Lana's War

by Anita Abriel

  “Paris!” Lana was grateful to have something to talk about. “My mother says the black market is flourishing in Paris. No one shops at the stores anymore.”

  “I’ve always admired Parisian women. Even if Hitler took away all the perfumes and lipsticks in Paris, they would still be so sophisticated.” Giselle gave a small laugh. “It must be something in the soufflé.”

  “I miss Paris, but it’s so dreary in winter. Was the weather very bad?”

  “The weather?” Giselle repeated absently.

  “The weather in Paris on your trip,” Lana prompted. “Last winter it snowed every day in December. I didn’t know one could be so cold.”

  “The streets were covered in snow.” Giselle nodded. “I’m glad to be back in the Riviera. Even the chickens seemed happy to see me when I got home. I bought them presents.”

  “For the chickens?”

  “You didn’t think I spent all the money on myself.” Giselle’s eyes danced. “I got them blankets to keep them warm at night.”

  * * *

  Giselle left, and Lana put the dishes in the sink. The phone rang, and she walked into the living room.

  “Lana.” Her mother’s voice came down the line. “I’m glad you answered. I haven’t talked to you all week.”

  “Is everything all right?” Lana asked.

  “As good as it can be under the occupation. I started my Christmas shopping,” Tatiana said. “I know there’s a war, but that doesn’t mean we can’t give gifts. I found a beautiful pair of boots for you, but I wonder if it gets cold enough on the Riviera.”

  Lana imagined her mother meeting some Russian on a street corner and exchanging a set of wineglasses for winter boots.

  “You don’t need to get me anything. Keep them for yourself. My neighbor Giselle just returned from Paris and said the streets are covered in snow.”

  “You mean rain,” Tatiana corrected. “I wish it would snow. There are never any taxis, and when I arrive home, I look like Mrs. Lippman’s dog after a bath.”

  Lana and Tatiana chatted about Christmas, and then Lana hung up the phone. Her head throbbed, and she went into the bathroom for an aspirin.

  She was certain Giselle had said it had snowed in Paris. She went back over their conversation, and something stirred in the back of her mind. Someone had said it was snowing. Captain Brunner, Berlin buried in snow.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nice, December 1943

  It was Friday morning and that night was Charles’s dinner party. Lana was eating breakfast. It had been three days since Alois Brunner called, and Lana had barely slept. It was only the view from her balcony, the orange sun and the satiny Mediterranean, that gave her the energy to get out of bed and go downstairs to the kitchen.

  She missed her mornings with Frederic in Paris before they went to the university. Even when there wasn’t butter for the toast or later bread at all, just sitting together in the small kitchen kept her happy all day.

  Now she poked at the congealed oatmeal Guy had left on the stove as her thoughts whirled through her head. Brunner’s tone had been inscrutable over the phone. It was impossible to know if Captain Von Harmon had really gone to Berlin because his wife was having a baby or if he was being punished for missing the raid.

  And she couldn’t stop thinking about Giselle. Giselle had lied and said she had been in Paris when her real destination could have been Berlin. Lana remembered the heart-shaped bracelet Giselle brought back from her trip. Women never bought heart-shaped jewelry for themselves. Perhaps it was from a secret lover.

  Then there were Sylvie and Odette. She had gotten herself involved when Guy had warned her to stay away. She had to ask Pierre to mail Odette’s letter when he returned to Algiers after the next escape. It was too risky to mail it from France; the Germans controlled the post office, and the mail could be censored. What if it was intercepted and the Gestapo discovered a Jewish family was living in the house on Rue Droit?

  The only good thing was Guy had hardly been at the villa for the last few days. Pierre had come down with a terrible cold, forcing Guy to fix the boat himself. And with Guy gone and Pierre sick, Lana resolved to visit him at home. She took a bicycle from the garage and started down the hill toward Nice.

  * * *

  Lana climbed the narrow staircase to Pierre’s flat and knocked on the door.

  “Countess Antanova!” Pierre exclaimed, ushering her inside. “What are you doing here?”

  “I brought some things to help your cold.” She held up a bag.

  “Lozenges and tissues from the pharmacy, and chicken broth from the butcher.” She arranged the contents on the table.

  “I can’t accept all this.” Pierre shook his head.

  “Of course you can.” Lana walked to the stovetop and emptied the broth into a pot. “You risked your life driving the boat.”

  “Guy told me you came down to the dock the night of the raid.” Pierre followed her.

  “I wanted to make sure the boat left safely.” Lana nodded. “Then a soldier told me that a man had been shot. I was so worried about you and Guy.”

  “You can’t imagine what it was like,” Pierre recalled. “The passengers tried to smuggle things on board, and I had to tell them the extra weight would sink the boat. One woman had a bump under her coat, and I thought she was pregnant. It turned out she was hiding a photo album.”

  Pierre started coughing, and Lana handed him a tissue.

  “I was so relieved when we reached Algiers,” he continued. “Then on the way back, the boat started leaking, and I got this cold. I feel terrible that Guy has to fix the boat.”

  “Don’t worry about Guy,” Lana told him. “He just wants you to get better.”

  “Guy is a quick learner. He’s learned more about boats in the last month than I’ve known my whole life,” Pierre said with a smile. “He said after the war he’s going to buy a sailboat and name it Aimee.”

  Lana looked up sharply. Her skin turned cold, and she felt oddly jealous.

  “Was that the name of Guy’s wife?” she asked, handing him the cup.

  “No.” Pierre sipped the chicken broth. “It was the name of his daughter.”

  Lana’s eyes widened and she gasped.

  “Guy had a daughter?”

  “You mustn’t tell Guy that I told you,” Pierre urged. “I saw a photo of her after Guy’s wife died, and Guy told me about her. She was about three years old with dark hair and blue eyes.”

  “What happened to her?” Lana breathed.

  “Guy didn’t say. He was so upset about his wife at the time, I didn’t press him,” Pierre replied. “I shouldn’t have said anything, it’s just…”

  “Just what?” Lana prompted.

  “When we were loading the boat, a little girl was afraid of the water and refused to get in.” He fiddled with his cup. “The girl’s mother was terrified they would be left behind. Guy picked her up and whispered in her ear, and her face broke into the biggest smile,” Pierre remembered. “I’ve never seen anyone so good with a child.”

  Lana couldn’t have been more stunned if Pierre said that Guy performed Rigoletto at the opera house. She knew Guy was in his thirties and had been married. But he never talked about children. She couldn’t picture him with a daughter.

  Pierre doubled over in a fit of coughing. She unwrapped a lozenge and handed it to him.

  “That cough sounds terrible. You should see a doctor,” Lana urged.

  “I can’t afford a doctor.” Pierre wiped his brow with a cloth.

  Lana thought quickly. She could help Pierre, if he could do the same for her.

  “I’ll find a doctor and pay for it,” she responded. “If you’ll do me a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?” he asked.

  Lana took the envelopes out of her purse.

  “The next time there is an escape, I need you to give them to someone in Algiers who can mail it to England.” She handed it to him. “And in the future there might be mor
e.”

  Pierre turned it over. If he noticed the childish writing, he didn’t comment on it.

  “I would do that for you without your finding a doctor.” He slipped it into his pocket. “After all, isn’t the point of being in the Resistance that we all work together?”

  * * *

  Lana left Pierre’s flat and stumbled into the sunshine. She remembered the pain and grief of her miscarriage and wondered what had happened to Guy’s daughter. But Pierre had made her promise not to mention it to Guy, and she couldn’t break her word. After all, if Guy didn’t open up to her, there was no way to help him.

  It was better to concentrate on the reasons Henri had sent her to the Riviera. That evening was Charles’s dinner party, and in less than two weeks they were attending the party at the Petrikoffs’. There were plenty of things to keep her busy without worrying about Guy.

  * * *

  It was early evening and Guy drove through the center of Menton. Lana peered out the window at the painted houses that were stuck together. Old men played boules in the town square. A stone basilica sat on a hill.

  “It’s so pretty,” Lana said. “As if nothing has changed in a hundred years.”

  “Don’t let the simple cottages fool you,” Guy grumbled, steering the car toward the mountain road. “The homes above Menton are some of the most glamorous on the Riviera. I haven’t been in Charles’s house but I’ve seen it from the outside. It’s the size of a Scottish castle.”

  “When have you been invited to a Scottish castle? I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” Lana returned, patting her hair.

  The car kept climbing, and Guy was right. The houses were huge, with marble columns and swimming pools overlooking the bay.

  Guy turned off the road, and the car bumped along a gravel drive that ended in front of a stone manor with trellises of jasmine climbing the walls.

  “Lana, Guy.” Charles stood on the steps. He was dressed in a blazer and slacks. “I’m so glad you came.”

  Charles led them inside. The house resembled the pictures of an English estate in one of her mother’s design magazines. There was a paneled library and a breakfast room with pretty floral wallpaper. The living room contained floral rugs and sofas covered in chintz.

  “My mother decorated the house. She loved the Riviera, but she missed her roses.” Charles chuckled, waving at the wallpaper covered with roses. Lana admired a painting of an English village on the wall.

  “What a beautiful painting,” Lana commented.

  “That’s a Turner.” Charles followed her gaze. “I’m quite fond of it myself. It reminds me of growing up in the English countryside.”

  Charles went to fix them drinks, and Lana turned to Guy.

  “Charles is so polite and welcoming,” she said under her breath. “And the decor of the house is lovely.”

  “Just because his parents have good taste doesn’t mean they’re good people,” Guy snapped. “Coco Chanel has the best taste in Paris, and now she’s in bed with a German diplomat.”

  Lana had heard the rumors about Chanel, but she didn’t want to believe them.

  “You don’t know that,” she whispered.

  “If Coco Chanel feared the Gestapo, she would have fled to New York like Schiaparelli,” he said. “Instead, she’s taken up an entire floor at the Ritz, right next to the German military.”

  Lana opened her mouth to reply, but Charles entered the room, carrying two glasses.

  “I remember where we met,” Charles said to Guy, handing him a glass. “It was at a housewarming party in Villefranche-sur-Mer. You knew the names of all the cheeses at the dessert table.”

  “I am Swiss,” Guy said, accepting the cocktail. “We’re taught to know the difference between an Emmentaler and a Gruyère.”

  Charles led them around the grounds while the other guests arrived. Lana had expected dozens of people like at the Petrikoffs’ party, but dinner included only two other couples and a man of about sixty.

  “This is Thierry and his wife, Lucille.” Charles introduced a dark-haired man and a pretty brunette. “Thierry is my bank manager. He accepts my dinner invitations because he wants to make sure I’m not spending my savings on expensive caviar.”

  “Nonsense, Charles is the most frugal client I have. He doesn’t even gamble,” Thierry said lightly. “The only money he spends is on books.”

  “And this is Hank and Sally Eastwood. The Eastwoods are American,” Charles continued. “I was so happy to have friends on the Riviera who speak English. But Americans talk too fast, and Hank’s accent is almost impossible to understand.”

  “I’m from the South; even my wife can’t understand me.” Hank chuckled, shaking their hands.

  The last man had thinning hair and a goatee.

  “And this is Raoul Gunsbourg. Raoul is from Bucharest. He’s the director of the Opéra de Monte-Carlo, one of the best in the arts.” Charles beamed. “We’re fortunate to have him.”

  Lana looked at Raoul with interest. She had no idea that Charles was involved in the opera.

  “I’m the lucky one,” Raoul offered. “Not only do I get to lead the opera, I’m invited to wonderful dinners.”

  “Raoul’s only fault is his modesty.” Charles turned to Lana. “Did you know that it’s because of your Czar Alexander III that Raoul is here? It was on the czar’s recommendation that Albert, Prince of Monaco, ask Raoul to become the director of the Opéra de Monte-Carlo.”

  “All this history of the Riviera is fascinating,” Guy said to Charles. “They should employ you at the tourist center in Nice.”

  Lana shot Guy a look, but he only continued to sip his drink.

  Charles went to check on the dinner, and the other guests spread out on the lawn. “Why were you so rude?” she demanded as she joined Guy.

  “Didn’t you see Gunsbourg’s expression? He’s a mouse trying to avoid a cat,” Guy replied.

  “What are you talking about?” Lana was puzzled.

  “Have you heard of René Blum? Blum founded the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo in 1932. Two years ago Blum went back to Paris to visit his family and never returned. He was put on a train from Drancy to one of the camps in the east.”

  “By Brunner?” Lana gasped.

  “Exactly.” Guy applauded her. “Gunsbourg is next on Brunner’s list. You know how serious Brunner is about the arts. The Germans have shut down the opera house, but when it reopens he plans on replacing Gunsbourg with someone who’ll perform his beloved Wagner,” Guy said. “Charles is pretending to be Gunsbourg’s friend until he can turn him over to the Gestapo.”

  “You’re making this all up,” Lana spluttered.

  “Weren’t you listening to Charles’s banker? Charles doesn’t gamble, and yet we saw him at the casino, full of German officers.”

  “You’ve had it out for Charles from the beginning. He’s only been polite,” Lana countered. “He invited us to this dinner party.”

  “I just don’t want Brunner getting his hands on more Jews.” Guy grunted. “Let’s go inside. We’re here now, and I’m starving.”

  Lana’s cheeks burned, but she followed Guy into the house. The meal was excellent. Lana couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten tender beef or sweet squash. For dessert there was a pavlova and passion fruit.

  After dinner, the men smoked cigars in the library, and Lana wandered down the hall. She heard music and peered through the door. Raoul sat at a grand piano. He turned at the sound of her entrance.

  “Excuse me,” Lana said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Countess Antanova, please come in.” Raoul stood up. “I couldn’t resist. It’s a Bösendorfer piano. I haven’t seen one since before the war.”

  “You play beautifully.” Lana entered the room.

  “I aspired to be a pianist, but my parents insisted I become a doctor. I was a medic during the Russo-Turkish War. After that, I promised myself I’d devote the rest of my life to music.”

  Lana remembered Fred
eric’s parents making him take chemistry at the university in Paris.

  “Charles told me that your mother escaped Russia and you were raised in Paris.” Raoul interrupted her thoughts.

  “Charles told you that?” she said in surprise.

  “Charles knows I’m eager to meet fellow émigrés.” He nodded.

  “I’ve never been to Russia. My mother fled before I was born,” Lana responded. “But she misses Russia very much.”

  “We all miss our homes,” Raoul commented. “All my family in Bucharest are dead. I have been lucky to live on the Riviera, but it’s not safe here anymore. Things have become dangerous since the Germans arrived.”

  “Could you immigrate to Switzerland?” Lana asked before she could stop herself.

  “The Swiss took in Jewish artists and musicians at the beginning of the war, but not anymore.” He shook his head.

  “There must be a way to cross the border,” Lana urged.

  “Even having the correct papers wouldn’t be enough.” He shrugged and sat down at the piano. “I’m not a young man, and I’ve led a good life. After all, who gets to hear Tchaikovsky performed every night and earn a living at the same time?”

  Lana was about to answer when she heard footsteps.

  “There you are.” Charles stood at the door, addressing Raoul. “I’ve been sent to convince you to give an after-dinner performance.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Raoul nodded and turned to Lana. “Countess Antanova, would you choose a piece?”

  Lana gulped and remembered the hours she spent listening to Frederic on the piano.

  “Chopin’s sonatas have always been a favorite,” she said softly.

  Raoul’s eyes flickered with happiness. “An excellent decision.”

  Raoul played piano in the drawing room, and then it was time for the guests to leave.

  Lana and Guy waited in the entry while Charles retrieved her cape.

  “Thank you for coming.” Charles gave the cape to Lana and shook Guy’s hand. “I hope you enjoyed yourselves.”