Mademoiselle Chanel

by C. W. Gortner

  I scoffed. “I never wanted to be a dancer. And how is Élyse even performing at her age? She must be at least seventy by now. I can’t imagine it’s a pretty sight.”

  “Actually,” said Marie-Louise, “I believe she’s almost the same age as you, Coco dear.”

  I glared at her. Sharing a trip across France with her had been enough of an ordeal; must I endure her stupidity here, too? But she then went on to mention she’d heard the Germans planned to release most of the three hundred thousand French prisoners of war they had interred in camps, now that hostilities were suspended due to our armistice with the Vichy government, and I queried her for as much information as I could.

  “Who’s in charge of the releases?” I asked. “Where are they being sent?”

  She made a moue of surprise. “I have no idea. Why are you so interested?”

  “No reason,” I said as Misia shot me a look. “I was merely curious, is all.”

  Later, Misia warned me: “Marie-Louise and her ilk are up to their eyeballs in Nazi friends. You cannot trust her. She’d inform on her own mother for a steak.”

  Frustrated, I returned to the Ritz that night, debating whether to phone Spatz. I had not heard from him save for one call to my shop to tell me he was still looking into the matter we had discussed. He had made no attempt to see me, which proved more upsetting than I expected, rousing the specter of my vanishing youth. I had learned he was forty-five, almost thirteen years younger than me. I told myself it was better if he stayed at arm’s length. After all, British mother or not, diplomatic attaché or otherwise, he was still one of them, and I heard enough gossip from the Serts to know that besides being indiscreet, some of my friends were downright reckless. Yes, we were at another power’s mercy, but Arletty had made herself the scandal of Paris for her liaison with her Nazi lover, and those clamoring for resistance had branded Lifar for death. Not that they seemed to mind—Lifar often joked that if he ever went to the scaffold, he wanted to wear a white wig like Marie Antoinette—but as Misia had said, there would be repercussions if the tide of war began to turn against the Germans.

  Still, I could not help but feel both insulted and secretly ashamed that Spatz had not persisted in luring me to his bed.

  Had I finally lost my appeal?

  SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, after another long day at the shop, I entered the Ritz’s lobby to find Spatz waiting.

  He stood at once from his chair, his hat in his hands, dressed in a gray suit that brought out the pale blue of his eyes, his dark gold hair tousled about his face, without any pomade. The sight of him brought me to a standstill. My pulses leaped.

  I did not welcome the sensation at all.

  As I made to sweep past him, he said quietly, “I have news.”

  I paused, glancing coldly at him. “You know my room number. Wait ten minutes.”

  Once I reached my room, I locked my door with trembling hands and went at once to the bathroom mirror. I looked much as I would have expected—bruised shadows under my eyes, my lips chewed from shouting over the phone at my suppliers. The fatigue and discomfort of living as I did, in this little room without enough air or light, was etched upon me.

  Taking up my preferred shade of red lipstick, I applied only enough to rectify my pallor, rubbing a little into my cheeks and running a brush through my hair, grimacing at the white of my roots. I needed to dye my hair again, which meant scouring the decimated department stores or appealing to horrid Marie-Louise to find me the right color on the black market. I was about to spray on perfume when the knock came at the door. I set down the bottle. He would smell it on me and I did not want to seem overeager.

  Letting Spatz into my room fractured something inside me—a hidden shell I had not realized I held so close. I crossed my arms as he loomed in the doorway, appearing larger than he was, and if possible, more hesitant than me.

  “Well?” I said, keeping my voice level. “You said you had news.”

  He nodded, turning the rim of his hat in his fingers. “Your nephew André Palasse is not among those scheduled to be released; I don’t know why. The reason is beyond my security clearance. There are things I don’t get to see, motives no one explains to me.”

  “Dear God.” I turned blindly to my purse, tossed on my dressing table, fumbling for my cigarettes. I lit one, looked up through the smoke to see him still standing there, only inches over the threshold with the door behind him, as though he feared taking another step.

  “I think I can still help,” he said. “I have a boyhood friend, Captain Theodore Momm. He’s been made Rittmeister, in charge of mobilizing the French textile industry to serve the war effort. I could ask him to—”

  In my anguish, I suddenly ceased to care if he tried to seduce me or pulled out a gun. “Why don’t you say what you truly mean?” I turned to him. “It’s not my war effort; I never wanted any of this. You and your people—you brought this mess upon the rest of us, and now my nephew could die in one of your filthy camps because of it.”

  I knew I should not be saying it; I should be submissive, thank him for his time, and ask him to leave, but in that instant, caution was the last thing I felt. My anxiety over André, the toll of a life turned into a shadow of itself, the humiliations I had to endure to keep hold of a shred of my former existence—it all erupted to the surface, in a hot surge I could no longer contain.

  “I hate it.” I stepped toward him. “It is beneath contempt. That pig Göring, evicting women from their suites and stealing jewels for centimes; and Abetz with his dirty propaganda, defacing our monuments. Trust us, you say. We are your friends. What kind of friendship is this, what kind of war? You invade our city and country and make us cry ‘Heil Hitler’ to your ugly red flag? It is absurd. A degrading spectacle. I loathe all of it.”

  I was so close I could have struck him across the face. I almost did, thinking the cigarette between my fingers would make a nice scorch mark across his handsome cheek, but he disarmed me with four softly spoken words: “I share your sentiments.”

  I made a disgusted sound. “No, you don’t. This is all you Germans have yearned for since the last war, to see us cowering under your heel. You are all doing exactly as your führer tells you, never mind that he’s a madman.”

  He met my eyes. “Are you finished?”

  I went still, not moving, not speaking, until my cigarette burned my hand and I had to reach to the ashtray by my bedside to crush it out. As I did, smearing ash on my fingers, I realized I had probably just signed my arrest warrant. I had insulted Hitler. If the reports I heard at the Serts’ held any truth, people were disappearing for less.

  Spatz said, “I regret that I have upset you; it was not my intent. I may still be of some help with your nephew’s circumstances, but it will prove more difficult than I thought. You know how to reach me should you change your mind.” He started to turn away, his hand on the door latch, when I said, “Wait.”

  My voice brought him to a halt. If his presence had goaded me into revealing myself, I would force him to do the same. “Am I in danger?” When he did not answer, I added, “I’m not asking you to tell me what you think I should hear. As you said when we met, I have a feeling you are after something. Did you target me to ascertain my sympathies? Am I now on a list?”

  He gave a humorless chuckle. “This is not a parlor game we play, mademoiselle. These lists you cite are weapons, devised to destroy lives. But, at least for the moment, if everyone who spoke against the war was arrested—well, you can imagine how empty Paris would be. Many do not agree with Hitler, including far more Germans than you think. They see what is brewing and, unlike him, they carry the lessons of the past in their bones.”

  “Do you agree?” I asked, defiant, though I was beginning to regret my outburst.

  “I was a soldier during the last war,” he said quietly. “I saw how much suffering was caused. I do not want to see it happen again.”

  “So, are you with or against them?”

  He held up his
hand. “I cannot say anything more, except that for now, as far as I am aware, you are not on any list, though you must never doubt you are in danger. Everyone is.”

  I wanted to believe him. I found no deception on his face, no telltale hint of subterfuge, and still I hesitated. I realized, to my horror, how far I had gone. I had said things I could never take back, things that could get me killed.

  “I insulted you,” I said, haltingly. “I . . . I regret it.”

  “No, you don’t.” His smile emerged, that boyish grin that crinkled the edges of his eyes and evoked devastating reminders of the men I had lost. “You are a strong woman. I admire you for it. I thank you for this interlude; I will never forget it.”

  He turned once more to the door. I stopped him this time by moving forward to touch his sleeve. He did not move for a moment. Then he tilted his face toward mine. “Are you sure?”

  I gave a soft laugh. “No. But when has that ever stopped me before?”

  LATER, AS HE SLEPT among disheveled sheets, his broad chest with its matting of blond hair rising and falling with his steady breaths, I rose and tiptoed to my purse. Lighting a cigarette, I padded naked to the window of my room overlooking rue Cambon.

  My shop across the way stood shuttered, the brisk night wind biting into the white awning over the doorway. I watched the awning flutter, the bold black letters spelling my name folding upon themselves and blurring, becoming indecipherable, much like the world around me.

  Glancing at Spatz as he mumbled in his sleep, I smoked and thought of the men who had marked my life: my father with his wine-soaked joy and betrayal; Balsan with his horses and indifference; and Boy, the one with whom I compared all others. But as I tried to summon him, I found I could barely recall the hue of his eyes, the tenor of his hands. Somehow, without realizing it, he had been lost in the long silence that had replaced our love.

  Extinguishing my cigarette, I inched back into bed. Spatz enfolded me in his arms, clutching me close, burrowing his face against the nape of my neck, his body large and warm.

  I closed my eyes. I had not taken my sedative. I did not want him to see it.

  It was time to forget.

  XI

  Winter roared in, the coldest any of us could remember. The wind had frigid fangs, the air like cut-glass slivers. Icy sleet and snow shrouded Paris, and fuel shortages of every type became endemic, as were frequent losses of electricity and an overall scarcity of food. We heard rumors of people scavenging in garbage piles for anything edible; of brothels flourishing as many women (and men) sought whatever means they could to fight off the starvation overtaking the city despite German-distributed ration cards. Bread, eggs, wine, and meat became more precious than gold. Demand for black-market items soared. Marie-Louise and her cadre brought choice cuts of lamb, beef, and ham to the Serts, part of their illicit trade with farmers outside the city, who gouged Parisians in exchange for items like cigarettes, of which the Germans seemed to have a limitless supply.

  In December, I let Spatz introduce me to his contact, Theodore Momm. The Rittmeister was a senior officer in the regime holding sway over Paris—an unctuous man like so many of his ilk. I was surprised to find he was also a champion horse breeder who had met Balsan years before and expressed himself “charmed” to assist me. Of course, he said, my name preceded me; he hoped perhaps at some later time I might be willing to return the favor. What could I say? I replied that of course I was at his disposal, though I took pains to emphasize the fact that I was not prepared to reopen my couture salon, as many of my fellow designers had, presenting their collections to the rapacious mistresses of German officers and coarse wives of black-market racketeers.

  Momm gave a disconsolate, if unconvincing, sigh. “Yes, it is all most unfortunate, isn’t it, but what can we do? We have no choice when you think about it. We must bend to the times as best we are able. None of us wants to end up like your nephew.”

  I left his office unsure as to whether he had issued a veiled threat, until Spatz assured me that like so many others, Momm only safeguarded his own interest. “If Momm is ever questioned as to why he seeks the release of a prisoner not on the approved roster,” he explained when we returned to the Ritz, “he can claim he did it at the behest of Coco Chanel herself, who has in turn expressed her willingness to cooperate.”

  “Not by designing dresses for them,” I retorted. “There are certain lines I will not cross. They can buy all the perfume they want, and my jewelry, too—though I hear they loot enough of the real stuff as it is—but never my dresses.”

  Spatz chuckled, divesting himself of his clothes and beckoning me to bed. I went to him with a scowl, thinking, as I had since our initial encounter, that I should end this affair before it went beyond my control. He was ostensibly helping me, but as circumspect as I tried to be, I was still a Frenchwoman consorting with a German, as foolhardy as Arletty, and no doubt as talked about behind my back.

  Only his touch eased my doubts. He was keen to build my ardor, sensitive to the fact that menopause had made intercourse painful at times, using other skills instead to rouse a desire that sloughed away the layers of loss and fear. For the briefest instant, I felt young again. Who would know that after he left for his apartment or whatever dealings he had outside, I worried and paced, smoking cigarette after cigarette until I had to take a dose of my sedative?

  Only me, and I had become an expert at disguising the truth, even from myself.

  MY NEPHEW WAS IMPRISONED in a stalag in Germany, Momm told me when I returned to his office several weeks later. This time, all my protestations of pride went by the wayside; if Momm had suggested I design gowns for the führer’s mistress, I would have readily agreed. Momm also took delight in explaining how he was incurring considerable risks for my sake.

  “These matters are quite complicated, requiring much time and tact to negotiate, as well as significant bribes and paperwork,” he said. “It is never easy to obtain a prisoner of war’s release. I need a compelling reason to secure your nephew’s, given that the approved roster does not include him. I would not wish to be questioned by Berlin for stepping outside my purview.”

  “But surely it must be some administrative error. André has committed no crime.”

  “He’s an enemy soldier. That is sufficient.” Momm sat behind his impressive desk heaped with important-looking documents, his thinning hair greased back from his brow, his spectacles perched on his nose as he assessed me with a bureaucrat’s polite indifference. I felt a chill. I had the sensation he would as soon report me to the Gestapo as help me, and my hands trembled as I lit a cigarette, thinking of a plausible excuse he could use.

  “What if you tell them André can work for you?” I suddenly said. “You are overseeing the textile industry for the war effort; you must need experienced managers for your mills. You can say he trained in my atelier, overseeing fabric production for my dresses. I do—or I did at one time—create my own cloth, and André was a valued employee of mine.”

  “Interesting,” said Momm. I feigned nonchalance as I waited for the rest of his reply. “I can always use able men,” he added at length. “It is capable women who are at a premium.”

  I smiled to disguise my shock. Was this rat actually propositioning me? “You cannot mean to say that I should run a mill, monsieur. I would not be suitable in the slightest.”

  His slippery smile widened until I saw a hint of nicotine-stained teeth. “Millwork was not what I had in mind.” He let his innuendo linger. I was about to inform him that he was grossly mistaken if he thought I would do whatever he implied when he added, “I will keep you informed, mademoiselle. I am certain we can reach a mutually beneficial arrangement. I would ask, however, that in the future you allow me to contact you, yes?”

  It was not a request, and I knew it. With a terse nod, I thanked him for his time, then almost ran out the door. That evening when Spatz came to see me, I related my meeting with Momm, my voice shuddering in anger.

  “Does
he actually think I would—that I am so desperate to . . . the gall of the man! As if I’d ever stoop to his level!” Even as I ranted, I did not fail to acknowledge the irony of it, that I could be so irate at the thought that someone would expect sexual favors of me to advance my goals. Was that not precisely what I had done with Spatz?

  He sighed, unknotting his tie. “It’s not what you think. Momm telephoned me after you left. He says he can of course petition to employ André in a mill, but they are holding your nephew for a reason, and if we insist too much, they might execute him. They have killed hundreds of prisoners already. You should know, Momm was not raised in Germany. He spent his formative years in Belgium, and while he now serves the Reich, he must tread cautiously, as they may suspect his ultimate allegiance.”

  “Do they suspect yours?” I said sharply. “Because it seems to me, with everyone around us engaged in some type of subterfuge, someone should be able to bring my nephew home.”

  He regarded me pensively. “Why is this so important to you? We are at war, with thousands detained or dying every day. You told me André grew up in England; you have only seen him on a few occasions, such as holidays or vacations. Why risk your safety for his sake when you should be focused only on saving yourself?”

  I bit my lip, looking down at the cigarette in my fingers. I did not have a ready answer, and it took me aback that I had to think of one. The easiest reply was that André was my family; but I had other relatives, my own brothers, in fact, whose allowances I had cut off without a qualm after closing my atelier, saying I had no funds to spare. It was a lie. I had plenty of money, even if it was limited because bank assets were frozen and I could only draw on what my shop yielded. No, it was more than the fact that André shared my blood. In an intangible way, he personified all that was good in my life. He had become my redemption now that everything else I cared about was suspended.