“He is my sister’s son,” I finally said. “Why should I need more reason than that?”
“You don’t.” Spatz sat beside me on the bed. “But you must realize that by now Berlin is aware that you refuse to reopen your couture salon, though every other designer in Paris has. Your refusal sends a powerful message. Why should they help you, if you choose not to help them?”
I could not look at him. “What am I supposed to do?”
He did not speak. Drawing on my cigarette, I turned to face him. “Well? What is it? You work for them, you must know something. Tell me what it is. Do they want me to make dresses? Fine, I’ll make dresses. I’ll present a collection in red and black to match their flag.”
“Careful, Coco. Never promise what you are not prepared to concede. Momm will take advantage of it. He does think you are desperate, and no, it is not that. Enchanting as you are, he is not interested in humiliating you. He knows you are in my bed—”
“No,” I cut in. “You are in my bed. There is a difference.”
He nodded. “True.” He met my stare. “I’m not sure what they want, but they must want something. Perhaps they themselves do not know yet. If you keep pressing the issue, in time we will hear. They hold your nephew. They must have a price.”
I gritted my teeth, coming to my feet. “Then whatever their price is, I will pay it.” Without turning to him, I said, “I am very tired. I wish to be alone.”
He did not protest, gathering his hat and discarded tie, his attaché briefcase with its encoded locks, and moving to the door. He half-turned to glance at me over his shoulder.
“You should know that Marshal Pétain of the Vichy government has agreed to cooperate fully with Berlin. Momm told me that all Jews and other designated undesirables residing in the occupied areas and Vichy-governed France must report to their local prefecture of police. Upon denaturalization, they will most likely be deported. New laws are also in effect, prohibiting Jews from owning or engaging in any business. I only tell you this because it might be worth exploring whether these changes can benefit you.”
With those unsettling words, he left, closing the door behind him.
I stood immobile, my nerves clamoring, craving my drug—a quick jab of the needle in my vein, followed by a descent into dreamless oblivion, if only for a few hours.
But I already knew the escape I sought might never be mine again.
XII
I telephoned Misia. Lunch at the Ritz was out of the question. The staff enforced by day the German mandate that prohibited civilians from mingling with military personnel in the hotel, even if they turned lax at night. The restaurant was a Nazi domain.
We agreed instead to meet in the Tuileries.
Someone had told Misia about Spatz—I did not know whom, but suspected Marie-Louise—and though I had braced myself for her denunciation, all Misia offered was a mordant, “It appears taking a Nazi lover is all the rage these days. For once, rather than setting the trend, darling, you merely follow it.”
Her sour acquiescence took me by surprise, and I found myself anxious as we sat in a café near the hulking palace of the Louvre, now emptied of its precious artworks by desperate curators, who tried to hide them in secret storage before the Nazis plundered the museum. Misia and I had not been out in public together since the occupation had begun. Lighting a cigarette, I peered over the top of my sunglasses at the few pedestrians moving past the window toward the place de la Concorde, their gazes averted, swathed in scarves, hats, and gloves, shapeless figures with downcast faces.
Misia said dryly, “You needn’t be so apprehensive. Many things may have changed, but two women of a certain age meeting for coffee hardly warrants suspicion.”
“You call this coffee?” I winced, looking at the dregs floating in my cup.
“Well,” she said, “there is that. Nothing tastes like it used to, not even those smoked hams Jojo consumes by the pound.”
She looked drawn and, I noticed, thinner than she had in years. “Are you not eating?”
“Oh, I am.” She toyed with her cup. “Just not as much as he is. The man is an animal. Nothing intrudes on his appetites.”
Uncomfortable silence fell. As I extinguished my cigarette and immediately lit another, Misia said, “I was curious that you called. We seem to have made a habit of seeing each other only at our little gatherings at the house. Is something troubling you?”
I nodded, looking around again. Then I felt her hand under the table, gripping my knee through the folds of my mink coat. “Stop that. You’re acting like a spy.” She leaned back in her chair. “Now, tell me what’s wrong. Is your lover starting to bore you?”
Her tone, while light, carried a hidden barb. I started to say she had no business judging me, not when she and Jojo dined daily on contraband hams, but I curbed my tongue. As usual, she had aimed uncannily close to the mark.
“Boring is not the description I would use,” I said, and proceeded to tell her in a low voice about Momm’s enigmatic game and Spatz’s suggestion. When I was done, she lifted her hand to tug at her lower lip. “What do you think he meant?” she asked.
“At first, I wasn’t sure myself.” I tried to sound unperturbed. “But then I called René de Chambrun and he told me that, yes, under the new law I can indeed institute legal proceedings to regain control of Parfums Chanel, as the Wertheimers are . . .”
“Yes, we know what they are. So, is their cousin Bollack also . . . ?”
I nodded. “I believe so.”
Her brow arched. “Well, there you have it. You have wanted to regain control of your perfume for years. Here is your chance. You can have them ousted quite easily.” Her voice was emotionless, as though she stated an irrefutable fact. But I discerned the unvoiced judgment in her eyes, and it enraged me.
“Are you saying you think I would do this to them because they are—” I had to stop myself, lowering my voice to an indignant whisper. “They have been stealing from me for years. Pierre himself told me it was business—and he was right. This is about business, my business. Whether or not they are Jewish has nothing to do with it.”
She met my stare. “Doesn’t it? Have you ever stopped to consider that perhaps I am one?”
I went still. All of a sudden, a chill went through me, even as I scoffed, “Misia, please. You are Catholic. Everyone knows it.”
She did not take her gaze from me. “You’d be surprised. Not by me, but by how many of our friends are; you don’t know because you never bothered to ask.” Suddenly, she smiled. “But of course, I know you’d never willingly use that against anyone—though I must admit, you’ve given a rather good imitation of it in the past. Your time with Bendor, and then Iribe; it does leave an impression. The Germans must know you funded Iribe’s Le Témoin. Perhaps you should show them a copy when you sue for the return of your perfume company.”
I glared at her. “How can you say such things to me, especially now?”
She chuckled. “If not now, when? You and so many others behave as if the war were an inconvenience. You pretend none of this exists. Ignorance, it seems, is your best revenge.”
“That is dreadful. You make me sound like Marie-Louise!”
“Yes. It is dreadful. Even our little Jean has come back with his tail between his legs, meek as a mouse yet full of ideas for a new play to entertain them, with Lifar dancing the lead.” Misia shifted her gaze to the window. “It’s to be expected, I suppose. No one wants to end up in a camp.”
“Misia.” I impatiently tapped ash from my cigarette onto the floor. “You are not helping. André is already in a camp. If I take control of my perfume company by using the new laws, do you think it will establish my willingness to cooperate?”
She returned her regard to me. “It certainly couldn’t hurt,” she said, and drank from her cup. For the first time in as long as I had known her, I could not interpret her expression.
“But you think it’s wrong? You think it will make me look as if I’m takin
g advantage?”
“Since when did what I think matter? You will do what you want. You always have your reasons and they always seem good enough for you at the time.”
“But it does matter.” My voice thickened. God help me, I was close to tears.
“Why?” Her question hit me like a punch in the stomach. She leaned to me, her frizzy hair sprouting in undyed batches from beneath her knit cap, her jowls red veined and loose, her eyes slightly glazed, indicating she had imbibed some of our blue drops before she left the house. “Are you asking me as a friend or because you want me to tell you it’s acceptable to denounce Jews?”
Her words seemed to ring out in the sudden hush between us. I did not dare glance anywhere, as though the Gestapo might fall upon us at any moment. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move as she went on. “Do you think my permission matters? Do you think what I say or do makes any difference? I could not spare Lily de Rothschild. She and Baroness Kitty were clients of yours; you know they are married to the wealthiest men in France yet because the Rothschilds are Jewish, they had to flee. Lily stayed after her husband went to England; we heard the Gestapo arrested her after she tried to cross into Paris on a forged permit. I went to testify on her behalf at the police, told them she was coming to see me. They deported her to a work camp. She is not Jewish, but it did not protect her. You are as blind as ever, Coco. Nothing we do can protect any of us, because they know no one is willing to stop them.”
“I . . . I did not know about Lily,” I said, appalled. “I hadn’t heard.”
She sniffed. “You won’t hear much when you’re at the Ritz with one of them in your bed.” She interrupted my protest. “I don’t care if he’s playing three ends to the middle, he’s still officially one of them. I warned you, Coco. I told you to be careful, that there will be repercussions. You, Lifar, and Arletty, you never listen, yet now you dare ask for advice? What do you expect me to say?”
I was trembling so much that I dropped my cigarette. Grinding it under my heel, I had started to rise when she reached out, grasping my gloved hand. “Do it,” she said, “and you will regret it. Maybe not immediately, maybe not for some time, but one day, you will. Look around you—this cannot last. Even if we do nothing to stop them, the British will. America must join the fight eventually, as they did before. This war will end, leaving us to pick up the pieces. You’d best be sure you are not one of those pieces.”
“He is my nephew.” I wrenched my hand from her. “I will not leave him to rot in some godforsaken camp. He has a wife, a child. He has done nothing wrong!”
She guffawed in disbelief. “Coco the invincible rides to the rescue. You failed to save Boy, so now you must save André. Is that your plan?”
“Damn you, Misia,” I whispered. “Damn you to hell.” I snatched my purse from the table, rattling the cups in their saucers.
“I’m already in hell,” I heard her say softly. “We all are,” but I did not pause as I strode from the café into the icy spring sunlight.
If I had been undecided before, I thought as I marched through the Tuileries Garden, now I was determined. I had told Spatz I was ready to pay whatever price it took.
I intended to keep my word.
I CALLED RENÉ, telling him to commence proceedings against the Wertheimers. I was pure French, without a drop of undesirable blood in my veins; they had stolen my company from me and profiteered from my perfume for too long. It was high time I took them to task.
Spatz applauded my decision over dinner at the Ritz. “It’s exactly what was required. Word will filter to Berlin and they will see you as an ally. You’ve just unlocked André’s prison.”
“We’ll see,” I replied. All of a sudden, I found his satisfaction distasteful in the extreme. “I assume by word filtering to Berlin, you mean Momm. You’ll tell him and he’ll tell them.”
He raised his glass of wine. “If you like. But I think they’ll find out without the need for Momm. Nothing that transpires in Paris escapes their notice.”
“Is that so?” I felt the urge to slap his face. “Regardless, I want Momm to know. I have done my part. Now, he must do his. All that paperwork he mentioned, he must file it. At once.”
“Consider it done,” said Spatz. If he felt my disdain, he did not remark on it. We finished our meal and I returned to my room, while he made his habitual rounds in the reception area to talk up his Nazi contacts and pretend he wasn’t planning to slip around the corner to sleep with me. I was sorely tempted to bolt my door against him, permanently. Though I believed the Wertheimers had played me for a fool, I loathed myself. It was not a fair fight, but when had they ever abided by fairness? They had made a fortune from No. 5 while I had to content myself with a pittance; even their cousin Bollack had started charging me double for half the amount, citing all sorts of ridiculous obstacles to inflate his costs. Still, I knew that in seeking advantage through the new anti-Semitic laws, I had crossed an invisible line.
I had become the enemy.
When Spatz knocked at the door, I sat on my bed and waited. He tried the latch, knocked again. Then he stood outside without a sound. I could glean his shadow blocking the sliver of light under the door. He just stood there, patient.
Finally, he went away. He would return, of that, I had no doubt—but not tonight.
MY SUIT AGAINST THE WERTHEIMERS came to nothing. Once Bollack caught wind of my ploy, he resigned and fled to New York, transferring Bourjois to a French aviation corporation run by an executive with blood as pure as mine. The impetuous lawsuit I had set in motion, costing me Misia’s respect, languished in the overcrowded courts, my lawyer grappling with the delays until he told me it was hopeless. No judge wanted to contend with a dispute over perfume when they were busy protecting themselves.
I stayed aloof from the Sert household as the summer of 1941 faded and the war ground on. Hitler had most of Europe clutched in his fist and declared his intent to invade the Soviet Union. In the meantime, he directed his Luftwaffe against Britain, launching devastating air raids that rained hellfire over London. Churchill had been appointed prime minister. I sent him a congratulatory letter, but received no reply. I did not know if my letter ever reached him. Germans monitored the postal service, the telephone and wireless, anything that might leak information or be deployed for propaganda. I knew I had taken a risk by writing to him, that my letter would expose me as a sympathizer. I did not care. I almost welcomed the chance to blare my defiance in their faces and ease my own guilt.
One evening as I made my way back from the Champs-Élysées, I passed a marquee over the theater where Stravinsky and Diaghilev had staged their Rite of Spring. An enormous banner was plastered to its façade, announcing an exhibition on the Jew in France. The banner’s illustration was grotesque: a hook-nosed caricature hoarding coins as starving waifs at his feet implored him. It made my skin crawl. People lined up to attend the exhibition, laughing and chatting among themselves, uniformed Germans in their midst. I did not recognize Paris anymore; I did not know my own city. It had become a circus—a ludicrous farce, populated by ghouls and jackboots, by opportunists who sold their souls for day-old bread.
Most of all, I did not recognize myself. I had turned again to Spatz. He was my sole link to Berlin and André; the wheels were still turning, he assured me, just not as fast as I would like. Momm had filed the paperwork; we must now wait. I raged at him then, at Momm and every other German. I cursed and threw things at the wall, until Spatz had to hold me by my wrists and clasp me to him, my wails crumbling into despair. “I’ll never see him again,” I cried. “I’ll never see him and his wife will never forgive me. I promised to see him safe!”
That night, Spatz found out about my sedative. I suspected he knew long before; I had discreet markings on the inside of my arm that he must have noticed. But I told him anyway and he prepared my injection for me, delivering the dose as I reclined on the bed and wept.
He cradled me in his arms as blue swirled through my blood, blacking
out the world. When I woke in the morning, he was gone. Staggering to the bathroom, realizing in one terrifying instant that I had revealed a secret he could use against me, I looked up from the toilet and saw he had written on the mirror with my lipstick:
Pack your bags. We are going to La Pausa.
I HAD NO IDEA how he managed it. He secured the necessary papers, the coveted Ausweis; he booked first-class compartments on the express train. At the station in Cannes, he had a fueled car waiting, which he drove himself to my villa.
My staff had locked up everything and departed; only a few miles away, parts of the Riviera lay in rubble from the bombings. As I went through the house, unbolting shutters and scraping dry leaves from crevices, the scent of my garden reached me, rich with jasmine and heliotrope, with the roses planted with such hope when I still believed Bendor would propose.
I expected ghosts. The house, much as I loved it, teemed with them. All the friends who had dined at my rustic table now scattered to the four winds; all the dead, like Iribe, whose collapse on my tennis court had turned my refuge into a pantheon of grief.
But I found emptiness. Only my photographs framed on the mantels offered reflections of happier times, when maintaining supremacy in fashion was the only battle I knew.
In the room where I had mourned Iribe, I made love with Spatz with the windows open, to let in the salty air from the sea and the whispers of the pines. By day, we walked in the hills or drove into the village to buy bread, fresh butter, and jam. Though the south remained unoccupied, fear stalked here, as well; the Vichy roundups had begun and many refugees were fleeing to the coast, desperate to escape.
My architect, Robert Streitz, came to see me, having heard I was back. If he had not told me who he was, I would not have recognized him. He was gaunt, unkempt, his eyes sunken and his skin like parchment. He looked as if he had not eaten a full meal in weeks, and I plied him with food, chattering about inconsequential things, avoiding any mention of the war until he asked to take a walk with me by the empty pool, to show me, he said, incipient cracks in the tiles.
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