Mademoiselle Chanel

by C. W. Gortner

  “He seems nice,” she said. “Your friend. He is not what I expected.”

  I chuckled. “He doesn’t wear the SS uniform, if that’s what you imply. He’s a diplomat.”

  “Yes. I can see that.” She managed a weak smile. “Are you happy?”

  Her question gave me sudden pause. I had not stopped to consider it. Happiness was not something that seemed possible anymore, or at least not something any of us should aspire to.

  “Don’t you know?” she said when I failed to answer. “Coco, do you love him?”

  “No,” I finally admitted. “But I need him, like you need Jojo. Do you now understand? Without him, this life would be unbearable. He makes me . . .”

  “Forget.” She nodded. “Yes, I understand perfectly. He’s like our blue drops.”

  “Better. Or less expensive, at any rate.” I saw her shift her attention to the bureau. “Do you want me to help you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll manage. I just . . . I can’t see anyone else right now.”

  “Of course. I’ll tell them you wore yourself out and are taking a nap.” I kissed her cheek. She smelled of powder and a subtle trace of something else. “Is that Number Five?” I asked, surprised.

  “Every day.” She cocked her shoulder, with that sudden verve of the Misia I had known. “ ‘A woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future,’ ” she said, quoting one of my ads.

  I laughed, rising to go to the door. I glanced over my shoulder. “I don’t know if I can love a man anymore,” I said, “but I do love you, Misia. I always will, no matter what.”

  Her smile was heartrending. “It is all I live for.”

  THE WAR DRAGGED ON, and dragged us along with it. My so-called fellow designers accommodated as best they could to the strict rationing of fabric, with German-ordained restrictions on lengths and hemlines that, if breached, would result in crushing fines. My finances were not under scrutiny, however. Though I had no access to my money in the bank, I earned enough by working at my shop, trying to keep my perfumes in supply, and wrangling with the new ownership of Parfums Chanel, which proved no less troublesome. They insisted on abiding by the terms of my previous contract. I had managed to rid myself of the Wertheimers but accomplished nothing else, arguing for a new and better contract to no avail.

  Every week, I had Spatz check with Momm. Every week, he returned with no word on André’s case, though by now I had paid Momm enough for bribes that I should have been able to secure the release of an entire legion.

  News from abroad, however, showed improvement. The Americans joined the Allied powers, and by the end of 1942, Germany’s disastrous offensive against Russia had incurred heavy losses. As Misia had predicted, the tide began to turn, and as a result, persecution of the French Jews increased, with over thirteen thousand in Paris alone arrested and confined for a week in the Vélodrome d’Hiver, an immense cycle track not far from the Eiffel Tower.

  That summer of 1943, the heat was stifling. At night, with my room’s window shoved open as wide as it could go, I sat quiet as Spatz detailed the horrors the Jews had endured, left without water or shade under the Vélodrome’s blue-painted glass roof, roasting alive, until a band of protestors led by Catholic priests advanced on the site, demanding their release.

  “They were dispersed with tear gas and shots,” said Spatz as he paced, his hand trembling as he tried to light a cigarette. “Many were also arrested and deported with the Jews.” His visible consternation drove me to him. Taking the lighter, I lit his cigarette for him.

  “There is nothing we can do,” I said, despising the sound of my own voice, the weakness in it, the overwhelming sense of impotency. “We cannot stop it.”

  He bit at his lower lip.

  “We are helping all those we can at La Pausa,” I went on. “You got Streitz’s friend released; countless others are being sent over the border. But this . . .” My paltry attempt at an excuse faded into silence. Thousands had been removed from their homes and businesses, forced onto trains, and sent away. No, we couldn’t do anything to save them, but I felt like a hypocrite for thinking it. After all, I’d seized advantage in the same laws that the Nazis used against the Jews. Misia had warned me; she’d said I would regret it. God help me, I already did.

  “They are all going to die,” he said quietly. Despite its audible tremor, his voice hardened. “This war will become an atrocity unlike any ever seen. It will destroy Germany for generations to come. Our only hope is—” He cut himself short, drawing on his cigarette as he avoided my stare. He had never done this before, never expressed such overt hesitation, and I heard myself say, “What is it? What else has happened?”

  He went quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low I almost failed to hear him: “I think my apartment is being watched. Momm told me the Gestapo arrived without warning a few days ago to search his office. He is frantic. He says they are searching for any signs of resistance within their own ranks.”

  “Momm is part of the resistance?” I stood frozen in disbelief.

  His answer was to stride across the room to shut the window. Within minutes, the room felt like a sauna, perspiration soaking me as we faced each other.

  “We have a plan,” he began. “To end it now, before it is too late. But it . . .”

  Fear scrabbled in the pit of my stomach. André remained imprisoned. Everyone associated with his case in Berlin must know by now that I was the one cajoling Momm behind the scenes, to follow up on the paperwork and increase the already substantial payout of bribes. Spatz was also my lover; we’d been seen together at various restaurants, and here at the Ritz. If the Gestapo suspected him, how long would it take before they decided to question me?

  “What is this plan?” I said. “Tell me.”

  “To seek a settlement with the Allies. Momm thinks our contact may be holding up André’s release because he has determined that you can play a part.”

  I let out a tremulous laugh, raking a hand through my damp hair. “Didn’t you once tell me this wasn’t a parlor game? I am not a spy. What part could I possibly play?”

  “You know Churchill,” he replied. I stared at him, thinking I must have heard wrong. It was the last thing I expected him to say, but as I took in his expression, I realized he was serious.

  “You cannot think . . . But I only met him a few times. He is in England and—”

  “He won’t be in England when we need him. He plans to travel to the Soviet embassy in Tehran to attend a strategy conference with Stalin and Roosevelt. From there, he will go to Tunisia and then on to Madrid. General Franco has taken a neutral stance; he does not want to aggravate Hitler, but Madrid is still full of informants actively working to end the conflict. If you meet Churchill there, through his ambassador, you could—”

  “Get on my knees and beg? Spatz, why would Churchill heed me, of all people?”

  “You are the only person we have with a personal connection to him. Coco, you could help us bring about an end to the war. Momm has already made preliminary inquiries and—”

  “What? How dare he? My nephew’s life is at stake!”

  “Listen to me.” Spatz came to me, restraining my outburst. “I told you there were high-ranking men in the Reich who question Hitler’s policies. Our contact is one of them, and he thinks this plan can work, if you manage to meet with Churchill and deliver a message from us.”

  I knew it, then. I saw it in his eyes, a dreadful certainty that I could not ignore or evade.

  “Dear God, you are insane,” I whispered. “You plan to betray your führer.”

  “Our goal does not concern you. All you need to know is that we cannot move forward without Allied consent. Our plan involves significant risks, but we’ll prepare everything for you in advance, the necessary permits for travel, your booking at the Ritz in Madrid, even an alibi.”

  “Alibi?” I echoed, so stunned by what I had deduced, I could barely speak.

  “You will meet an old friend, Vera Bate-Lo
mbardi. She’s detained in Rome, under suspicion of acting as a double agent with her husband. She herself isn’t a spy,” he hastened to add, “but Lombardi had to go into hiding before he was arrested. Vera has petitioned Churchill numerous times for help but his office has ignored her appeals, primarily, though no one will say it, because they cannot interfere. Vera once worked for you; we will tell the Italian authorities you wish to hire her to help you open a boutique in Spain, and see that she is released and brought to Madrid.”

  I looked at him as if he had become a stranger. Of course, that was what he was, but I had never allowed myself to see it so clearly until now. This man I had entrusted my nephew’s safety to, whom I’d taken to my bed and allowed myself to become entangled with, whose willingness to help Streitz at La Pausa temporarily relieved my suspicions—I did not know him at all. For the first time in my life, I had taken a man into my bed who had the capacity to destroy me.

  “You were once Vera’s friend, too,” I managed to say. “You were with her in Monte Carlo for my birthday, so you and your friends must also know we haven’t spoken in years. She worked for me in London before her marriage, yes, but why, in such times, after having refused to reopen my atelier here, would anyone believe I’d hire her to open one in Spain?”

  “Because she wrote to you.” He reached to his attaché case, moved the dials of its locking mechanism to open it, revealing several folders. He withdrew one, set it on the bed, and took from it an envelope. “She sent this letter four months ago, asking you to intercede with Churchill on her behalf. She must believe you carry influence with him.”

  “You . . . you’ve been intercepting my correspondence?”

  “I had to.” He did not attempt an apology. “I was ordered to. I had to be sure—or, rather, my superior had to be sure—you were reliable. We also saw your letter to Churchill, the one where you offered congratulations on his appointment. It was very personable. We sent it on, in hopes that it will reach him, though of course we cannot know for sure. They have other channels for making such communiqués disappear.”

  “Dear God.” I spun away, my dismay choking me. What had I done? How had I let this go so far? In a sudden flash of memory, I saw the boy perched on the crumbling wall in Vichy, his abrupt fall before his unexpected lunge for my money and fleet escape. A common thief had lured me with sympathy; now, I found myself prey to a far more dangerous one.

  But it would not serve me to show any fear. Spatz needed me; perhaps I could still turn this predicament in my favor. Composing myself, I used the same tone I might have for bartering to get a better price on fabric: “This contact of yours, I imagine he does not expect me to put myself at risk for nothing. What does he offer in exchange?”

  “André’s release,” replied Spatz without hesitation, making me want to throw myself at his throat. “He has replaced his superior; as the new foreign intelligence director in Berlin, he can push the necessary paperwork through to send André here to manage one of Momm’s mills.”

  “Just like that, after all this time?” I clenched my hands at my sides. “I agree to go to Madrid and my nephew is set free?”

  “Yes.” Spatz kept his tone level, though he must have known, he must have seen, how much I detested him in that moment.

  “You are despicable,” I told him. “All of you, you are monsters.”

  “Perhaps, but those are his stipulations. You help us and he frees André. Do you agree?”

  I pretended to consider, even as I took note that he didn’t press the fact that I could be instrumental in bringing about an end to this horrid war, if I managed to reach Churchill. He didn’t press, I suspected, because it carried significant risk, and he had sprung his trap so well, he had no doubt of my answer. Spatz knew that for André, I would do anything.

  “Tell your contact yes,” I said, “but not before I see my nephew first—alive.”

  SPATZ ARRANGED A TRIP to Berlin in September. I left under the utmost secrecy, traveling alone on an overnight train with a small suitcase, my handbag crammed with permits and my stamped passport. As the train passed through barricades and customs checks, endless reviews of documents and searches of luggage, I kept my expression impassive. No one asked why I was traveling to Berlin, which startled me. Spatz had prepared a ruse, a tale of an elderly friend, a former client of mine, whom I wished to visit; but something in my permit must have precluded any questions. All the official who granted me entry said was that my Ausweis allowed me two days before I must return to France.

  I had never been to Berlin, yet I saw little of the city. A Mercedes limousine with tinted windows picked me up at the station and drove me to the intelligence headquarters. I caught glimpses of soot-blackened buildings with snow banked against their sides and burnt-out shells of rubble from recent stealth Allied bombings. The ubiquitous swastika flew over façades. People walked underneath it, running errands, even a few couples kissing, just like people everywhere did. If it had not been for the demonstration of Nazi might displayed at every turn—posters of Hitler plastered to walls and passing tramcars—Berlin might have been just another city in Europe: crowded and noisy, smelling of petrol fumes and coal. It was almost impossible to imagine that I had just entered the fearsome heart of a regime determined to grind us into dust.

  I waited on a bench on the third floor of an icy nondescript office building for over an hour, smoking nervously until a secretary pointed to a sign above me in German and informed me that smoking indoors was verboten. Finally, she conducted me down a passageway echoing with the tapping of typewriters to a glass-paned door.

  Inside, I did not expect to find the usual assortment of filing cabinets, of overloaded desks and ringing telephones, and other secretaries in low heels and nylon stockings going about their work. Everything was so . . . normal. So ordinary. It did not seem like the inner workings of a death machine at all. I might have been waiting in any bureaucratic office in Paris.

  “If you will please wait here, fräulein,” said the secretary, and again she left me to accommodate myself on a hard-backed chair, my suitcase at my feet and my hands clutching my bag. I told myself to remain calm. Spatz’s contact had allowed me to come here. If there had been any danger, he would not have done so—or so I desperately wanted to believe.

  About thirty minutes later, the secretary returned and led me to a far office with a window so streaked with grime, nothing outside was visible. A tall young man with slicked-back auburn hair, narrow features, and striking gray eyes awaited me. He clicked his heels and bowed; he was not in uniform, but rather wore a dark wool suit and tie, and the red-and-black armband.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said in accented French. “It is a pleasure. I am Colonel Walter Schellenberg, director of the Foreign Intelligence Division. I welcome you to Berlin.”

  My smile felt strained. I was not certain of how to proceed, waiting while he retreated behind his desk to consult a file. “You have been apprised of the situation, I presume?” he said, without looking up.

  “Yes,” I said faintly. “I am to travel to—”

  “No, no.” He held up a hand, silencing me. “Now then,” he continued briskly, “this matter of your nephew André Palasse, I have reviewed his dossier at length and believe he can be of service to us. You claim he has experience in managing textile production through training with you at your atelier. Is that correct?”

  I nodded.

  “And you wish to see him before he is released?”

  “Yes.” I swallowed. “Yes,” I said, more firmly. “I would like that. He is well?”

  “He has been ill. Otherwise, he is as well as can be expected. I have arranged his release from detention. He will be admitted to a hospital until he can recover from his”—he checked his papers—“bronchial infection. A few days at most, and we can remand him to Momm for his new position.” He lifted his gaze. His eyes were flat. “He is here in the building.”

  I leaped to my feet, knocking over my suitcase. As I started to bend
toward it, Schellenberg came from behind the desk. “Allow me,” he murmured. As he retrieved it for me, he said, “You have ten minutes. The car will be waiting downstairs for you at half past the hour. It will take you to the station for the overnight train to Paris.”

  “But I . . . I thought I could spend a day or so with—”

  “It is not possible. Ten minutes, mademoiselle.” He stepped back, dipping his head with old-fashioned courtesy. “Delighted to be of service. Have a nice visit. Heil Hitler.”

  As if on cue, the secretary escorted me out, back down the passageway and up another flight of stairs. She led me into a long corridor, her heels clacking on the marble floors. At a door, she stopped and stepped aside. “Fräulein, I will wait here,” she said. “You may leave your handbag and suitcase with me.”

  I reached for the doorknob. For a moment, my fingers trembled so much I could not turn it. Behind me, the secretary said, “Ten minutes, fräulein,” and I pushed past the door into a windowless room no larger than a cubicle.

  A table sat under a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Its chill glare fell upon an emaciated figure, seated on a chair, who turned enormous eyes and sharp cheekbones to me.

  “André,” I said. Tears blurred my vision as I went to him, enfolding him in my arms as he sat silent, still. I could feel every bone in his body under his loose clothing; when I blinked back my tears to take a full look at him, I could not curb my horrified gasp. “Dear God, what have they done to you?”

  He coughed—a deep, lung-sputtering clatter in his chest. “Tante Coco,” he murmured, as though the very act of speaking exhausted him. “You . . . can you help me?”

  “Yes.” I sank to my knees, clasping his bony hands. “They are sending you to a hospital for a few days and then you will be coming home. Katharina is waiting for you, and Tipsy, too; they are both so eager to see you. We have been terribly worried.”