Sins

by Gould, Judith

  Hélène shook her head. 'No, it's not. You see, Herr von Eiderfeld, my mother lived almost to the very end. I have an eyewitness who was with her, a Jewish doctor. He is willing to come forward and testify. Now about those papers. . .'

  His eyes met hers. 'And if I decide not to sign. What happens then?'

  'Then I shall not go to the German authorities.' She paused. 'I shall go to the Israelis.'

  For a moment he closed his eyes.

  Her voice lowered to a whisper as she began hammering his alternatives home. 'Not only will you be tried and convicted. Something even worse will happen. Let's not fool ourselves, Herr von Eiderfeld. I am a businesswoman and you are a businessman. We both know what it is that is most important to us. Our empires. Von Eiderfeld Industrien is what you live for. That, above all else. You have no shareholders. You own one hundred percent of the corporation, which would make it one of the biggest fortunes ever to be seized by the German government. You know what they would use it for, don't you?' She smiled as he winced. 'To pay Israel reparations. To pay Jews who have claims against Germany for restitution.' She leaned toward him. 'Every asset your companies have would end up in Israel!'

  He made no comment.

  'Think of all the orange groves it would plant! Think of all the desert irrigation it could provide! Think of how the harbor at Haifa could be dredged and expanded!'

  He looked totally defeated now, but he made one last, desperate attempt. 'You forgot one thing, Fraulein,' he said with weak dignity. 'I am a powerful man.'

  'Are you?' She shook her head. 'You used to be powerful. But that is all over. In ninety days I shall expect you in Paris for the first board meeting. You remember, don't you, what a beautiful city Paris is in the spring?'

  'Why are you doing this?' he said. 'Why?'

  She shook her head unbelievingly. Had he no inkling of the difference between right and wrong? Had he no conscience beneath that hideous white skin? She wanted to grab him and shake some humanity into him, but that would have been useless. His soul was dead.

  'The young man who is waiting outside for me will be the one who escorts you to and from the board meetings,' she said impassively. 'I suggest you start getting your passport and visas in order. As specified, you will take a bus or train from your home to the airport. Then you will fly to Tel Aviv, second class. You will remain there overnight. The next day, you will proceed on to Paris and take public transportation from the airport into the city. Just one slipup, Herr von Eiderfeld, and Israeli agents will have in their possession every original of the documents you have before you. And I know you won't try to flee to South America or some other sympathetic haven. Not after all you've built. But I'm cautious and distrusting, so I shall see to it that this company is under constant scrutiny. I advise you not to try to sell it. Before you even approached a buyer, it would be all over for you.'

  He looked at her with a grudging respect. 'You drive a hard bargain,' he said quietly.

  She got up, went back to her attaché case, and snapped it shut. She looked over at him with disdain. 'I don't make bargains, Herr von Eiderfeld.'

  She turned and started to leave. When she reached the door, she spun around. 'By the way, Herr von Eiderfeld. You wouldn't know what happened to my two sisters, would you?'

  'They were sent to the camps.'

  'And. . .?'

  He looked down at his desk. 'Children were the first to be. . .' His words trailed off.

  Hélène tightened her lips. 'You have forty-eight hours to get those papers back to me.' She glanced at her watch. 'Forty-eight hours from now.' His eyes instinctively dropped to his wristwatch.

  Thirty-six hours after her meeting with von Eiderfeld, her lawyers in Paris received the signed stock documents, and one million francs was deposited in the Les Editions Hélène Junot account in the Banque Rothschild. Von Eiderfeld had met her ultimatum with twelve hours to spare.

  7

  Hélène felt like a member of the Chinese acrobatic circus as she tried to contort her body every which way in front of the tall beveled mirror. She thought that this way she just might possibly be able to reach back far enough with her hands to hook together the back of the pale satin evening gown. After a minute of fumbling she let her hands drop in exhaustion.

  'Merde!' she cursed uncharacteristically under her breath as the top hook, located in that elusive area between the shoulder blades and the nape of the neck, somehow still evaded her dexterous fingers. It was infuriating! She made a gesture of frustration and stared at herself in the mirror. Already she felt sweaty from all the effort, and in a minute her carefully coiffed hair would go limp. She reached for a tissue and gently dabbed the beads of perspiration from her forehead. Now her makeup, too, was in danger.

  She scowled restlessly into the mirror at the gown. Then, holding it up by placing a hand flat against her bosom, she half-tripped over the hem as she stumbled to the telephone. Impatiently she lifted the receiver. As soon as the switchboard picked up, she said, 'Jacques Renault, please.'

  'Un moment, mademoiselle,' the operator sang. And a moment later, Jacques came on the line.

  'Yes, boss?' he said good-humoredly.

  'Jacques, get the hell up here. Right away.'

  'Sure, princess,' he said with guarded caution. 'You know I'm only downstairs. What's the problem?'

  'The problem is. . .' She took a deep breath to try to calm herself. 'The problem is this goddamn gown!' she said between her teeth. 'I can't get it hooked up!'

  He chuckled. 'I'll be right up. Just let me get my pants on!'

  Hélène slammed the receiver down, whirled around, and stalked across the room to the open window. The perfume of flowers was strong in the air, the lingering sweetness mixed with the tangy salt breeze from the sea. For a moment she looked out without appreciating the view.

  How had she gotten into this anyway? She should never have let Jacques and Luba talk her into coming along. She'd much rather have stayed in Paris. That was where the power of Les Editions Hélène Junot pulsed like a loud-and-clear heartbeat. On location with the models, she felt helpless. This was Jacques and Luba's territory. All she could do was stand around and get in the way.

  But she thought that only now. Forever afterward, it would seem it was fate which had drawn her to the Cote d'Azur. For after the pain of Cap Ferrat, she had sworn to herself that she would never set foot in the South of France again. Added proof of fate's drawing power was the fact that this was the only time she had ever accompanied Jacques, Luba, and the models anywhere.

  They had wrapped up the two-day shoot early that afternoon. The models had departed to their rooms at the less expensive Helvetia Hotel while she, Luba, and Jacques went back to the lavish Hotel de Paris. Even after less than forty-eight hours here, the distinction was clear. There was Monaco and then there was Monte Carlo. The Hotel de Paris was in Monte Carlo.

  It was more than just a hotel. It was a spun-sugar dream imagined somewhere out of this world and set down amid a garden of paradise. Almost every hotel in the world made you feel you didn't belong, but at the Hotel de Paris they made you feel like royalty. Upon arriving, the first thing the worldly Luba had done was to seek out the chief concierge. He had given her a polite bow and smiled. 'Madame Tcherina,' he said. 'I trust that everything is to your liking.'

  Luba had drawn herself up, her imperiousness worn like a titular crown as she demanded that the furniture in their rooms be changed to suit their tastes. And a half-hour later, after they sipped a cooling wine on the flowering terrace, their rooms had indeed been refurnished. They now looked like sumptuous palace salons filled with the best of antiques. At first, Hélène had been embarrassed by the Czarina's demands; already she was taking them for granted. The management hadn't raised an eyebrow. It was a customary request at the Hotel de Paris, and they were only too happy to oblige. Life here was different, she thought. It was richer, more comfortable; one's every whim was magically catered to. It was easy to get spoiled.

 
; The famous Hotel de Paris was located diagonally across from the equally or even more famous casino with its green weathered-copper domes, twin towers, and elegant arches. The hotel's pool and sauna, like the windows of Hélène's suite, looked down to the port below. It was early evening, and despite her irritation with the gown, her anger slowly seeped out of her. There was no way you could look out and not let the view affect you. The warm Mediterranean air was slowly cooling off, the faint, fragrant breezes like gentle caresses. The expensive yachts were lined up with military precision inside the calm, sparkling breakwater. Behind the town that sloped up the hillsides rose the rocky Maritime Alps, towering and magnificent above the deep blue of the sea. It was August, and August was to see the principality in its fullest glory.

  Like a dowager empress, Monaco had bedecked herself in floral jewels. Everywhere, the majestic palaces, villas, and high-rise condominiums were surrounded by fine flowering terraces, rare exotic plants, cacti, and palms whose fronds rustled in the breezes. Hélène had learned to differentiate between the stately date palms with their tall, smooth trunks and the shorter, more squat Canary palms, which had rough and scaly trunks. Lining the avenues and clustered in the parks, magnificent eucalyptus trees grew to a great height and perfumed the air with their distinctive, almost medicinal aroma.

  She couldn't help feeling glad now that she had come. This was by far the most beautiful place she had ever seen. More beautiful even than Cap Ferrat, because everything wasn't walled up behind gates or hedges. And there was even a little bit of Paris here, as if to squelch any homesickness a visitor might have. The same man who had designed the Paris Opera had had a hand in designing the casino.

  A smile pushed through her frown as she thought of how Luba and Jacques had persuaded her to accompany them to the casino tonight.

  'Really, I'm not one for gambling,' Hélène had tried to beg off as the models had gotten dressed on the imported white stones that comprised the manmade beach.

  The Czarina's coal-black eyebrows seemed to lift right off her patrician brow. 'Indeed!' she snorted disdainfully. 'You know, don't you, that the casino is only the most glamorous spot in Monte Carlo? Propriety, if nothing else, requires you to go.'

  'Propriety?' Hélène sputtered. 'I don't see how—'

  Swiftly Jacques had cut her off. 'Where's your sense of adventure, princess?'

  'My sense of—'

  'Adventure. We shall knock on your door at seven-thirty sharp, have dinner down in the Grill, and go on to the Casino from there.'

  'But what a—'

  Jacques placed a restraining finger on her lips. 'Live, for once, princess,' he coaxed with a glint of amusement in his eyes. 'And don't look so indignant, for God's sake! Casinos aren't exactly low-life fleshpots. They're respectable haunts of high society.'

  'Take one of the models. Really, Jacques. I don't want to go!'

  Suddenly he reached out, caught her in a tight bear hug that made it impossible for her to argue any further, and lifted her off her feet. 'Say you'll go and I'll release you,' he whispered.

  She stared down at him. Her face was getting red, but she shook her head emphatically.

  He appeared not to notice. 'Oh, and don't forget to dress. You don't want to look like a yokel or an American, do you?'

  'Put me down! You're hurting me!' Her voice was sharp with anger.

  He grinned. 'I'll let you go as soon as you agree to come. Just nod your pretty head.'

  She glanced up at him out of the corner of one eye. Finally she lifted her head and nodded. Then he set her down, unwrapping his arms slowly and gently.

  She took a swallow of air. 'You. . .you brute!' she spit out, trying to catch her breath and smooth her clothes at the same time. 'That was blackmail!' She looked at him, her eyes flashing. 'You forced me into agreeing! It doesn't count!' She turned her back on him.

  He took her arm gently and twisted her around. 'Come on, princess,' he said. 'A deal's a deal.'

  'Some fine deal,' she snapped. 'It was coercion, nothing more and nothing else!'

  The casino. Now she thought about it again. Just having to go there filled her with a certain trepidation. She had never been inside a gambling palace before. As far as Monte Carlo went, she knew only what Luba and Jacques had told her, and what every schoolchild in France knew. That it was the queen of all casinos.

  About gambling itself, she knew nothing. It had never interested her in the least. The lure of breaking the bank was for others, for those who still dreamed of the impossible. She didn't believe in luck, and any investment she undertook was gamble enough. But a casino, where one just threw money away? It was an obscenity that she couldn't comprehend. She'd worked too hard to get where she was; she'd done without too much in the past even to consider that such waste could be fun. And when the Czarina had reeled off the staggering array of games that could be played at the casino—baccarat, roulette, chemin-de-fer, boule, craps, blackjack, and trente-et-quarante—none of which she knew anything about, her terror only grew. But as with everything else she had tackled, she kept that terror well under control. Her quick mind had immediately seen through Monte Carlo. Like Hautecloque, it was nothing more than an elegant facade. And elegance was the one thing she knew plenty about.

  That afternoon, while Jacques and Luba had taken their naps, she left her room. She took the elevator downstairs and walked through the lobby to the conciergerie.

  Enlisting the aid of the chief concierge, who was familiar with the problems that could face the hotel's guests, an appointment was made at the best coiffeur in Monte Carlo—the best in the South of France. Etienne's was located just a few meters from the quay. When she got there, an indignant middle-aged woman was just leaving. She pushed stiffly past Hélène and slammed the door behind her in no uncertain terms. Hélène turned and stared after her. Then she looked around the salon. It was empty but for Etienne himself, a male assistant, and two young girls in crisp white smocks.

  Etienne stepped forward. He was a tall, bearded, virile-looking man. His white silk shirt was unbuttoned halfway to the waist. His chest was hairy, and he wore a heavy gold chain around his neck. 'Mademoiselle Junot?'

  Hélène nodded and gestured at the door. 'That woman—why was she so upset?'

  He laughed as the pixie-faced girl hurried to pick up a magazine off the floor. 'Madame Laprade is always upset,' he said with a shrug. 'I simply told her that it was impossible for me to do her today.'

  'But why?' Hélène asked. 'Didn't she have an appointment?'

  He remained discreetly silent, and Hélène felt a stab of guilt. Now it was clear. The woman's appointment had been cancelled at the last minute because of her. The chief concierge must have impressed upon Etienne how important she was when he had made the appointment. Perhaps he had even hinted that it was to his advantage to drop everything to take care of her. That he might even get exposure in Les Modes. It wasn't fair to Etienne, Madame Laprade, or herself, and she knew it. But it was too late to worry about that now. 'Really, I. . .I should have been told,' she said miserably. 'I didn't mean to push my way in—'

  He interrupted her. 'Please, Mademoiselle Junot,' he said smoothly, putting her fears to rest, 'don't worry yourself about it. Madame Laprade is not going anywhere tonight. She has her hair done for the same reason that she goes shopping. To relieve her boredom. Please. . .' He gestured to the serious-faced girl. 'Just follow Roxanne into the changing booth. Besides, it is not always that we have such an important client as you. See?' He nodded at the girl who was replacing the magazine that had been lying on the floor. She saw now that it was the August Les Modes, and it was going on top of the stack of past issues. He looked at her. 'Your magazine is my clients' favorite,' he announced.

  'It seems that it's also their favorite weapon to fling at you,' she observed archly, following Roxanne to the changing booth. Roxanne stayed outside and pulled the curtain shut with a well-practiced flick of her wrist.

  He laughed and kept on talking while she cha
nged. 'In this business, one learns to take the lumps.' He lowered his voice. 'You've heard of Pauline Monnier?'

  Hélène stuck her head out from behind the curtain and nodded. Pauline was the society reporter for Couture Magazine. Occasionally she'd run into her in Paris. She could still remember the first time she had ever seen her. It was from the catwalk when she'd first begun modeling at Odile Joly's. She knew, too, that the witty, unscrupulous Pauline was so often seen with Daphne Epaminondas that nasty tongues wagered they were carrying on a lesbian affair.

  'The Epaminondas yacht was in the harbor all last week,' Etienne was saying as Hélène pulled aside the curtain and stepped out wearing a starched white smock. She turned around and let the pixie-faced girl tie a plastic bib around her neck. Then she took a seat while Roxanne spun the taps on the sink and tested the water with her hand.

  Etienne wasn't finished with his story. 'Poor Pauline came in only the day before yesterday and demanded that I cut her hair in a style which I warned her was totally unsuitable,' he said sadly. 'Afterward, she decided I'd ruined her looks. She actually picked up a pair of shears and tried to attack me! Can you imagine that?'

  Hélène suppressed a smile. She could well imagine the minuscule Pauline in a rage. She could also imagine how quickly and easily she must have been subdued. Nevertheless, she clucked her tongue sympathetically, cautioning herself to refrain from telling Etienne a thing. He might look like a masculine sailor, she thought, but he seemed a terrible gossip.

  'Well, the Epaminondas yacht was here up until yesterday morning. Then, as soon as the Skouri yacht came in through the breakwater, they hauled in anchor and sailed straight out. You know that Madame Epaminondas was once Madame Skouri, don't you?'

  Hélène started to nod, but he didn't wait for a reply.

  'Ex-husbands and ex-wives can either be great friends or terrible enemies,' he philosophized in an aggrieved voice. Then he sighed and was silent for a moment. He shook his head. 'Unfortunately, they're archenemies. I've even heard it said that the casino won't allow her in while he's there. Not just because they have such public rows, but because Monsieur Skouri is powerful enough to keep her out. He's one of the directors of the SBM.'