by Lisa Chaney
Then, in another letter, he tells her about the night bombings at Arcachon and regrets not being able to look at her: “How sweet it is to grab you on the corner of a tablecloth… Whatever you do, be careful, I know that you have a crazy and useless carelessness, that you run like a cockerel without being scared of anything.”6
In the first week of June, along with most of Paris, Dalí’s “crazy” Gabrielle escaped, just ahead of the advancing German army. On closing her couture house and laying off all her workers except those in the boutique, Gabrielle had instructed her director, Georges Madoux, to remove all the accounts and archives and take them to a makeshift office he was to set up in the Midi. Madoux, however, had been called up and decided his first priority was to save his family and his own possessions before the administrative hub of the House of Chanel.
Stories differ as to Gabrielle’s precise movements in those hazardous days, but we know she left Paris with a hastily recruited driver in his own car. Petrol had been rationed, and fear walked abroad. Gabrielle decided against her own house, La Pausa, as a refuge. In response to a Royal Air Force attack on Turin, the Italians had declared war on the Allies and begun bombing the Riviera. Cocteau had fled to Aix-en-Provence with the Aurics, but Gabrielle decided not to go there.
Having managed the long journey down through France, she reached Pau, in the Pyrenees, before turning off farther into the mountains and the small village of Corbères-Abères. Here André Palasse had his château, and Gabrielle came to a halt there for a few weeks. She had bought the château for André in 1926—the sale was negotiated by Gabrielle’s old lover Etienne Balsan, living nearby — and, most summers, Gabrielle had spent time there with André and his family.
Other refugees soon began to arrive. Gabrielle Labrunie, André’s daughter, tells how these were her great-aunt’s employees who had nowhere else to go. In all, there were about fifteen. Madame Labrunie remembers that some of them “were rather lost, confused… they were quite old… and no longer able to work… We’d heard that Paris was going to be very dangerous, so they all came to Corbères.”7 One of the refugees was a pregnant girl called Annick. She was the daughter of Madame Aubert, the redhead who had been Gabrielle’s right-hand woman for so long. Another of those who ended up at Corbères-Abères was Gabrielle’s friend the socialite Marie-Louise Bousquet.
On June 14, the Germans occupied Paris; Reynaud’s coalition government then collapsed, and Marshal Pétain was chosen as France’s new premier. On June 16, he requested an armistice. At dawn, a week later, Hitler arrived in Paris accompanied by his entourage, including his architect, Albert Speer, and the neoclassicist sculptor Arno Breker. With them he made his notorious lightning tour of the defeated city. Stopping at the Opéra, the party continued down the Champs-Elysées and on to the Trocadéro. Hitler posed for the infamous photograph in front of the balustrade overlooking the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. At Les Invalides, he stood musing over Napoléon’s tomb. He was impressed by the proportions of the Panthéon but was uninterested in other monuments signaling the illustriousness of Paris. The rue de Rivoli, however, delighted him, and the military governor of Paris requisitioned the Hôtel Meurice there for himself and his associates.
By 9:00 a.m., Hitler had finished his tour. He told Speer, “It was the dream of my life to see Paris. I cannot say how happy I am to have that dream fulfilled.” He later told Speer that he had often considered destroying the city, but it was clear that instead they must continue with the new buildings of Berlin, so that “when we are finished Paris will only be a shadow.”
France had agreed to accept its military defeat. On June 21, in a clearing in that same forest of Compiègne that Gabrielle had ridden through many times with Etienne Balsan and their friends, and in the same carriage in which the Allies had watched the Germans sign their defeat in the First World War, the Germans now dictated their terms to the French delegation. On hearing the news in the faraway Pyrenees, Gabriele Labrunie tells how her great-aunt shut herself up in her room for several hours and wept, scandalized at Pétain’s surrender without a fight.
After a few weeks of hiding in the hills, Gabrielle decided it wasn’t for her. Dalí was right: she wasn’t really “scared of anything”—with one exception: being abandoned. On July 14, she sent a telegram to a Spanish sculptor friend of Picasso’s, Apelles Fenosa, who had fled Paris for Toulouse, and told him that she would be “reaching Toulouse Monday afternoon. Please find me somewhere to stay… Greetings. Gabrielle Chanel.”
Apelles Fenosa was an exiled Spanish Republican sculptor who had arrived in Paris in 1938 with nothing. Picasso had helped him escape from Spain, and Cocteau had introduced him to Gabrielle in early 1939. By this time, Fenosa’s work was selling well, and Gabrielle commissioned him to sculpt her. (For some time, Picasso had failed to persuade his friend to sculpt him, but Gabrielle finally encouraged Fenosa to do so.)
Fenosa was a dynamic, attractive character, and not long after their meeting, he and Gabrielle were launched into an affair. She offered to move Fenosa into the Ritz, where she was already living, but the communist sculptor found himself uncomfortable in the bourgeois confines of the hotel, so Cocteau made a deal with him. He would swap his apartment in the place de la Madeleine with Fenosa, and Cocteau would take the room offered by Gabrielle at the Ritz. In the late autumn, Fenosa was diagnosed with double mastoiditis, and Cocteau told his boyfriend, the matinee idol Jean Marais, away in the army, that Gabrielle’s doctors were looking after Fenosa, who was very ill. Away from Paris, Gabrielle had telegrammed asking for news of his health.
The affair between the couturier and the sculptor continued for a year or more, and they were said to be very close. Dalí had intuited correctly that he had “been left a widow.” Fenosa felt great admiration for Gabrielle and would later say that “she was highly intelligent, she was good for me. She never left anything to chance.” But in the end, it was he who felt driven to break off their affair, saying there were two reasons for their separation. Apparently, “there were two or three stories about men around her, as was often the case with her… but mostly it was drugs!” Fenosa was vehemently against drug use. Adamant that he didn’t want to become habituated to them himself, he said, “It was drugs that pulled us apart. If you love someone who takes drugs, either you take them yourself or the other person quits.” Fenosa had told Gabrielle, “Either you quit drugs, or I leave!” He left.8
After the war, Gabrielle railed against some of those she knew, such as the writer and future statesman André Malraux, who were “destroying” themselves with drugs. But while Gabrielle denied those things she didn’t wish others, or herself, to believe about her, as her future assistant would say, “This didn’t stop her from lying a lot.”9 While Fenosa objected to Gabrielle’s using drugs at all, Gabrielle was able to convince herself that she didn’t because she was always able to keep it under control.
Gabrielle stayed at André Palasse’s château for a few weeks and then made her way to Toulouse. Fenosa contacted several of their mutual friends, such as Cocteau, who were not far away, and ordered them to come to Vernet-les-Bains, where they spent time at the house of friends. Cocteau was relieved at the arrival of Jean Marais, demobilized after the collapse of France, and Pétain’s armistice. Marais had starred in Cocteau’s Oedipus Rex in 1937, for which Gabrielle had designed the costumes.
Once she knew that the Germans wouldn’t bomb Paris, she wanted to return, and soon set off with Marie-Louise Bousquet and a female doctor on a journey busy with event. Bousquet knew someone who had forty-five or so liters of petrol, which they had to carry with them in the sweltering summer heat. Reaching Vichy, the women were down to their last liter of fuel. Now that Vichy was the capital of the southern half of France, which Hitler had chosen not to occupy, the travelers were obliged to stop there for papers in order to be allowed to cross into the occupied northern sector of the country, and Paris. Pétain and Pierre Laval’s government was ruling Vichy France from a series of th
e spa town’s hotels. (Laval had two terms as head of the Vichy government, signing the deportation papers of many Jews to the death camps, for which he would be executed after the war.) The U.S. ambassador, William Bullitt, talked with the new government officials, then sent a dispatch to President Roosevelt, saying:
The French leaders desire to cut loose from all that France has represented during the past two generations. Their physical and moral defeat has been so absolute that they have accepted completely for France the fate of becoming a province of Nazi Germany… the simple people of the country are as fine as they have ever been. The upper classes have completely failed.10
This failure, of course, had been the implication in Renoir’s satire, hence its banishment from the screen. As someone who remained ambivalent toward this class, it seems appropriate that Gabrielle had designed the film’s wardrobe.
In Vichy, Marie-Louise and Gabrielle ate at the Hôtel du Parc, where they were taken aback by the general air of celebration. Gabrielle said, “Everyone was laughing and drinking champagne.”11 Her ironic comment on this festive atmosphere provoked a man to confront her, and his wife had to calm him down.
Where were the travelers to spend the night? “A gentleman offered me his bed on condition that I share it with him. I managed to persuade the owner of the hotel and they put me up in the garret where the heat was killing. I got up every hour and went into the bathroom just to breathe.” Marie-Louise had a chaise longue placed in a linen room for her.12
Assisted by the prefect of police, they managed to obtain more petrol, and Gabrielle, Marie-Louise and the doctor set off once more for Paris. Reaching a roadblock, no one was allowed through except Belgians returning home. The women attempted side roads, but these were jammed with cars trying to do the same thing. Moving forward slowly, wherever they stopped they could find nothing to eat. Finally reaching another spa town, where everyone was very jittery because the hotels were all booked but no one had turned up, the travelers were offered three large rooms, each with its own bath.
Gabrielle went out for a walk and was duped by a child into giving him some money. This he immediately gave to his mother and told Gabrielle, “Now we’ll be able to eat tonight.” The woman had another child with her and was pregnant. When she revealed her almost empty purse, Gabrielle was struck by her destitution.
When the travelers finally reached Paris, on the rue de Rivoli and place de la Concorde they could see only German soldiers. A swastika was flying above the Ritz, as it was from all the major hotels. The MBF, the Wehrmacht military command in France, had its seat in the Hôtel Majestic on avenue Kléber. Here was centerd the administration, the management of the economy and the maintenance of order. Here, too, Joseph Goebbels had his Propaganda-Abteilung (Propaganda Division) immediately begin its work. Posters were up everywhere announcing that “the English and the Jews have brought you to this sorry pass.” Food and cigarettes were distributed, as was a poster of a Nazi soldier caring for some little children that bore the slogan: “Abandoned peoples, put your trust in the German soldier.” German street signs, instructions and banners were everywhere.
A large number of overlapping organizations now ruled the French. Many Nazi officers worked in France under direct orders from Berlin, while inin Paris itself, the MBF was always skirmishing with Ribbentrop’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs — in this case, the German embassy. Eventually, Ribbentrop’s protégé, Otto Abetz, became arguably more important than the MBF, and was dubbed King Otto I.
All requisitioned hotels had armed soldiers posted at their doors. Gabrielle was barred entry to the Ritz without an Ausweiss (permit) and was told she must seek permission from the commandant. There are several versions of what happened next, but eventually Gabrielle was given leave to remain at the Ritz. However, her grand suite of rooms was now inhabited by German officers. She was offered one small room on the rue Cambon side of the hotel. She agreed.
26. Survival
Misia was appalled at Gabrielle’s acceptance of a shabby room, and at her choice to remain in a hotel requisitioned by the enemy. However, to Gabrielle, these considerations simply weren’t relevant. For all her beautiful houses and elegant possessions, her attachment to these went only so far. She was always able to withdraw from attachment to things. Her strongest sense now was survival. And her means of survival — her shop — was just over the road on rue Cambon. Gabrielle didn’t care what people thought, and she asked Misia what point there was in going somewhere else. Sooner or later, all the hotels would be “occupied” anyway. At 31 rue Cambon, meanwhile, the Chanel boutique was busy: German soldiers were buying Chanel № 5 for their womenfolk back home. Albeit limited in its production, the perfume would continue being sold throughout the four years of France’s occupation.
Despite the occupation, ten or so of Gabrielle’s fellow couturiers had remained open to carry on their work. Shortages of all materials, which would continue throughout the war, meant they were struggling to bring out their new collections. Schiaparelli and Mainbocher would go to America; Edward Molyneux fled to London. For those who stayed, the shows were attended by some French women, German embassy staff and some of the German command. They escorted their wives, including Emma Goering and Suzanne Abetz, wife to the man the Reich called the German ambassador. Following lengthy and delicate negotiations, Lucien Lelong, president of the Chambre Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne, dissuaded the German command from moving the entire Parisian couture business to Vienna and Berlin. He argued that Parisian fashion could be made only in Paris. He also succeeded in keeping 80 percent of couture’s workforce, against constant demands for extra labor from German war industries intent on rapid expansion. Lelong even obtained special dispensations for the couturiers to buy costly fabrics without using their ration tickets. But a change in their clients was quickly noticed by all the fashion houses. Lelong would say:
A new class of rich person, black marketeers and collaborators, thanks to their wives, provoked a sudden change in the dress world. The old wealthy and aristocratic clientele was… replaced by the butter, egg and cheese people [the BOEF], the spoiled darlings of the war. These nouveaux riches caused a deluxe ready-to-wear, unknown to the public before 1939… and the new clientele brought an enormous success to this fashion, which was not high fashion but imitated it very well and was cheaper into the bargain.1
Gabrielle would describe this period as “singularly lacking in dignity” it was “a filthy mess.”2
The races at Longchamp opened again, and German officers, who had free entry to the enclosure, mixed with Parisian society. A good section of this society chose to “believe” in the propaganda regarding Franco-German cultural exchange. Much was made by those Germans and the Germanophile French of the fellowship of all artists and the meaninglessness of national boundaries. And the “gentlemanly” German officers began to be welcomed into the reemerging salons. The socialite Marie-Louise Bousquet, for example, maintained her renowned Wednesday lunches, keeping her traditionally good table well furnished with black-market provisions. To her Wednesdays, she invited a variety of the German command, including the propaganda director, Gerhard Heller, and the equally cultivated novelist officer Ernst Jünger. (After the war, Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh were happy to be found at Marie-Louise Bousquet’s lunches.)
Ernst Jünger found Hitler and the Jews equally distasteful, and socialized with Vichy-sympathizing Parisians, including the writer Paul Morand, who had wasted no time in offering his services to the Vichy government. He was for a time the film censor and, later, Vichy’s ambassador to Romania. Misia Sert’s ex-husband, José Maria, had returned to her after his young wife’s death, but on his visits to Madrid, was conducting an affair with the wife of the German ambassador. Throughout the war, Sert’s connections were unclear, but he always managed to have good food, entertained well and was untroubled by the inclusion of Germans at his gatherings. Another salon where conquerors and Parisians mixed freely was that of the American heiress F
lorence Gould.
While several writers, such as André Gide, André Malraux and Colette, chose to remain in the south, beyond the occupied zone, Cocteau had hurried back to Paris, saying that “Miracles are happening everywhere, and I am intensely curious.” He wrote to his fellow opium-addict artist friend Christian Bérard, “I find these days exciting, too bad Martel was so lacking in curiosity.”3 Thierry de Martel was one of France’s finest brain surgeons and had lost his son and been severely wounded himself in the First World War. At the recent armistice, Martel had felt so disillusioned in his country’s values and the international catastrophe that he had taken his own life. France was deeply shocked. Cocteau was fully aware of these circumstances, and the callousness of his remarks was thus appalling. But by now he had become incapable of appreciating the physical and moral enormity of the occupation, or of sensing the depth to which his conquerors might be capable of sinking. Cocteau’s orgy of opium and cocaine consumption over the last few years had stupefied and desensitized him to a considerable degree.
There were many Frenchmen who, as ambassador William Bullitt had put it, would remain “as fine as they have ever been.” Yet while it is difficult to write briefly about something as momentous as the occupation without gross simplification, Cocteau’s repugnant detachment reflected one aspect of the tragedy of France in 1940. Intellectual and artistic life had taken on a darker intensity since the debilitating horrors of the First World War. The French experience had convinced many that violence and irrationality ruled, and that European society was in crisis. The poet Paul Valéry had written, “We realized that a civilization was just as fragile as a life.” Since the First World War, the country had been at political loggerheads with itself — between left and right, between Catholic conservatism, fascism and communism — and many went into this new war already in a worn-out state of pessimism. “Frenchmen had exhausted, in the charnel house of the First World War, their reserves of national pride, of confidence in those who led them, even of horror and indignation over their own fate.”4 Afterward, many would simply want to forget those Dark Years, as those between 1940 and 1944 became known.
