Mademoiselle Chanel

by C. W. Gortner

  I waited for over an hour before my interrogator arrived. He did not introduce himself, instead setting an alarmingly thick dossier on the table before he took his place across from me.

  “Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel, also known as Coco or mademoiselle,” he said, flipping open the dossier. I did not crane my neck to see what he was reading; I felt sick as he adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. “Is that whom I am addressing?”

  “I assume you would know,” I replied, lighting a cigarette. “You did arrest me.”

  “Oh, no.” He glanced sharply at me. “You have not been arrested. This is only an informal questioning for now, if you please.”

  “I see,” I said. Informal meant off the record—which, of course, could change at any moment if I proved uncooperative.

  He returned to the dossier, turning its pages without any discernible expression, while I smoked impatiently and feigned a carelessness I did not feel. At length he said, “Were you ever acquainted with a Baron Hans Gunther von Dincklage, commonly known as Spatz?”

  It would not do to commence with a bold-faced lie.

  “Yes. I knew him.”

  “And did he assist in the release of one André Palasse from a German internment camp?”

  I nodded. “He offered his help, so I accepted. André is my nephew.”

  “Indeed.” He looked back at the dossier, a frown creasing his brow. “Did you ever go to Berlin yourself, to meet with Colonel Schellenberg?”

  He caught me by surprise, though I did my best to conceal it. Again, I pondered the advantage of truth over lies; it was evident that as secret as I had thought my trip was, someone from the Free French had indeed been watching me.

  “Yes. I went to see my nephew after he was released. He was ill.”

  “Yet you did not bring him back with you. You stayed only one day and returned without him, after which you embarked on a trip to Madrid. Can you please explain what you and Colonel Schellenberg discussed during your time in Berlin?”

  “My nephew, of course,” I replied, speaking slowly to curb the anxiety twisting my stomach. “He is ill. He contracted tuberculosis. I . . . I wished to see him.”

  “That is all? You met with the director of Hitler’s Foreign Intelligence, the highest-ranking officer in the Abwehr, to discuss your nephew’s health?”

  “Yes.” I met his stare. “He was very ill, as I have said.”

  The man flattened his hands on the dossier. “Mademoiselle, why did you go to Spain?”

  “To see if I might open a boutique there.”

  “And did you?”

  “No. The circumstances were not conducive.”

  “I can imagine they would not be.” He stuck out his chin. “Were you ever part of a German intelligence operation?”

  I froze on my chair. “No.”

  “Really?” He did not glance at the dossier again. “Because we have information that implies you were in fact a participant in a secret operation whose objective was to safeguard German interests and carry out the elimination of Hitler. Are you still unaware of it?”

  My mind raced, recalling the mysterious events surrounding my mission to Madrid and Spatz’s deliberate omission of what he and his friends plotted. Had they been seeking Churchill’s permission to kill the führer? Had I unwittingly been thrust into a conspiracy to save Germany?

  “Of course, I am unaware,” I managed to say, pulling my voice out of my throat. “Surely I would know if I had taken part in such an endeavor.”

  “Mademoiselle.” He directed the weight of his icy regard at me. “Cooperation with the enemy, regardless of the goal, is now a criminal offense. We have several of your friends in custody; we are searching for several more. I suggest you think carefully before you answer.”

  “Are you asking me to betray my friends?” I retorted.

  “I am suggesting you tell us the truth. We know you have not been forthcoming.”

  I crossed my legs, fumbling for the cigarette case in my purse. “Then you should arrest me,” I said, unable to contain a hint of defiance. “For I have told you everything I know.”

  He pushed back his chair. “A moment please.” Taking up the dossier, he left.

  The moment I was alone, I let out a choked sound, half gasp, half sob. I was trapped. I could not escape this time. They would arrest me as they had Arletty, toss me into a jail, and see me hauled before their makeshift court, where they would condemn me as a collaborator, shave my head, and take me through the streets to be pelted with filth—

  He came back into the room. “Mademoiselle,” he said tersely. “You are free to go.”

  For a terrifying moment, I could not rise. My legs felt boneless, so that I had to hold on to the table to bring myself upright. Grabbing my handbag, I started to the door, passing so close to him that I smelled his distinct tang of cheap cologne.

  He said quietly, “You are fortunate to have friends in high places as well as low, mademoiselle. But if you will accept a word of advice, you should consider whether or not staying in Paris would be wise for you.”

  I glared at him. “I am French. This is my city, my country.”

  He slid his gaze to me. “Not anymore.”

  I HAILED A TAXI to rue Cambon. My fear was peeling off me, exposing the fury that had been building since those thugs had banged on my door. Ignoring my staff’s bleated inquiries, I barged upstairs to my apartment and with shaking fingers dialed my lawyer’s number. René answered after several rings, by which time I was nearly apoplectic, exploding over the line about the outrageous insult done to me, dragged in for questioning by a menial of de Gaulle’s new government, accused of abetting German interests and then advised that I, France’s foremost couturière, should leave my own—

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, breaking into my tirade. “I think you should heed his advice.”

  I could hear my own labored breathing in my ears. “You what?”

  “It’s only going to get worse,” he said mournfully. “I myself have already been questioned at length about my connections to the Vichy regime; they tore my office apart and took away boxes of personal and professional documents, including,” he added, to my mounting horror, “the files pertaining to our case against the Wertheimers. You should consider it a warning. They do not have anything against you now, but they’ll keep looking until they do.”

  “That worm said I had friends in high places,” I exclaimed, even as I felt a strange sense of disorientation, like falling endlessly into a void. “Someone is protecting me.”

  “Yes, but for how long? They call it l’épuration sauvage, the savage purge. They intend to prosecute all those either identified or suspected of collaboration. It is de Gaulle’s sacrifice to the cause. He must assure the Allied forces that we intend to stand with them once Berlin falls. Our only choice is to leave.”

  “But I—I did not collaborate! I only did what I had to, to protect my nephew and my business, to save my life and those of my friends.”

  “Mademoiselle, you need not justify yourself to me. You must justify yourself to them, and I fear they will not care. Someone intervened for you today. But whoever it was may not be able to protect you tomorrow. Were it possible, I would leave, too, but I am the son-in-law of the Vichy minister who approved Jewish deportations. They revoked my passport. I cannot go. But you can—and should.”

  After I hung up, I pressed a hand to my mouth to stifle my scream. Was I expected to flee from the country of my birth? Did I have no other recourse but to seek voluntary exile?

  I turned in a haze into my apartment, seeing it all, the beautiful lacquered screens, the paintings and books, like a fragile mirage already fading from view. Stumbling to my desk, I wrenched open the drawer, searching for what I had left there. When I unfolded the handkerchief and held the watch to my ear, it was no longer ticking. The miniature gold hands were frozen at half past six. I frantically turned the winding mechanism on the side, my fingertips slipping over its tiny grooves. />
  Nothing moved. There was no sound. Boy’s watch had ceased to mark time.

  I knew then, with unavoidable certainty, my own time had also run out.

  ONCE I MADE THE DECISION, it was simple. Not easy, never that. But simple nevertheless. I stored the belongings I would not take in my apartment at rue Cambon and oversaw the closure of my shop, paying my staff four months of salary in compensation, even as Madame Aubert and Hélène implored me to keep the doors open. They promised to oversee everything and telephone me regularly in Lausanne, Switzerland, where I had decided to retire. I’d already sent André there by private car; Katharina was renting a house near the sanatorium where he would receive treatment.

  I refused to heed my staff’s pleas. It was over. France was no place for me anymore.

  Then, I did the one thing I had most dreaded: I went to Misia.

  She greeted me at the door with a grief-stricken cry that made it obvious she knew why I had come. She and Sert were planning to remarry, she told me, pulling me onto the lumpy sofa where we had sat so many times before, to laugh and gossip, to skewer friends and foes, to argue and reconcile, more like sisters than any we had known.

  “You must stay,” she said, enfolding my hands in hers, rubbing them as if she were seeking to banish my permanent chill. “Who will design my dress?”

  “Someone will,” I replied.

  “And Lifar? What of him? He is safe for now, but they dismissed him as director of the Opéra Ballet and called him to answer before the Fifi Purge Committee. And Cocteau, how will he manage without you? They need you here. All of us, we need you so very much.”

  I had to bite the inside of my lip then, to stop myself from breaking apart. If I started crying, that would be the end of it. We would both dissolve. I pulled my hands from her, reached up to touch her wrinkled cheek. “Serge will survive. He is a treasure, one of the finest choreographers the world has ever known. They may make him atone, but in time he will dance again. It is all he knows. Cocteau, as well; he must write. What else can he do? And you, beloved friend, you will live. You have your Jojo again. He is all you ever loved.”

  She was crying so hard, I had to give her my handkerchief. “I won’t,” she blubbered, blowing her nose. “I cannot.”

  “That is only what you think,” I whispered, and I embraced her, holding her close, looking past her shoulder to where Sert stood in the living room doorway, his grizzled features somber. “They don’t have decent bread in Switzerland,” he said. “You’ll hate it. You’ll be bored.”

  “Yes,” I said, smiling through tears I could no longer hide. “I know.”

  IT WAS STARTING TO SNOW when I left Paris—a soft swirl undulating down over the carapace of the Eiffel Tower, drifting upon the gravel paths of the Tuileries and blinking marquees on the Champs-Élysées; dusting the artists’ garrets and cabarets of Montparnasse, and speckling the spiral molten-copper column in the place Vendôme. It settled into cracks on the pavement and in crevices of smoke-aged buildings, softening the serrated edges of a city that had seen so much anguish and terror, such joy and exuberance, there was no other in the world like it.

  Gentle as a gloved hand, it caressed the awning over a shuttered storefront on rue Cambon, across from the Ritz. It paused there, its white hue only slightly paler than the awning itself, before it began to melt, dripping past a bold name that was once so coveted and famous, so extraordinary, it needed only one word:

  Chanel.

  PARIS

  FEBRUARY 5, 1954

  Ah, the applause at last—if one can call it that. It is muted, polite but faint; already the scraping of chairs pulled aside and the rustle of coats shrugged on, the sound of hasty kisses blown in the air and promises to have lunch soon, tell me everything I need to know. All those years I lived abroad, slowly forgotten by all but my intimate friends, even as I in turn ignored the foibles of the fashion world—this is my reward: a precipitous departure and disdainful silence, which to my ears is far worse than derision.

  They are disappointed. Of course they are.

  Should I descend to take my bow or leave the models standing there, with their numbered placards held before them, as the herd makes its exit?

  I think I shall wait. They have seen my clothes. It is the return they have waited for, argued over, pretending surprise even as they wondered if I could recapture the glories of my youth. I have shown defiantly spare dresses in my neutral palette of black, navy, cream, and deep brown, with white camellias at the waists and sloping shoulders, my flat hats with ribbons, as well as my collarless suit in signature red. None of it is excessive. Though Dior has returned us to the torments of wire-braced corsets and yardage, of tulle and crinoline sprouting from unnaturally cinched waists, like the inverted petals of an overblown flower, I refuse to comply.

  Why should I, Coco Chanel, change for them? What I have presented is independence: clothes for women who need to move, work, and entertain. In time, they will see that while Hollywood princesses may waltz through celluloid fantasies in Dior’s ridiculous creations, ordinary women cannot. They should not. Fashion is not folly.

  Now, they can do as they wish. I will not sacrifice my ideals. Yet as I stand on the staircase, hearing them depart, I feel their disillusionment; I almost hear their urgent whispers to each other that I have lost my touch. After ten years of exile, what could I expect, really? To find the world unchanged, waiting for me to return and dress it once more?

  Still, the chilling suspicion creeps over me that my activities during the war have worked against me, even after all this time. Though I was never condemned by a court of law, have my colleagues and peers judged me in absentia? If so, then that, too, is something I must ignore.

  As I start to turn away, to retreat to my atelier and contemplate my uncertain future, I hear footsteps below me, a tentative voice: “Mademoiselle?”

  I reel about more sharply than I should, wounded by the indifference, though I know I must not show it. The woman standing at the foot of the stairs is pretty, dressed in a lovely suit. Not one of mine, I notice, and then, as I think this, I cannot resist a gruff chuckle under my breath. How could she be wearing anything of mine? She looks no older than twenty.

  “Yes?” I say, with a smile that feels like a razor across my lips.

  “I . . . I am the assistant to Bettina Ballard, editor of Vogue,” she says, and the tremor in her voice gives me satisfaction. She is all too aware of whom she addresses. My name, it seems, still carries weight. “Miss Ballard had to leave, unfortunately; she’s late for an appointment at our office, but we . . . we were wondering . . .”

  I keep my gaze on her. Informing me that her employer has dispatched her, a hireling, to accost me, is hardly in the best of taste. “You mean American Vogue, I presume?”

  She flushes, nodding. Her complexion is transparent, as is her expression. “Go on.” I wave my hand. After today’s disaster, what’s a little more humiliation?

  Confidence propels her up the stairs until she is on the step below me, eagerly clutching a mannish portfolio while she balances a large, rather ugly handbag on her arm. It is made of quilted leather, similar to ones I’ve designed, though a poor imitation. As I look at it, I think that perhaps I should update my own handbag by adding a gold-chain-wrapped strap.

  The girl says, “Miss Ballard thinks your collection . . .” But she falters again. I resist rolling my eyes as she glances at my foot tapping out my impatience.

  “Miss Ballard thinks your collection might show very well in the United States,” she suddenly bursts out. “She would like to feature you in our February issue. An interview, along with photographs of your new clothes. The updated suit, in particular, and the black tiered evening gown with the camellias. We believe . . . that is, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  My stare unnerves her. She almost recoils as I extract a cigarette. Blowing smoke over her head, I remark, “Are you asking to take a closer look at my collection now?”

  “Yes, pleas
e, if you would be so kind. We can arrange to return later with the photographer.” She hurries after me as I lead her toward my atelier. “He really is excellent,” she babbles, “one of the best in the business. Miss Ballard thinks he’ll be ideal for this shoot.”

  American Vogue wants to sing my praises, as it always has. And if America embraces me, so must France. My clientele will return. Women are too intelligent to disdain common sense.

  I resist a sudden, triumphant smile. Chanel is back.

  May my legend gain new ground. I wish it a long and happy life.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Upon Coco Chanel’s return to Paris and her new collection in 1954, French fashion critics lambasted her for being outdated and failing to adhere to the prevailing air of the times, dominated by Dior’s New Look, which returned women to an archetype of femininity as beautiful to see as it was uncomfortable to wear. Coco had refused to concede that corsets were again in style and presented simple, unrestricted dresses harkening back to her early days. Nevertheless, American Vogue—a lifelong champion of her work—rallied to her sustainable vision, in particular her seductive interpretation of her matching skirt, jacket, and hat. In time, the Chanel suit would become a perennial, much-copied classic that endures to this day.

  Misia Sert died in 1950, five years after José María Sert, who succumbed to a massive coronary while painting a mural in Vichy. As a final gesture for the woman who was undoubtedly her closest friend, Coco returned to Paris to prepare Misia’s body for her funeral.

  André Palasse suffered lifelong complications from his internment in Germany and died in Switzerland in the late 1940s. Vera Bate-Lombardi survived the fiasco in Madrid and returned to Rome with assistance from Churchill’s office; she died in 1948. After his ban from working in France for two years due to his collaboration with the Nazi regime, Serge Lifar took the Paris Opéra Ballet on a triumphant tour of America, mesmerizing audiences with his virtuosity. In 1958, he had to resign his directorship of the company amid renewed controversy. Upon his death in 1986, he was buried in the Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois Russian Cemetery; his memoirs were published posthumously. Jean Cocteau became one of France’s most celebrated artists, his diverse portfolio including poetry, art, novels, plays, and films. He died in 1963. In the aftermath of World War II, the British arrested and held Hans Gunther von Dincklage; after a failed prior attempt, he gained entry to Switzerland in 1949, where he reunited with Coco. That same year, she appeared in Paris to address testimony given at the war-crime trial of Baron Louis de Vaufreland, a French traitor and German intelligence agent who had implicated her. She denied all accusations and no judgment was found against her. In 1953, she sold her villa La Pausa, which she often visited in the summer, sometimes with Spatz. He retired to a Balearic island, where he devoted his remaining years to painting erotica. He died in 1976.