by Anita Abriel
She spent the afternoon in the Tuileries, debating Henri’s offer. Lana was the last person to become some kind of spy for the French Resistance: she almost never told a lie. And could she leave Paris? Leave her mother and professors and the nuns?
But when she thought of Alois Brunner, she felt as icy cold as his pistol. What if she could stop him from doing to others what he did to Frederic? And perhaps it would distract her from the pain of losing the baby. It seemed better than waking up every morning and wishing the day were already over.
Her mother was having tea in the living room when Lana arrived. At forty-five she could pass for Lana’s sister. Tatiana claimed she owed her smooth skin to applying olive oil to her face before bed. The rationing of olive oil was one of the great frustrations of the occupation.
“Lana, I’m glad you’re here.” Her mother opened her purse and produced a pair of leather gloves. “I got you these gloves; they’ll keep you warm all winter.”
“Where did you get them?” Lana asked.
Only Germans could afford gloves. They had become a luxury, and they were rationed as strictly as butter.
“It doesn’t matter. I found some sugar, as well.” Her mother took out a bag of sugar tied with a string. “Jacques will be thrilled. He can’t get used to coffee without milk and sugar.”
“But you must have used all your rationing coupons for the week. I was going to give you some of mine.”
“You have to keep yours; you’re too thin. I don’t mind going without certain things; I’ve dropped a whole dress size.” Her mother laughed. “But Jacques gets irritable when he’s hungry.”
“You still didn’t tell me where you got the gloves,” Lana said.
Her mother smiled mischievously, and Lana gasped.
“Don’t tell me you bought them on the black market! People have been shot for that.”
“I know a Russian who is very discreet,” Tatiana confided. “We meet under the Arc de Triomphe. I give him a few pieces of silverware in exchange for whatever he has. Next week he’s bringing a side of lamb.”
“You can’t put yourself in danger so Jacques can eat a lamb cutlet.”
“It isn’t just for Jacques,” she said evasively. “Sergei has eggs and bread that I get for others.”
“For who?” Lana demanded.
Tatiana stirred her tea as if she wasn’t sure if she should continue. “Do you remember the Lippmans? We shared a room when you were young. Gilda’s husband was sent to a labor camp in 1942, and she’s afraid to leave the house. I try to get enough to feed her and her daughters.”
“You never said anything,” Lana said, absorbing the information.
“I didn’t want to put you and Frederic in danger.” She shrugged. “How can I sit back and let the Germans treat Paris as if it were a holiday destination when behind doors, families fear for their lives?” Her voice brightened. “The Arc de Triomphe is the perfect meeting place. No one is going to suspect two Russians chatting in the middle of the day under a German swastika.”
“It seems I’m the only one in Paris not disobeying the Germans.” Lana poured a cup of tea. They reused every tea bag until the tea was just flavored hot water. But the weather was turning cold, and it was pleasant to hold a warm cup.
“What do you mean?” Tatiana asked.
Lana had debated telling her mother about Henri’s offer. Lana was Tatiana’s only child; what if something happened to her? And Tatiana’s name would come up at parties; Lana couldn’t put her mother at risk without consulting her.
“I met a man for coffee today.”
“A man?” Her mother raised her eyebrows.
“Sister Therese set it up. He’s a member of the French Resistance. He wants me to move to Nice and help stop the Germans.”
Her mother started, and the teacup clattered on its saucer.
“He asked you to be a spy?”
“He didn’t say exactly. A number of White Russians live on the French Riviera. Some are friendly with the Germans. He wants me to attend parties and become part of the social scene. My contact will tell me what I’ll be doing when I arrive.”
“That’s even worse!” Tatiana’s voice was sharp. “You could be asked to do something very dangerous.”
“The black market is dangerous,” Lana retorted.
“That’s hardly the same thing.” Tatiana scoffed. “You’re talking about being a spy. I’m a mature woman; I can make my own decisions. You’re a young widow whose husband was murdered before her eyes. That man is taking advantage of you. If you’re caught you’ll be shot on the spot.”
“I won’t be caught,” Lana said with more certainty than she felt. “They have a contact in Nice, a Swiss industrialist named Guy Pascal who I’ll stay with. I’ll be a young woman escaping the drudgery of occupied Paris to have fun on the French Riviera.”
“You’d live with a strange man?” Tatiana said in alarm.
“There are more dangerous things than living with a man,” Lana insisted. “Guy is in the Resistance too.”
“What about your degree? You’ve been studying for almost four years,” Tatiana reminded her. “You’ve worked so hard. You can’t give it up.”
“I only have one semester left. I’m going to finish my degree; I just need a break.” Her mother’s questions made her only more determined to accept Henri’s offer. “This might be the perfect thing. The chance to do something important.”
“You’d be trusting people you’ve never met with your life,” Tatiana implored.
“I feel so helpless since Frederic died. I can’t concentrate on my class at university, and the only useful thing I do is slice vegetables at the convent. I have to find a way to make a difference. If I can save one Jewish child it will be worth it,” Lana tried to explain. “The Germans are intent on wiping out the next generation of Jews. I can’t wait out the war in Paris and let innocent children like Esther Cohen be locked up in Drancy or sent away.”
Tatiana stood up and walked over to Lana.
“When your father and I were married we had everything. Then Nicolai was murdered and I didn’t have time to feel sorry for myself. You were born, and I had to make a new life for us in Paris. Even though every day was a struggle, I felt so blessed. You’d look at me with those big blue eyes, and I had everything I needed. I understand how you feel. Nothing is more important than saving the children.” She hugged Lana. “I’m proud of you; just be careful. You may be a woman, but you’re my child. I couldn’t live in a world where you do not.”
* * *
Lana pulled her coat tighter as she walked along Rue de Passy. Her mother had asked her to stay for dinner, but Lana knew there wasn’t enough vegetable stew to feed all three of them.
The sixteenth arrondissement was almost deserted except for a few old women out walking their dogs. Many of the great houses were shuttered, and their occupants had fled. Lana wondered if any of the houses were occupied by German officers and pushed the thought away. The sixteenth arrondissement had always been her favorite part of Paris, and she didn’t want to picture Germans trampling over oriental carpets or dripping water in marble bathrooms that were centuries old.
She and Frederic used to love strolling through the neighborhood. Sometimes they’d imagine what it would be like to live in one of the grand hôtels particuliers. Frederic would have a music room with a Steinway piano, and Lana would have a home office, where she’d hang photos of her lipsticks and perfumes.
She stopped under the oak tree where Frederic had proposed on a springtime afternoon when they had been dating for six months. She plucked a rose from the bush nearby and inhaled deeply. The scent brought the memory rushing back, and she closed her eyes and remembered the giddy feeling of exploring Paris after the long, cold winter.
April 1941
The first winter of the occupation was behind them, and the short days and a coal shortage had been replaced by weeks of glorious warm weather. The Eiffel Tower gleamed under the sun, and roses
bloomed on the sidewalks and in the public gardens.
Frederic and Lana spent almost every moment together. They couldn’t do the things couples did before the war: the cinema played mostly German films, the theater was too expensive, museums displayed swastikas, and even the bookstores had replaced their stock with books written in German.
Lana didn’t mind too much. It gave her the chance to show Frederic the parts of Paris that managed to retain their charm under the shadow of the occupation. Montmartre teemed with actors because the Germans loved going to the cabaret. The grands boulevards retained their beauty even though Germans crowded the outdoor cafés.
That afternoon, Frederic used his ration card to buy a bag of dried fruit they shared as they strolled past ivy-covered mansions. Iron gates hid fountains and stone statues.
“My mother and I used to come here when I was a child,” Lana said, holding Frederic’s hand. “The estates reminded her of growing up in Russia. Her parents owned a dacha in the country with twenty bedrooms and a private lake.”
“What would your life have been like if the revolution hadn’t happened?” Frederic asked curiously.
“Probably terribly boring.” Lana laughed. “My mother said she went to university to escape marrying a Russian prince. She was eighteen; she wasn’t ready for her life to be over.”
“Marriage doesn’t mean that your life is over,” Frederic said.
“I suppose not.” Lana shrugged. “But you have to do some living first. In Russia, noblewomen often had ten children. It’s hard to enjoy life when you’re waddling around like a duck.”
“But if you fall in love, then marriage is the best thing in the world,” Frederic persisted. “And there’s nothing more fun than children. My sister has two little boys. I love being an uncle.”
Lana noticed Frederic fiddling with the bag of dried fruit. His cheeks were red.
“Being in love is wonderful,” she agreed.
“Then so is marriage. It means you found the person you want to share things with and you’re confident it will last forever.” He looked at Lana, and his expression was serious. “I never imagined it would happen to me so soon, but I wouldn’t change it.”
“What are you saying?” Lana asked. Did Frederic want to spend his life with her? A shiver of anticipation ran through her, and she looked at Frederic expectantly.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.” He sounded sheepish, and Lana was suddenly embarrassed. Had she steered the conversation toward marriage? She was barely twenty-two; it was too soon to think about a wedding.
“But now that we’re talking about marriage I have to speak,” Frederic continued. “My parents have been married for thirty years, and they’re still in love. There’s a war on and we don’t know what the future holds, but I’ve never been happier and I hope you feel the same.”
They stopped under an oak tree, and the sun glinted through the leaves. Frederic moved closer, and she could smell his cologne.
“I have no right asking this question. I’m still a student, and even when I become a pianist will there be anywhere to perform? The Germans could occupy Paris for years.” His hand went to Lana’s cheek. “But I love you. You’re the most wonderful girl I’ve ever met, and…”
“And what?” Lana sucked in her breath. She was afraid if she moved she would break the spell.
“I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy.” He dropped to his knee and took Lana’s hand. He swallowed, and his voice stammered. “Lana, will you marry me?”
It took Frederic a full minute to get out the proposal, but it didn’t take Lana any time to decide. Her heart already felt enmeshed with Frederic’s, as if they were two pieces of thread woven in the same cloth.
“Yes, I’ll marry you.” She nodded.
He glanced down at her bare hand.
“I don’t have a ring!” Frederic exclaimed, and Lana was afraid he’d take back the question. He took the string off the bag of dried fruit and tied it into a knot.
“I’ll write to my mother and ask her to send my grandmother’s ring,” he promised, slipping it around her finger.
“It’s perfect.” Lana felt almost giddy. She reached up to kiss him.
“I love you more than anything,” he whispered.
“I love you too,” Lana said, and her heart bubbled up with happiness.
* * *
Lana strolled along the Rue de Passy and twisted the wedding band on her finger. It was still impossible to believe that Frederic was dead, that she wouldn’t go home and find him hunched over his sheet music.
A woman holding the hand of a little girl emerged from behind a gate. The girl wore a felt coat, and her hair was tied with a ribbon. Lana’s hand went to her flat stomach. She couldn’t help but envy the woman. The sight of the mother and daughter made her wonder now if she would ever have a child of her own.
“Frederic, I saw you murdered, and then I couldn’t save our baby,” she said aloud. “But I promise I will make you proud. Other children will live because of what I lost.” She bit back a tear and walked determinedly down the sidewalk. “It’s a small way I can repay you for the joy you brought me.”
Even if she never had a son or daughter, she would do everything possible to help Jewish children during the war. The next day Lana would tell Sister Therese that she was accepting Henri’s offer. Then she would pack her suitcase and board the train to the French Riviera.
Chapter Three
Nice, November 1943
Lana looked out at the silver-gray lavender fields from the window of the train. In the distance she could see small towns and villages. The afternoon sun glinted off church spires and clusters of pine trees. It seemed impossible to imagine that bombs were falling on most of Europe.
Every day for the last week she had told herself she couldn’t go through with it. She was a young widow grieving her husband. She was a university student who wanted to become a chemist. The last thing she would ever be was a spy in the French Resistance.
But when she said goodbye to Sister Therese at the convent, the children hugged her and she knew she was doing the right thing.
Pulling out of the Gare de Lyon with her mother and Jacques waving on the platform had been even harder than she imagined. Her mother insisted on giving her a suitcase of dresses, including a ruby cocktail dress and yellow sheath. Lana hadn’t wanted to take her mother’s favorite gowns, but Tatiana reminded her that there was nowhere to wear them but the line at the butcher. Paris and the north were in occupied France, controlled by the Germans, and the rules were stricter than in the south, which was ruled by the Vichy regime.
Lana turned the page of her book and tried to ignore the German soldiers crowded into the train car. They had been everywhere at the station in Paris, drinking espresso and buying souvenirs to take back to Berlin.
“Do you mind if I join you?” a male voice asked. “All the other seats are taken.”
The man was about thirty. He wore an expensive-looking suit and clutched a newspaper.
“Please.” She motioned to the seat next to her.
“Anna Karenina?” He noticed her book and frowned. “Isn’t that a little serious for the French Riviera?”
“My mother recommended it,” Lana said.
“It’s great literature, but it might seem a little grim when you’re sitting at a café on the Boulevard de la Croisette.” He took out a cigarette case and offered her a cigarette. “Do you visit the Riviera often?”
Lana didn’t smoke, but Henri said it was one of the things she should learn to do. Sister Therese had given her a letter from Henri with instructions on how to behave: always accept a man’s offer of a cigarette because it made a good conversation starter; wear perfume because it made men stand a little closer and become more inclined to share their secrets.
“This is my first visit.” She accepted the cigarette. “What about you?”
This was an opportunity to practice flirting before she arrived on the Riviera.
One of Henri’s suggestions was to follow up a question with one of her own. She held the cigarette carefully and thought she may as well practice so she’d be prepared when she arrived in Nice.
“My family owns a villa in Menton.” He lit her cigarette. “We’ve been holidaying here since I was twenty.”
“I’ve heard the Riviera is beautiful,” Lana said, trying to inhale without choking.
“It’s even better than you can imagine,” he said, and his smile was boyish. “It was Queen Victoria’s favorite destination in the last twenty years of her life. When she was dying she famously proclaimed: ‘If only I was in Nice, I’d get better.’ There’s a statue of her in front of the Hôtel Excelsior, you’ll have to see it.” His smile faded. “You won’t find many Brits or Americans on the Riviera now. The war chased them away.”
Lana took in the man’s accent, his manner of dress, the mention of Queen Victoria.
“Then why are you here?” she asked.
“I happened to be in Menton in 1940, right before Dunkirk. After that it wasn’t safe to travel to England by boat, and I couldn’t find anyone to fly a plane, so I stayed.” He shrugged. “I’m glad I did. Rationing is so strict in England, and the climate on the Riviera is milder.” He stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray. “Enough about me. Where are you headed?”
Lana gulped. She didn’t want to give a stranger too many details.
“A villa in Cap Ferrat.” She waved her hand. “It belongs to a family friend.”
“You must come from a well-connected family.” He whistled. “That’s where all the American movie stars built homes. Where I live in Menton is a bit further removed. We aren’t on the party circuit.”
“I haven’t heard of Menton,” Lana said.
“That’s because it’s quite boring. Our most exciting event is the annual Lemon Festival.” He chuckled.
“I was fortunate my parents owned the house and I was able to stay. I told the local authorities that someone needed to care for it, and the young people were off fighting the war. They gave me permission to remain in Menton, and it was fairly tolerable under the Italian occupation. As long as the soldiers had a shot of Campari and a plate of spaghetti at dinner they were happy. The Germans are different. It’s like being babysat by a litter of Alsatian puppies. One wrong move and you’ll find yourself between very sharp teeth,” he joked. He noticed Lana’s frightened expression. “You have nothing to worry about, pretty blondes are perfectly safe. You’ll have a wonderful time.”