Mrs. Custer showed it to Mrs. Vanderbilt, and they shared a smile. As I stepped to the back of the room, Mrs. Custer sounded the gong, and guests gathered from all parts of the house. Men in evening clothes gave way to those in u
niform, and all craned their necks for a better view.

  “It is with great pleasure that I announce the winners of tonight’s bridge tournament,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said. “My late husband would see this as a fitting send-off for our old place, raising twenty thousand dollars for the Red Cross.”

  The crowd clapped and shouted, and Jinx and Kipper edged their way to the front of the room.

  “And another five thousand to a very lucky charity. I know you’re all eager to know the names of the talented winners who can call themselves the best of the best. So without further ado, say hello to your winning team…”

  The orchestra played an anticipatory riff.

  Jinx took Kipper’s hand and started toward the board.

  “Mrs. Elizabeth Stockwell Merchant and Mrs. Prudence Vanderbilt Aldrich Bowles.”

  Mrs. Custer tossed the remaining tallies in the fire as Betty and Pru pushed their way through the crowd. Mrs. Vanderbilt handed the check to Betty, who seemed nonplussed by the whole thing.

  “And what charity are you girls playing for tonight?” Mrs. Vanderbilt asked.

  “One close to my heart,” Betty said, hand to her chest. “Caroline Ferriday’s French Families Fund.”

  The crowd clapped and the applause, polite at first, swelled as Mrs. Vanderbilt wiped a tear. Betty’s smile made me glad our splinter had worked its way out.

  The crowd surrounded Betty and Pru, and I made my way to the door, eager to breathe the night air. On the way, I passed Jinx and Kipper.

  “Sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Math never was your strong suit,” Jinx said. “Don’t think I won’t get the word out about this.”

  “Thank you, Jinx,” I said. “I hope you do.”

  I made it outside and tried to shake off the nipping of my conscience. So I’d been dishonest. It was in the service of a friend. I tried to focus on all the good Roger and I would do with five thousand dollars.

  I walked home with a lighter step, for that night had knocked something loose in me, something long overdue to be knocked. At long last, I saw that group for what they were, with a few exceptions—a queer assortment of layabouts and late risers, most overdrawn at the bank or at least cutting into principal, only interested in who’s going in the drawer at the Maidstone Club or their wedge on the fifteenth hole at Pebble Beach or dressing down the staff about a bit of shell in the lobster while shoveling canapés in. Jinx had done me a favor, freed me of any lingering allegiances to New York Society, snipped my fear of being on their bad side.