Lana's War

by Anita Abriel

  “You have a good memory too.” Lana smiled. The champagne warmed her throat, and the knot in her shoulders relaxed. “I haven’t done much reading. There’s so much to see; the scenery is spectacular.”

  “I told you it was stunning. And the Riviera isn’t all beaches; the Italian Alps are practically at my back door,” he replied. “You must come to Menton and see for yourself: snowcapped mountains behind you and the ocean spread out below like a sheet of glass.”

  “That’s a wonderful invitation, I’d love to,” Lana answered. She turned and saw Guy striding toward them.

  “I found you,” Guy said when he joined them. His forehead was sweaty, and he was scowling.

  “I was on the way to the ladies’ room and ran into someone I met on the train.” She turned from Guy to Charles. “Charles, this is Guy Pascal.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Charles shook Guy’s hand. “You look familiar, have we met before?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m farsighted and too vain to wear glasses in public,” Guy answered. He turned to Lana, his eyes wide. “We have to leave for the villa. I received a message from my housekeeper that your mother called.”

  Guy was very obviously lying, but she didn’t know why.

  “My mother!” Lana repeated. “Is everything all right?”

  “She didn’t say,” Guy said, and turned to Charles. “Thank you for keeping Lana company.”

  “It was my pleasure.” Charles nodded. “Perhaps you’ll both come up to Menton. We have many beautiful public gardens. The Serre de la Madone alone is worth the trip.”

  But Guy was not listening, and Lana hurried to catch up to him. He retrieved her cape from the coat check, and they walked down the steps of the casino.

  “What was that about?” Lana demanded when they were sitting in Guy’s car. The roof was up but the interior was chilly. “Your housekeeper hasn’t been at the house since I arrived, and my mother doesn’t have the phone number.”

  “I needed an excuse to get out of there.” Guy gunned the engine. “What were you doing talking to that man?”

  “What was I doing?” Lana said hotly. “You deserted me. I’d been chatting with a Gestapo officer and collided with Charles on my way to the ladies’ room. Charles caught me. We met on the train here.”

  “Maybe he tripped you,” Guy muttered. “Charles Langford is not to be trusted.”

  “You know him? You said you’d never met.” Lana frowned. “And since when are you farsighted?”

  Guy pulled up in front of the harbor and stopped the car. He took a pack of cigarettes out of the glove compartment and offered her one.

  “No, thank you.” Lana shook her head. “I don’t really smoke.”

  “Neither do I, except at moments like these.” He snapped open his lighter. “I left you alone because a Gestapo officer is hardly going to flirt with you if I’m hovering close by. And I’ve seen Charles Langford at parties. There’s a rumor that he’s a Nazi sympathizer.”

  “That’s impossible,” Lana retorted. “He’s British. His family owns a house in Menton.”

  “Just because he’s British doesn’t mean he’s a supporter of Churchill.” Guy brought the cigarette to his lips. “Charles’s parents were part of an international set in the 1930s who were known for their Nazi leanings. The Duke of Windsor and Wallis Simpson were frequent guests, along with Hitler’s foreign minister, Joachim von Ribbentrop. Back then von Ribbentrop was the German ambassador to Britain.” Guy let the information sink in. “Charles’s parents held salons featuring German writers and musicians and had a whole wine cellar of German gewürztraminer.”

  “That was years ago. They couldn’t have been certain war was coming. And it wasn’t a crime to drink German wines or listen to German composers.”

  Frederic had adored Wagner. It had caused him pain to stop playing his sonatas.

  “There’s more.” Guy grunted. “In the last three weeks, two groups of Jews were shot attempting to escape over the Maritime Alps. Charles mentioned that his home is right by these Alps.” Guy paused meaningfully. “And both times he was seen at parties with SS present the night before the escapees were captured.”

  Lana looked out at the lights twinkling on the harbor. Yachts shimmered in the moonlight, and behind them Lana could make out the steeple of the Cathédrale de Monaco. How could Jews be shot in cold blood when all around them, there was so much beauty?

  “It could have been a coincidence,” she said stubbornly. “It sounds like everyone on the Riviera is either at the casino or at parties. Perhaps there needs to be a new escape route. Even in Paris I’ve heard of Jews trying to get over the Maritime Alps.”

  “We in the Resistance are open to your suggestions,” Guy retorted, and Lana could see the veins in his neck. “What do you propose? That we steal Hitler’s car or send a fighter plane to pick up refugees?”

  “There’s an ocean in front of us.” Lana waved at the harbor. “Why don’t they go by boat?”

  “Because it’s miles to England, and as Charles can tell you, the channel isn’t safe,” Guy said grudgingly.

  “You could sail a small boat to somewhere closer, like Algiers. Then you could take a larger boat to England,” Lana suggested. “No one would stop a boat in Algiers. It’s full of Allies and Germans. If the Germans torpedoed a boat at night, they might sink one of their own.”

  The Allies had recently recaptured North Africa from the Germans during Operation Torch. Algiers was teeming with soldiers from both sides. It was an ideal location to sail the boat.

  Guy froze with his cigarette in midair. He turned to Lana, and his face was so close, for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Then he stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray and started the engine.

  “Where are we going?” Lana asked.

  “I’m taking you to the villa, and then I’m going into Nice.”

  “It’s the middle of the night.” Lana gripped the dashboard. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “Not if we want to save the next group of Jews scheduled to be paraded down the Promenade des Anglais and put on the train to Drancy.” He drove faster. “I’ve been searching for a way to transport the Jews to safety, and this just gave me an idea.”

  * * *

  Guy deposited Lana at the villa, and she dropped her cape on a chair in the living room. She ran her fingers over the coffee table and longed for her and Frederic’s flat in Paris. Their bedroom had been the size of a bread box, but it had been theirs. Guy’s villa contained no personal touches. There were no vases for flowers or paintings other than standard landscapes.

  And she missed her mother and Jacques’s apartment on the Avenue Montaigne. She missed the scent of her mother’s perfume in the entry and the carafe of brandy in the library.

  She needed to hear her mother’s voice. She picked up the phone and dialed the number.

  “Lana, is that you?” Tatiana answered the phone. “I just sat down to write you a letter.”

  “There’s so much to tell you. I…” She stopped.

  She had to be careful; what if the Germans tapped the phone? She was about to make an excuse and hang up but that would be worse. A young woman alone in a new place would call her mother for advice. The important thing was to keep the conversation light. She gave her mother a quick description of Guy and the villa.

  “I’m glad you’re having fun,” her mother replied as if they really were discussing Lana’s holiday. “It rained all day in Paris and the forecast is predicting snow.”

  “Then I’m happy I came,” Lana said. Her chest constricted, but she made herself keep talking. “Tomorrow I’m going to the market to buy dried fruit and oranges.”

  “I can just see you sitting on the terrace with a plate of fruit and a cool drink,” Tatiana responded. “You have to send photos.”

  “I will.” Lana nodded. “I should go; it’s late and I’m tired. I just wanted you to know that I’m having a wonderful time.”

  “Before y
ou go, why don’t you give me your phone number,” her mother suggested. “I’d like to be able to reach you.”

  “My phone number?” Lana repeated.

  Was it safe to give her mother her phone number? Her mother knew she was working for the Resistance. She would be careful.

  Lana hung up the phone and walked to the French doors. The moon had slipped behind a cloud, and the night was completely black.

  She worried again whether the phone was tapped. She replayed the conversation in her mind. If any Germans had been listening, all they would have heard was a young woman and her mother comparing the weather.

  It was so peaceful; the only sounds were frogs croaking and the distant hum of a car engine. She breathed in the scented air and gazed at the stars. If only Frederic were there. He would hum a tune, and they’d dance on the patio. She closed the doors and picked up her cape. Then she walked upstairs alone to her bedroom.

  Chapter Six

  Nice, November 1943

  A week after the night at the casino, Lana attended her first dinner party. Guy had dropped her off in Nice to get her hair done at the salon in the Hôtel Atlantic. It was unnerving to sit under the hair dryer while Gestapo officers read newspapers in the hotel lobby. How could she even think about what kind of updo she wanted? But Countess Lana Antanova needed a new hairdo for a dinner party attended by some of the most fashionable people on the Riviera.

  She had hardly seen Guy all week. He was gone before she came down for breakfast and disappeared at night. When she asked where he went, he grunted and said he would tell her when he was ready.

  Whatever he was doing put him in a better mood. Lana bought fish and vegetables at the market, and on the one night that he was home, they ate dinner on the terrace. Afterward, they moved into the living room, where Guy uncovered the phonograph. They drank sherry and discovered they both liked Charles Trenet and Edith Piaf. It was at moments like that, with the stars glinting down on the garden and the air smelling of orchids, that she felt brave and confident and capable of doing anything

  But then Guy told her stories about the war: In July the head of the Resistance, Jean Moulin, was arrested while he was having tea at a private home in Lyon. Moulin was interrogated and tortured by Klaus Barbie, the Gestapo chief known as the Butcher of Lyon. Moulin attempted suicide and died from his wounds. After Guy finished his story, Lana went upstairs to her room and cried.

  And she found it hard to stay at the villa when Guy was gone all the time. She spent a whole day in Grasse with Giselle. At first when Giselle suggested the excursion, Lana refused. She was on the Riviera to stop the deportations, not to enjoy herself. And she didn’t trust Giselle completely. Giselle had acted oddly when Lana mentioned the humidor. But she needed to keep busy. And as long as Lana didn’t divulge anything about Guy or the Resistance, they could remain friends.

  They hopped into Giselle’s little yellow car, and Giselle sailed along the road. Everyone on the Riviera drove as if they were competing in the 24 Hours of Le Mans race. Giselle handed her a scarf to protect her hair from the wind, and Lana leaned out the window and tipped her face up to the sun.

  The fields around Grasse were filled with silver-gray lavender. Lana had never smelled air so sweet. They parked in the old town and explored the eleventh-century cathedral and Gourdon Castle.

  The best part of the day was visiting the perfumeries. Lana stood in the distillery with its copper stills filled with anise and orris root and imagined her own scent for her cosmetics company: it would be light and fresh with a hint of something Parisian, a seriousness she hadn’t found in any of the sample bottles.

  They toured Galimard, which was founded in 1747 and had supplied perfume to the court of Louis XV. At Fragonard, they sampled Moment Volé with its famous blend of black currant and raspberry and damask rose. Her favorite perfumery was Maison Molinard. The perfumes were displayed in crystal bottles created by renowned glassmakers: Lalique, Baccarat, and Viard. Lana held the Lalique flask that won the award for the most beautiful bottle at the 1939 World’s Fair and remembered the old excitement of being around things she loved.

  She knew exactly how she would design her perfume bottles. They would be made of glass in the shape of a rose. As she and Giselle sat at an outdoor café in the Place aux Aires, Lana sketched on a napkin. The lid would be painted a pale pink. The bottle itself would be clear so as not to hide the precious liquid inside. LANA would be scrawled on the side in gold letters.

  It was only when Giselle remarked about the internment camp near Grasse that the war came careening back. Lana pictured inmates locked behind barbed wire fences, wondering if they would see their homes and families again.

  “Thank you for bringing me,” Lana said, biting into a crêpe. She hadn’t had a crêpe since she and Frederic had visited his friend’s restaurant in Le Marais. “I’ve never been to Provence, the towns are so pretty.”

  “Aix-en-Provence was the first place I visited when I arrived on the Riviera,” Giselle said. “I had heard about artists painting watercolors in the town square and pictured setting up my easel beside them. That’s before I learned about Les Milles.”

  “Les Milles?” Lana inquired.

  “It was built as a tile factory and became an internment camp in 1939, ostensibly to house Germans—mostly artists and writers—who had fled before war was announced and were considered a threat to France. It was overcrowded, and the conditions were terrible: people slept on straw, and there was never enough to eat.”

  “I had no idea,” Lana replied, putting down her fork.

  “It gets worse.” A shadow crossed Giselle’s face. “A couple of years ago it started taking in French Jewish families who were waiting for exit visas. The Vichy government didn’t know where to put them, so they sent them to Les Milles. Dozens died from starvation and disease. Then last year, all exit visas stopped, so the French police had to find something else to do with them. They couldn’t stay at Les Milles forever.”

  Lana wanted to ask where they were sent, but she was afraid of the answer.

  “The Vichy government deported two thousand Jews interned at Les Milles to Auschwitz,” Giselle finished. “French police sending French citizens to their deaths. And hundreds of them were children. The Germans had nothing to do with it.”

  Lana pushed the crêpe aside and shielded her eyes from the sun. How could she sit and enjoy her meal when a year ago Jewish women and children had been marched through this square on their way to their deaths?

  * * *

  Now Lana left the hair salon in the Hôtel Atlantic and entered the pharmacy. She decided she was going to buy presents for Sylvie and Odette. She hadn’t been to see them again since the day she brought Odette to her house. Guy was right; it was dangerous to get involved. But the more she thought about it, the more she couldn’t stay away. Frederic would have tried to protect Odette, and she had to do the same.

  She bought mints for Odette and soaps for Sylvie. Then she tucked her parcel into her purse and walked briskly through Old Town.

  No one answered when Lana knocked, and she wondered if anyone was home. But Sylvie would have taught Odette not to come to the door.

  “Odette.” She knocked again. “It’s Lana.”

  There was the sound of footsteps and a key turning. The door opened to reveal Odette wearing a navy dress. Her eyes seemed too large for her small face. For a moment Lana wondered what her and Frederic’s baby would have looked like at Odette’s age. Would she have had curly brown hair like Odette? Frederic had dark hair and brown eyes, and their baby might have inherited those traits.

  “What are you doing here?” Odette asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  “I brought you presents.” Lana held up the bag.

  Odette opened the door, and Lana entered the living room. The curtains were closed, and the air smelled faintly of dust.

  How different it must have been a month ago when her father was alive. Lana imagined Odette making coffee for him in th
e mornings and hugging him goodbye. Perhaps he brought home a few treats from the Hôtel Negresco, a pot of honey or a macaron.

  “My mother is at work,” Odette said, popping a mint in her mouth. “I’m not even allowed to open the drapes. It’s worse than being in one of those German prisons you see on a newsreel at the cinema.”

  “Don’t talk like that. The conditions in the prisons are intolerable.” She looked at Odette curiously. “When do you go to the cinema?”

  “I don’t,” Odette admitted. “I don’t go anywhere anymore. All my friends are gone. Hilda Stein and her parents were taken away months ago. My father said it was because they weren’t born in France. He said we were protected. But that’s not true since the Germans arrived. Now every Jew in Nice is in danger.”

  “How do you know so much?” Lana inquired. “You’re only twelve years old.”

  “I used to listen to my parents talk at night.” Odette sucked on the mint. “The Italian soldiers weren’t bad, but the Germans want to kill all the Jews. A German soldier will shoot you because your nose is too long or your last name is different.”

  Lana wanted to assure Odette that she was wrong, but Guy had said the same thing. The important thing was that Odette listened to her mother and didn’t go outside.

  “It’s not always going to be like this. As long as you stay inside you’re safe,” Lana counseled. “The war will end sometime, and life will return to normal.”

  “Before the Germans arrived I used to go to play with my friend Annalise,” Odette went on. “Every Saturday, Annalise’s mother used to take us to the market and let us pick out a sweet. But Annalise’s mother won’t let me see her anymore. It’s the same with Dr. Benoit. He hasn’t been here in weeks.”

  “Who’s Dr. Benoit?” Lana asked.

  “A doctor who used to take me on house calls. I wanted to be a doctor when I grow up, and Dr. Benoit was going to show me how to use a microscope. But I’m not sure I want to be a doctor anymore.”