“Yes. Thank you.” I hesitated, searching his eyes. Should I give him the envelope? He would forward it to Churchill; the message would be delivered. But Spatz’s insistence that I should deliver it only in person held me back. “Is Madame Bate-Lombardi safe?” I asked.
“Suffice it to say, she finds herself in a difficult position. Her Italian passport carries a German visa. It will be complicated to explain her presence here, given her allegations.”
“But she is here because of me!” Worry flared in me. I had not enjoyed Vera’s upbraiding but she must not become compromised by dealings she had no say in. “I invited her to meet me and—”
“Mademoiselle,” he interrupted. “You are under no obligation to offer me an explanation or heed my advice, though I feel it is incumbent upon me to tell you, as a friend of Lord Bendor’s, that your own presence and German visa carry significant risks, as well. I suggest you entrust Madame Bate-Lombardi’s situation to us and depart as soon as you can.”
He guided me to the embassy door. Outside, an escort—not the same one who had brought me here—waited with a car. At the threshold, I turned once more to Hoare. “May I at least leave a note for her? We had a disagreement earlier. I wish to tell her I meant no harm.”
“That would not be advisable.” He inclined his head. “Good day, mademoiselle. I hope we shall meet again in better times.”
During the short drive back to the hotel, no one spoke. Once we arrived at the hotel, the escort opened the door for me and said, “I am an attaché to the embassy. Here is my card. If you care to contact us before your departure, please do so, mademoiselle.” He did not await my response, returning to the car. I had no idea if he was another of Spatz’s unknown contacts.
In my suite, I yanked off my jacket and loosened my collar, feeling as if I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs. Removing the envelope, I weighed it in my hand for several moments, hesitating. Then I tore it open, spilling its contents onto the bed. A gasp escaped me. It held banknotes in German currency, a significant amount. There was nothing else. No documents. No message.
Sinking onto the edge of the bed, I stared at the notes, utterly bewildered. Was Spatz offering to bribe the prime minister of Britain? It seemed outrageous. Perhaps his message had yet to reach me and I should wait another day. While I did, I would write to Churchill myself.
I HEARD NOTHING MORE FROM VERA, and no one came with anything additional for me. After tarrying a full day in the hotel, I booked my train passage home and enclosed my six handwritten pages on the Ritz stationery, an appeal to Churchill on Vera’s behalf, taking full blame for bringing her to Madrid and imploring his assistance in her case. I sent the letter to the British embassy, then took my suitcase and boarded the train to Paris.
My venture as a messenger of compromise had come to nothing.
Little did I realize how much had already been set into motion.
“SHE WAS THERE, AT THE EMBASSY,” I told Spatz when I arrived at the Ritz, worn-out with fatigue and irate at the entire fiasco. It had not fully struck me until I disembarked in the Gare du Nord that I had just traveled hundreds of miles on a fool’s errand, accomplishing nothing of importance save to endanger a friend. The sight of Spatz in my rooms, with his own suitcases jumbled in the corner, indicating he had vacated his apartment, threw me into more turmoil. I did not want him here. I felt compromised enough as it was.
“She told them something about me. Serious accusations, Hoare said. What could she possibly accuse me of? I only told her that I’d invited her there to help me open a boutique, as you instructed.” I eyed him as I spoke, recalling the telegram and roses, and Vera’s fury that she’d been wrenched from Rome without any choice.
He did not speak for a long moment. He looked only a little less disheveled than I did. A fog of smoke from his cigarettes hovered above him. Finally, he lifted his weary gaze and said quietly, “She accused you of being a spy.”
“What!” I flung my handbag onto the bed, narrowly missing him where he sat. “How could she even know . . . ?” My outrage faltered as he went quiet again.
“She had the message,” I whispered, cold spearing through me.
He stood hastily, moving toward me until I thrust my hand out to detain him. “Coco, listen to me. There was a mix-up at the hotel. We told our contact to give it to you in person, only he feared someone followed him. After he saw you meet with Vera, he decided to entrust it to her. He instructed her to give it to you as soon as possible, but she did not.”
“She took it to Hoare instead,” I breathed. “She denounced me.”
“She denounced all of us.”
“But your message—it’s an offer of compromise.” My breath came fast, like the panting of a cornered animal. “You and your friends seek to end the war. That’s what you said.”
“Yes. But what we propose is too advanced, and Churchill is now ill. I only heard of his fever after I left you at the border and returned here. It was too late to alert you. I had hoped Hoare might not see you, or if he did, you’d realize the mission had been compromised. With Vera spewing accusations, our message was useless. We must now proceed, regardless.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Proceed to do what? I wrote Churchill a letter, defending Vera. If she denounced me, then he’ll think I am party to whatever it is you plot.”
“It doesn’t matter. You are here, while she—”
“Doesn’t matter?” I was almost screaming at him. “You used us both! If Vera brought Hoare a message of a German conspiracy, then they must suspect her of being a spy, too.”
“They already had. She and her husband have been under suspicion for months; bringing her to Madrid was only cover for you. We were ready to sacrifice her, if necessary.” He gave me what I imagined he thought was a reassuring smile. “There’s no reason to worry. André has been released; he’s in a clinic, here in Paris. He is safe now. You are safe.”
At that moment, my fury turned to ice in my veins. I abruptly understood how completely he had deceived me, how the seemingly disconnected pieces of his puzzle fit into place. The callousness of his betrayal crawled over my skin as I took a step toward him, reveling, if only briefly, in his startled recoil.
“You miserable bastard. There was no mix-up at the hotel. You had your contact give Vera the message on purpose. You found out Churchill canceled his visit, so you decided to use her instead because you had instructed me to deliver it in person, while she would take it straight to the embassy and spill everything. You made sure your message will reach him eventually; Hoare must forward it, and that way, you and your Nazi friends—dear God, they’ll think you tried to stop your infernal führer, while you had your man give me reichsmarks to make it look as though I’d been paid! I was your pawn, not Vera. I am the one you sacrificed.”
His expression faltered; this time, at least, he did not lie. “I had them give you the money to protect you; no one, not even Franco’s police, would dare arrest a German informant. It’s no excuse but once the message was delivered, I did everything I could to see you safe. I had my contacts watch you at all times to ensure you reached Paris without incident.”
If I had the strength, I would have lunged at him, torn him apart with my bare hands. Instead, I pointed at the door. “Leave. I never want to see you again.”
“I cannot. I have nowhere else to go.”
“Then I will.” I pushed past him, storming to the closet. “I’ll move to my apartment over my shop. Don’t come near me or I will report you as a traitor to the Gestapo.”
I MOVED TO RUE CAMBON, taking residence among the cluttered furnishings already there and those transferred months before from my former suite at the Ritz. I avoided further contact with the hotel or Spatz, sleeping on a chaise lounge in my living room, hiring a personal maid and a butler to attend to my needs at home while I tended to my business. I kept myself occupied in the evenings by helping Cocteau restage his play Antigone at the theater and visiting André at the
clinic. The doctors there confirmed his tuberculosis. I consulted with them about how to transfer him to a sanatorium in Switzerland. His wife wanted to come to Paris but I dissuaded her, citing the need for permits to travel across the occupied zone. I convinced her it would pose too great a risk to her and Tipsy. The Germans were running rampant, ordering the arrests of thousands.
On June 6, triumphant broadcasts from the BBC filtered into Paris with reports of a massive Allied landing at Normandy, with the combined forces of America, Canada, Britain, and the Free French storming onto the beaches. Shortly thereafter, Spatz came unexpectedly to see me.
I was closing up the shop, having sent my staff home early. The German tide of customers had receded noticeably in the past days. Cinders and ash drifted in a gauzy rain over the city; the Nazis were incinerating their files. In the distance, bomb blasts announced the Allied approach. I was bolting the front door when Spatz appeared on the threshold. For a moment, I debated whether to pull the blinds and leave him standing there. Instead, I motioned him inside. My wrath had tempered. I knew that if the reports were correct, he and his German friends were not long for Paris. Already, rumors raced through the city of our imminent liberation.
“I wanted to see you,” he said, removing his hat to wipe a handkerchief across his sweat-dappled brow. “Before I go.”
“So it’s true,” I remarked, not looking up as I retreated to the counter to tally my receipts.
“Yes. The end has begun.”
“Good. It is high time for this catastrophe to be over.”
“You could leave with me,” he said. “Once official word comes from Berlin, anyone who wants to leave will be assisted. We could go to Germany first, then perhaps to Switzerland or—”
“No.” I lifted my eyes to him. “I was never the invader here. I have nothing to hide.”
He shifted on his feet, as if debating whether to depart. “You will not say anything?”
“Say? About what?”
“Us. You. Everything.”
I gave him a pensive look. “Why, Baron von Dincklage, if I did not know better, I would think you are afraid.”
“Coco, as I told you before, this is no game.” His jaw clenched. “You are still in danger. The war is not over yet. You must not say anything. It is imperative, now more than ever.”
“Or what?” I stacked the receipts, snapped a band around them. “You’ll shoot me?”
“God, you are truly impossible!” He let out a sudden laugh. “I believe you would defy Adolf Hitler himself.”
“Him especially,” I retorted. I let a moment pass. Then I said, “I will not say anything, you have my word. Though you hardly deserve it after what you have done.”
He set his hat on his head. “Thank you, Coco,” and he left without another word.
I had no idea if I would see him again. For both our sakes, I hoped I would not.
AS THE GERMANS EVACUATED THE CITY, I went to see Misia. She was haggard but welcoming, her hope restored by the news that the Allied forces were within miles of us. As I handed her my last supplies of Sedol—I had mostly given it up, braving with gritted teeth my insomniac nights—she told me Arletty was terrified. Her lover had absconded in the night, along with the majority of the German high command that had held sway over us these last four years.
“She fears she’ll be arrested as a collaborator, as well she should,” snorted Misia, caustic now with a dose in her veins. “She’s going to have to flee herself before the Allies arrive.” Then, realizing what she had said, she muttered, “Of course, darling, I am prepared to defend you.”
“And Lifar and Cocteau,” I reminded her. “You’ll need to hide us all in your attic.” As she turned pale, I patted her hand. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself. Besides, what can they charge me with? I took a lover. At my age, one can hardly afford to check passports.”
She gave me an unconvincing smile. She did not know everything, but she knew enough, and I repressed my growing disquiet that in fact they could charge me with plenty, if they had a mind to. Those of us who had stayed behind and attempted to survive would be among the first targeted for retribution.
“You should stay with us,” Jojo rumbled from the bar, pouring tumblers of his precious cognac. “They won’t look for you here.”
“No.” I took the glass he proffered. “I have a feeling that soon there will be no place to hide. I might as well go to my suite in the Ritz. After all,” I added, downing the bracing liquor, “I did pay for it in advance. They still owe me two months.”
I returned to the Ritz to find my suite reeking of German cigarettes, with a ring in the tub from whoever had been soaking in it. I had my maid clean the room from nook to sill, then transferred some of my furnishings from rue Cambon to make it feel more like a place I’d call home. Yet it did not feel like home. Paris revolted when word came that the Allies were outside the city, delaying their assault, prompting blood-soaked pandemonium; yet everything felt empty to me, still—like a stage after the play has ended, curtains billowing down upon fake painted sets, the finale more deafening than the recent applause.
I braced for the worst. It first arrived in the form of my friend Serge Lifar. For weeks as the Allies neared, the Germans had been helping anyone with the means to escape, but leaving behind everyone who did not. His latest German admirer had offered Lifar passage to Zurich, prompting him to rush to me instead. He carried a bag crammed with his resin-soiled ballet slippers, frantic as the impact of what he’d danced his way through came crashing upon him.
“They arrested Arletty,” he said, huddled in my room. “They took her into custody. Marie-Louise has gone into hiding, as has Cocteau. They’re coming for all of us, Coco.”
“You can stay here,” I told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I wondered at my own resolve. From Jojo Sert’s apartment overlooking the place de la Concorde, we watched freedom enter under General de Gaulle. The soldiers marched in procession to the Arc de Triomphe, welcomed with ecstatic cries, with caps flung in the air even as down the side streets, agents of the Free French rounded up suspected collaborators. We got a taste of what was in store when a burst of sniper fire shattered the apartment windows, sending us diving to the floor or behind doors as glass sprayed in every direction. When we emerged warily, Jojo was still on the balcony, shaking his fist at the unseen attacker and bellowing, “Try it again. You did not hit me, hijos de puta!” Then he turned to us with his irrepressible grin and said, “I apologize for the inconvenience,” making me laugh aloud at his bravura.
By the end of August 1944, Paris was free. To celebrate our liberation, I put a placard in my shop window, offering my perfume free to GIs. The Americans, British, and Canadians queued up for hours, like the vanquished Germans before them, to partake of my generosity and secure proof that they had been in Paris on this historic occasion. My staff worked until they were faint on their feet; I myself doled out hundreds of bottles to men whose youth took me aback. They were incorrigible in their zeal, cavorting in the bistros and cabarets, seducing every woman in sight, and quite a few men. They seized whatever joy they could because Berlin still lay ahead, unrepetant even as the Nazis cowered in the detritus of their own horrors.
“They murdered thousands,” Misia wept. “Millions.”
I did not comment. What was there to say? What could we have done without ending up dead ourselves? How could we, a handful, have saved millions?
This was what I kept telling myself, over and over.
Even it gave me no comfort.
XV
Persistent knocking on my door woke me. As I struggled to rise, fumbling for my robe, Lifar, who slept downstairs, came to the staircase and hissed, “Coco! Coco, they’re here!” I staggered down the steps in my robe, pressed my hand to his lips. “Hush!” We froze, waiting. When the knocking resumed, rattling the door on its hinges, I pushed Lifar toward the far closet. “Hide in there! Quickly.”
He threw himself into t
he large closet built into the wall, shutting the door as I fastened my robe, shook out my tousled hair, and undid the latch.
Two men in shirtsleeves and sandals, with berets shading their stony faces, stood outside. They were without doubt members of the Free French, or the Fifis, as we had dubbed them in mockery of their brutal tactics. They had overseen the arrest of hundreds of women in Paris and throughout Vichy-ruled territories. Branded as collaborators, they were shorn of their hair, beaten, and paraded in the streets in their undergarments to sometimes lethal reprisal by mobs.
“Mademoiselle Chanel?” said the larger one, a brute with eyes like flints. Before I could respond, he added, “We are here to escort you.”
“Oh?” I set a hand on my pajama-clad hip. “It’s rather early in the day for visits.”
“You can come nicely. Or we can arrest you and drag you there, mademoiselle.”
I did not fail to notice his sarcastic enunciation of my preferred form of address. “Very well,” I said. “Only allow me a few minutes to make myself more presentable, yes?”
They shouldered their way inside, compelling me to open the closet door, only far enough to grab the first items of clothing I could without revealing Lifar, crouched behind my coats. Going into the bathroom, I dressed, ran a brush through my hair, applied lipstick, and emerged in time to catch one of them idling near the closet. I had left the door ajar. If he opened it, he would find Lifar.
“Shall we, gentlemen?” I asked brightly, striding to the suite door.
I almost sagged in relief when they followed me like sullen hounds. But wherever they were taking me, relief, I feared, was the last thing I would find.
THEY DID NOT TAKE ME to the notorious prison of Fresnes, where the Free French had locked up many of the so-called “horizontal collaborators.” Instead, they took me to a nearby police office that still bore the mangled outline of the swastika on its walls. There they left me in a windowless room, seated before a scarred table with an ashtray on it.
Mademoiselle Chanel Page 38
