by Anita Abriel
“Which means the black market is booming.” Guy put on his jacket. “What better way to spend all that money than at one of the finest hotels in France?”
They entered the lobby, and Lana looked around uncomfortably. It didn’t feel right to be standing under crystal chandeliers and surrounded by the scent of Chanel perfume, when in two days, Jewish guests at the Hôtel Atlantic would be pulled from their hotel rooms and forced into the dark night.
“You look like someone died.” Guy noticed her expression.
“I was thinking about the raid on Friday night…” she stammered.
“That’s why we’re here.” He took her arm. “So we don’t think about it for an hour.”
Guy told her about the history of the hotel. The Carlton was opened in 1911 by an Englishman named Henry Ruhl. The main investor was a Russian aristocrat, Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich. No expense was spared on the design. The marble in the lobby was imported from Greece and the twenty-four-carat-gold layering was applied by hand. The dining terrace faced the ocean. Round tables were covered with pink tablecloths and the chairs were upholstered in the same turquoise as the Mediterranean.
They sat at a table by the railing, and Guy ordered dishes that made Lana’s mouth water: pigeon with mint and turbot cooked with parsnips and winter squash. “I’m surprised you and your mother never stayed here. The hotel has been the main watering hole for the Russian oligarchy on the Riviera for decades. The grand duke used to take his five-o’clock tea at the hotel bar and there were golf matches and sailing regattas.”
Lana never told Guy how poor they were when she was a child. Her mother took almost any job to support them. They shared a small flat with other families, and her mother used a clothespin to keep her dresses together when they fell apart.
“My mother never had money for holidays until she married.” Lana sipped her wine. “And since the war, no one travels that far on vacation. It’s too time-consuming to just keep warm and have enough to eat.”
“Except you,” Guy said meditatively.
“What do you mean?” Lana asked.
“A mysterious young woman arrives on the Riviera to help a bunch of Jews she’s never met escape the Nazis.”
“Are you questioning why I’m here?” Lana said coolly.
She still felt hurt that Guy hadn’t told her he had been married. But she couldn’t ask him without getting Pierre in trouble.
“You’re so young to have been married and lost your husband. And you were still a student,” Guy answered, eating a forkful of pâté. “I would have thought after your husband died you would want to stay close to your mother in Paris.”
“Lots of girls get married when they’re young. My mother was nineteen when she married my father,” she said evasively. What if Guy was testing her to see how much she would reveal? Everyone had warned her not to give the details of her life to anyone, not even Guy. “Why shouldn’t I be here? Many women are in the Resistance.”
“Not Russian countesses who are studying chemistry at the university.” He took another bite.
“Henri made me believe I could help people,” she began. “Especially the children. Children shouldn’t have to suffer because adults are at war.”
“The children?” Guy looked up from his plate.
Lana bit her lip. She shouldn’t have said that. Guy might think she had visited Sylvie and Odette.
“No Jew should die because of his beliefs or the spelling of his last name, but killing the children is even worse. Childhood is about feeling safe and loved, otherwise how will children be able to dream? And without dreams how can the future generation discover planets and cure diseases and create art? The war has to end so the children lead normal lives; otherwise the future of humanity is doomed.”
After she finished talking, Guy was quiet. He reached across the table for a bread roll. For a moment their hands touched. Lana was perfectly still. Then he removed his hand and picked up a knife.
“Then we’d better be successful on Friday,” he said, buttering his bread.
“Will it be very dangerous?” Lana asked. The courage she felt when she made her speech had passed, and she was more nervous than before.
“What could be dangerous about driving a boat that I bought for a few hundred francs from a fisherman I just met?” His voice turned lighter. “I checked it out from top to bottom, I’m sure it’s seaworthy. All Pierre has to worry about are the patrol boats.”
“Patrol boats?” Lana said in alarm.
“The Germans aren’t stupid. Any of those yachts could be used to carry Jews to safety.” He waved at the yachts bobbing in the harbor. “But if the boat is painted black, it will be impossible to see at night. Unless Pierre collides with another boat or hits a rock, he should make it across to Algiers.”
“And if he’s caught?” Lana asked.
“Then he’ll be shot.” His voice tightened. “That won’t happen. You’ve seen Pierre drive a taxi, he’s as confident as a race car driver. I have the same confidence in him steering a boat,” Guy said as the waiter put plates of fish and vegetables with melted butter on the table. He tucked his napkin under his chin and picked up his fork. “This all looks delicious. Why don’t we enjoy our lunch?”
After their meal they strolled along the Boulevard de la Croisette. The air smelled of perfume and cigars, and the pavement was as shiny as the handlebars on a bicycle. They turned a corner to spot a group of officers lounging at a café. Their caps rested on the table, and they drank glasses of beer. Guy ignored them, but Lana quickened her step.
Guy took her arm and led her through the old town.
“I want to show you something,” he said. They climbed brick stairs until Lana’s calves burned and she thought she couldn’t take another step.
“Where are we?” she asked when they reached the top. In front of them was a church with a clock tower. Windows were placed high in the walls and there was a courtyard with a sundial.
“This is the Eglise Notre-Dame d’Espérance.” Guy rested on a bench. “It’s one of my favorite churches. Construction began in the sixteenth century. For the next three hundred years architects and craftsmen worked to create a place where people could go to find peace and hope.
“Hitler not only wants to exterminate half the European population but also he has no respect for the past. Churches are being bombed all over Europe, and the contents of museums are under wraps in secret locations, possibly never to resurface again. What will the world look like in a hundred years if everything that is important is gone?”
Lana saw a couple strolling along the path. The woman wore a navy coat and had a wedding ring on her finger. Lana’s heart ached for Frederic so much that for a moment she couldn’t speak.
“That’s why we’re here,” Lana said softly. “So that Hitler doesn’t win.”
Guy looked at her, and his eyes were as green as the grass.
“We should go.” He stood up. “I have to buy Pierre a pair of waterproof boots. I don’t want our captain to get cold feet.”
* * *
Guy dropped Lana off at the villa and went into Nice to run errands. She entered the kitchen and heard a knock.
“Giselle,” she said, opening the door. “What a lovely surprise.”
Giselle wore her usual uniform of slacks and a blouse smudged with paint. Even attired as she was, she looked sophisticated.
“I saw Guy drive off and thought you wouldn’t mind if I stopped by.”
“Please come in.” Lana ushered her inside. “I was making some tea.”
Lana brought out a tray with tea and lemon and honey and they sat in the living room.
“I wanted to ask you a favor,” Giselle said, stirring honey into her tea.
“What kind of favor?” Lana asked. Despite their time as friends, she still hadn’t learned anything more about Giselle. Giselle seemed so eager to do things together: asking her into her villa for a drink, inviting her to visit the perfumeries in Grasse. And ye
t she hardly revealed anything about herself. Lana recalled the engraved humidor in Giselle’s living room. The way Giselle became so agitated when Lana examined it. For all Giselle’s welcoming manner, there was something about her that was guarded and closed off.
“I have to go away; I hoped you might take care of my chickens,” Giselle explained. “I used to ask my neighbor Madame Bouchard, but she’s getting old. The last time I went away, she forgot to collect the eggs and the chickens sat on them for days.”
“Of course I will.” Lana smiled. “Where are you going?”
“To take care of some business,” Giselle said evasively. She waved around the room. “I love what you’ve done here: it’s so pretty and inviting.”
The villa did look better. Every day she filled the vases with flowers and polished and dusted the furniture.
“Guy said he used to feel like he was living in a museum and now it feels like a home,” Giselle commented. “He’s very appreciative.”
“When did he say that?” Lana asked.
“A couple of days ago when he came to get some eggs. I think he likes being domesticated.” Giselle grinned at Lana. “I couldn’t live with a man telling me what to do. I need my independence.”
Lana stirred honey into her tea and took a sip. She had to pretend that talking about being Guy’s mistress was the most natural thing in the world.
“Guy doesn’t tell me what to do,” she rejoined. “We lead separate lives.”
“You might think that, but he’ll start wanting to know where you’ve been or checking your receipts,” Giselle countered.
She smiled meaningfully and picked up her teacup. “Men can’t be happy having women as lovers, they have to own them.”
Lana tried to seem sophisticated and worldly. She ran her fingers over the rim of her cup and smiled.
“It’s not like that with me and Guy,” Lana assured her. “He knows I’m not ready to settle down. I’m on the Riviera to have fun.”
“How many women have said that and suddenly they’re spending all their time fixing the man’s favorite cocktail?” Giselle chuckled.
She uncrossed her legs and pointed to the bottles of Scotch on the sideboard. “Just be careful. One day you’ll come home to a diamond engagement ring and you won’t know how to say no.”
Lana opened her mouth and then closed it. She couldn’t ask Giselle if she knew that Guy had been married.
“I should go, I have to let the chickens out of their coop.” Giselle stood up and smiled her dazzling smile. “I came to the Riviera to be an artist, and I spend half my time raising chickens. I’m tempted to get a rooster; the hens seem lonely without any males around. But roosters are only good for their meat, they don’t provide eggs. And I could never kill anything.”
Giselle left, and Lana took her teacup upstairs to her bedroom.
The phone rang and she picked it up.
“Lana, darling. It’s your mother,” Tatiana said when she answered.
“Oh, hello!” Lana started.
For a moment she forgot that she had given her mother her phone number. She’d never wished to speak to her mother more. But talking to Tatiana on the villa’s phone was difficult. She couldn’t tell her about Alois Brunner, or how every time she passed a group of German soldiers she felt nervous and vulnerable.
“I hope it’s all right that I called. I hadn’t heard from you. I wanted to see how you are.”
“I’m fine.” Lana sunk onto the bed and tried to keep her voice light. “Guy took me to Cannes. We ate lunch at the Carlton Hôtel.”
“Jacques and I have always wanted to go to the Carlton!” Tatiana exclaimed.
“It was wonderful,” Lana agreed. “We ate steamed turbot with parsnips and winter squash. I can’t wait to tell Sister Therese. We used to laugh that the only vegetable left in France was rutabaga.”
“That’s one of the things I wanted to tell you.” Her mother’s voice dropped. “I went to the convent to deliver some books, and Sister Therese was gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“She didn’t come back from the market one day. No one knows where she went.”
“I’m sure she’ll turn up.” Lana tried to squelch the uneasy feeling in her stomach. “Perhaps she went to visit the sister convent in Lyon.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Tatiana agreed. “I’m glad you’re having fun. Guy sounds like he knows all the best places.”
“He does.” Lana nodded. “He’s showing me a lovely time.”
* * *
Lana hung up and paced around the room. She wished there was someone she could ask about Sister Therese. But she hadn’t had any contact with Henri since their first meeting. And it would be too dangerous to phone the convent.
Thinking about Sister Therese reminded her of the little Jewish girls at the convent: Esther Cohen and Ida and Sophie Rosenberg. She wondered if they were still alive. Her heart ached, and her resolve to help the children grew even stronger.
The raid was in two days, and she would spend the next day brushing up on current events so she could engage Captain Von Harmon in conversation. But on Saturday she was going to the market. Then she would visit Odette and they’d have a picnic at the kitchen table. Odette might not be able to behave like a normal little girl, but Lana could still try to make her happy.
Chapter Eight
Nice, December 1943
Lana stood in Giselle’s kitchen and filled a bowl with birdseed for the chickens. Giselle had asked Lana to drive her to the train station and said she could borrow her car while she was away. Lana was grateful: she could get to Nice that evening to see Captain Von Harmon without Guy having to drive her. They both agreed it would be best if they weren’t seen together on the night of the hotel raid.
The afternoon sun warmed her back as she walked out of the chicken coop. It was hard to imagine that at this moment Captain Brunner and Captain Von Harmon were plotting to throw dozens of Jews out of their hotel rooms and march them down Promenade des Anglais to the train station.
She scattered birdseed on the ground and entered the garden shed. Behind the shed was a space that Giselle used as her studio. Lana had never been inside, but suddenly she had the urge to look around. Perhaps she could ask Natalia Petrikoff for help in getting Giselle a gallery show.
Canvases were stacked against the wall, and there was a table strewn with paints. Lana poked her head inside a little fridge and laughed. Giselle loved her little luxuries. She would keep a chilled bottle of gin and a carton of goose pâté close by for when she took a break.
She turned and noticed a painting resting on the easel. It was of a man in his thirties with a strong jaw and long eyelashes. His blond hair flopped over his forehead, and he held a bunch of flowers.
Could it be the man whose initials were on the humidor?
Lana flipped through the canvases to see if there were other portraits, but they were only still lifes of fruit bowls.
A church bell chimed. Lana strode through the garden to the kitchen. There wasn’t time to wonder if Giselle was hiding something. In four hours Captain Von Harmon would leave his hotel to meet Captain Brunner at the Hôtel Atlantic, and she had to do everything she could to stop him.
When she returned to Guy’s villa, his car was already gone. She opened the front door and ran up the staircase to her bathroom.
She ran water for a bath and wished that she were in Paris with Frederic practicing Chopin in the living room. After her baths, she used to wrap herself in a towel and sit beside him. Frederic would laugh that he was too distracted to play, and they’d end up making love on the sofa.
Hot water filled the bath and she stepped into the tub. There was no point in dreaming about the past. The only thing she could do was make herself so alluring that Captain Peter Von Harmon couldn’t resist her.
* * *
Lana turned onto the Avenue Durante and parked Giselle’s car. The Hôtel Excelsior wasn’t as grand as the Carlton Hôtel
in Cannes, and it didn’t sit on the main promenade like the Hôtel Negresco. Instead, it was set back on a leafy street and seemed more like a nineteenth-century château with a peaked roof and ivy creeping up the walls.
The lobby resembled the living room of a private home. There was a fireplace with a roaring fire and bookshelves filled with leather-bound books. A man in a dark suit stood behind the concierge desk. An elevator bore grille doors.
“Good evening.” Lana approached the desk. “I was looking for one of your guests: Captain Von Harmon.”
“Captain Von Harmon is staying with us,” the man acknowledged. “But I’m not able to give details about our guests.”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking for private information,” Lana replied. “After all, the Hôtel Excelsior is a well-respected hotel.”
“Then what can I do for you, Madame…?”
“Countess Lana Antanova.” She reached into her purse and took out an envelope. “I wonder if you can deliver a letter.”
“A letter?” He looked at the envelope suspiciously.
“To Captain Von Harmon,” she said, and slipped a fifty-franc note into his palm.
His cheeks colored, but he tucked the money into his pocket.
“I would be happy to help.” He bowed.
She smiled her most flirtatious smile. “I was hoping you’d say that. If you don’t mind, I’ll sit in your lobby and wait for a reply.”
Captain Von Harmon appeared ten minutes later. Lana almost didn’t recognize him without his Gestapo uniform. He wore slacks and a shirt, and his hair was damp as if he had stepped out of the bath.
“Countess Antanova, what are you doing at the Hôtel Excelsior?” He approached her. “We were supposed to meet at the Hôtel Atlantic at nine thirty.”
Lana purposefully shifted on the chair so Captain Von Harmon would be distracted by her legs. She had chosen a knee-length gold evening gown from her mother’s collection and paired it with silver heels.
“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you,” she began. Her voice rose, and she bit her lip. “Guy and I got into a terrible argument, and I had nowhere else to go.”