Mademoiselle Chanel

by C. W. Gortner

  “They are alive?” he said, his voice fracturing.

  “Yes, of course they are. They are safe in Pau. I saw them myself.”

  He lowered his face. As his jutting shoulders began to shake, I realized he was weeping. “They told me they were dead.”

  I embraced him once more, pulling his head to my chest. “They lied. Your family is alive. I promise you.”

  He wrapped his skeletal arms around my waist. “You smell like Paris,” I heard him say. “I want to go home.” His whispered words plunged me back to the day I had taken him to tea at the Ritz, when he had been only a boy and his impulsive embrace caught me so off guard.

  I could barely talk past the lump in my throat. “You will, in a few days. You must get well first. Take your medicines, rest, and regain your strength. We need you—”

  A knock came at the door. From behind it, the secretary said, “Three minutes, fräulein.”

  I glanced angrily at the door, longing to yell and scream, to bring the very walls of this building down on their miserable Nazi heads. Turning back to André, I said urgently, “You must listen to me. I have to go. They will not let me stay. Please, just do as they say until they send you home. You will manage a textile mill; I have arranged everything.” I cradled his face between my hands as he tried to stifle his hacking cough, his eyes growing distant, glazing over. “Do you hear me? No one will harm you. You will be safe.”

  He did not reply, staring blankly past me as the door opened and the secretary told me, “Fräulein, the car is here.”

  “Just another minute,” I said. “Please, he is so ill. I don’t think he understands me . . .”

  She shook her head. “There is no more time.”

  “André,” I entreated, but he just sat there as if he were no longer present, as if he had already fled his fragile self. I had to bite back a sob as I began to walk away, glancing over my shoulder to him, a collection of shadows and bone, until, just as I stepped through the door he whispered, “Merci, Tante Coco.”

  I DID NOT REST during the long train ride to Paris. I sat and stared out the black window to the invisible landscape hurtling past, a pall of smoke over my head and the ashtray on the side of my seat overflowing with butts, seeing André’s haunted eyes; the sharp etching of his skull under his thin skin; and hearing his deep, searing cough.

  My nephew had tuberculosis. I was convinced of it. Unless he went to a sanatorium that specialized in treating the disease, he would die. The Germans did not care about him. They never had. They would keep him in the hospital and then dispatch him to Paris as promised, but he could not possibly toil in a textile mill, sacrificing what little remained of his ravaged health. No, I must take him to Switzerland, to a clinic with the best doctors my money could buy.

  Before I did, however, I had to ensure his safety by delivering a message to Madrid.

  XIV

  In January 1944, under bitter winter cold, I embarked on my trip to Spain. The Christmas season had been more dismal than usual, the privations in Paris having reached such an extreme that even those ensconced in the Ritz were starting to feel the bite of chilled rooms and persistent hunger. The war was fast becoming a détente between Hitler and his foes.

  Spatz accompanied me on the train to the border, briefing me on my mission during our hours-long confinement in a small first-class sleeper compartment.

  “You will arrive in Madrid and go straight to the Ritz. Avoid any sightseeing. Once you check in, go about your business at the hotel and wait to rendezvous with Vera. Do not tell her anything. She will no doubt remind you of her letter and of her attempts to solicit help from the British to find her husband; when she does, offer to assist her by applying to the ambassador for an appointment. Churchill is due to arrive sometime after the fifteenth. If all goes according to plan, the ambassador will arrange to let you speak to Churchill on Vera’s behalf. Under no circumstances can Vera be there when you meet; persuade her it’s in her best interests, as her presence at the embassy will rouse suspicion with the Spanish authorities, given her predicament. Franco and Mussolini are allies; she cannot be seen at the embassy lest the Spanish think she’s not in Madrid to open a boutique.”

  He handed me a folded paper. “Here is your confirmed reservation, which is required to cross into Spain. Your visa is in your passport. Our contact in Madrid will deliver the message to you. We do not know who he’ll be, so don’t expect someone German. We have people of various nationalities working for us. Do not open what he gives you; just hand it in person to Churchill at the embassy after you speak to him about Vera. Until then, never let it out of your sight.”

  “What if Churchill won’t see me?” I asked, stashing the reservation in my purse. “If he has refused in the past to intercede for Vera, why would he change his mind now?”

  “Because you are the one asking,” he said. “Besides, once he reads the message, he’ll understand this is not about Vera. But should something go wrong, destroy the message and return to Paris at once.” He went quiet for a moment. “I may need to move to your room at the Ritz. The situation at my apartment has become precarious.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said absently, my eyes straying to the nondescript reservation on the Madrid Ritz letterhead, which seemed to stand out among my things like a beacon of duplicity.

  We did not speak about my assignment after that. We dined, went to bed, and while he slept, I lay awake, pondering, as I had since the start of the war, what I was doing. Why did I not behave like Misia or so many others who had either fled or elected to sit out the conflict, hiding in their homes? How could I, a woman nearing my sixty-first year, find myself on a train rattling toward a foreign country where a brutal civil war had just taken place, to meet a man I had seen less than a dozen times, the prime minister of a nation under German attack, who had more important concerns than indulging me?

  At the border, Spatz met on the platform with a man I had never seen before, clad in a large hat and overcoat. They spoke briefly, while I waited aside, shivering, until Spatz escorted me to the next train that would take me to Madrid. He clasped my hand before I mounted the carriage steps. “Be careful, Coco. If at any time, you fear you might be compromised you must abort the mission. Spain is not safe; Franco’s Guardia Civil arrest suspects on minor infractions. Do not take any risks.”

  “Now you warn me?” I smiled to ease the barb in my tone and assured him I would be cautious. “Besides, I am Coco Chanel. Who would dare arrest me?”

  He doffed his hat, stepping back as the train began to surge into the night. I sat at my compartment window and peered past the ice-frosted glass to catch a last glimpse.

  He had vanished. Only then did I realize how alone I truly was.

  MADRID WAS A BATTERED CITY. The long standoff between the Republican forces and Franco’s Fascist army had left the city so destitute, it made Paris look like a horn of plenty. Piles of rubble littered the streets; people trudged with heads down, bundled against the bone-shuddering cold and clutching limp shopping bags.

  In the Ritz itself, however, like its counterpart in Paris, the chandeliers sparkled and an air of cultivated elegance persisted, though the hotel had recently served as a military hospital. My reservation was in order, a small suite readied. Going upstairs to bathe and change, I wondered if I should stay put until I heard from Vera. I was just starting to unpack my things when the phone rang. Vera was waiting for me in the lobby.

  She wore one of my matching skirts and waist-length jackets in cream wool, her short red-auburn hair slightly waved. She did not hear me approach until I was almost behind her.

  “Vera, my dear, how lovely to see you.”

  She spun about with a stifled gasp, as if I had interrupted her deep in thought.

  I hid my dismay at the sight of her gaunt face. There was not a trace left of the vivacious divorcée, clad in red silk with camellias in her hair. My gaze fixed on her hands, which trembled as she held her cigarette. Her nails were unpainted, gnawed
to the quick. As she met my stare, she said, with an uncertain smile, “As you can see, Coco, I am not the woman I was.”

  “Oh, it must have been awful,” I soothed, taking her by the arm and bringing her to a nearby table, where we ordered two coffees that reeked of chicory. “When I heard you had been detained in Rome, I was beside myself. You poor thing; and this terrible situation with your husband—I insisted you must be allowed to help me with my new venture.”

  I could hear myself and knew I was talking too fast, too eagerly, my words tumbling out as though I had memorized an ingratiating speech. Years had passed since we last met; she had left my employ to settle in Italy upon her marriage to Lombardi. Though we had exchanged a few cursory letters over the years, with the advent of the war our communication, feeble as it was, had ceased. I had always liked her; her connection to everyone of important social standing had helped make my boutique in London a success. Yet I now realized she had changed as much I had—more so, in fact. She was a familiar stranger in my clothes, our past a frayed thread like the one dangling from her sleeve cuff.

  She tugged at this thread before she said sharply, “I do not understand.”

  “You don’t?” I sipped my coffee, which proved as bitter as the lies in my mouth. “I thought it was explained to you.”

  “It was, but I still don’t understand.” She lit another cigarette. “I never wanted to come here. I told them in Rome that I had to stay because Alberto, my husband—” Her voice caught; tears glimmered in her eyes as she looked about warily, blinking her sorrow back. Then she said, in a taut, accusatory tone, “I do not understand why you are helping them.”

  I sat immobile for a moment. Spatz had told me not to divulge anything, so I made myself lean back in my chair with a worried look. “My dear, I fear you do misunderstand. I am not helping anyone. This is about fashion. With the civil war in Spain at an end, it is the perfect time to open a boutique in Madrid—”

  “Damn your fashion.” She dropped her half-smoked cigarette into her cup. “Are you insane? The entire world is still at war!” As her voice rang out, she went still, trembling more visibly as she struggled to contain her outrage. “What in hell are you about?” She reached into her pocket, and withdrew a crumpled telegram she tossed onto the table. “Did you send me this?”

  I retrieved it, scanning its lines in English:

  I AM GOING BACK TO WORK. I WANT YOU TO COME AND HELP ME. DO EXACTLY AS REQUESTED. I AM WAITING FOR YOU WITH JOY AND IMPATIENCE. ALL MY LOVE.

  My dumbfounded expression must have betrayed me, for she added, “It was delivered along with a bouquet of red roses—roses, in midwinter! Who can afford that? When they came the next day and I told them I had to stay in case my husband contacted me, they forced me onto the plane here. I had to leave everything behind, even my poor dog!”

  “I . . . I did not realize.” The paper crackled in my hands. I became alarmed. I had not sent the telegram or roses, yet someone wanted it to look as if I had, in order to dupe Vera. Nevertheless, she had not come willingly, and judging by the tenor of our conversation, I did not think she would request, or indeed even want, my help.

  “No, apparently not,” she said, cutting into my thoughts, “though you claim you knew about my circumstances. I can only assume that means you did receive my letter, even if you never replied. But letter or not, I know about you, too. It is no secret you entertain Germans in Paris or that despite your willingness to be their friend, you have not reopened your atelier. You would never open one here, either, where people can barely buy bread. So why did you bring me all this way? Because even if it is true, which I doubt, I am not interested in being your shopgirl. My husband is a fugitive; all I want to do is find him.”

  Remembering what Spatz had advised, I said warily, “Perhaps I could be of some assistance. I might petition the ambassor for you, if you like?”

  “You?” she spat, even as her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why would he see you? You seem to forget that you’re not important anymore. You have no influence in England. Besides, I’ve already sent everyone I know telegrams and letters. I’ve been begging for help for months. Like you with my letter, they all ignore me.”

  Spatz had miscalculated. Vera was not an alibi. She was not even an asset. And she could jeopardize everything because it was evident she did not trust me.

  “Well, if the matter is so dire . . .” I tried to force out an apologetic smile. “I did not fully understand your situation, it seems. Vera, I promise you, had I known—”

  She flicked her wrist in a dismissive gesture. “You wouldn’t have done anything differently. You never do. You always act as you will. You don’t care how it affects others.”

  Her words held scalding echoes of Misia in the Tuileries: I warned you, Coco. I told you to be careful, that there will be repercussions . . .

  I rose to my feet. “I see this was a mistake. I apologize, really, I do. Yet seeing as we are here, perhaps we can make the best of it, if only for friendship’s sake. I’ll leave you now because you are upset. We can talk later, over dinner, if you like?”

  She nodded, without looking up at me. “I think that would be best.”

  I left some money on the table and retreated. Vera did not call me back; I had the disquieting feeling she would avoid me for dinner, too—as she did. I refrained from ringing her room, dining alone in the restaurant, and then, seeing through the windows a flurry of snow coming down, returning to my suite to pace the floor.

  The next morning, I woke early and phoned the embassy to request an appointment, determined to see the ambassador before I spoke to Vera again. I could reassure her that I was intervening on her behalf, which would be partly true. According to Spatz’s instructions, I could request the meeting with Churchill to plead Vera’s case. If need be, I would ask that he see her back to Italy safely, as the charade over the boutique in Madrid was over. Then I called reception but no one had left anything for me. I was about to go downstairs, in case Spatz’s contact had decided not to risk entrusting the message to the front desk, when my phone rang to tell me I had a visitor in the lobby.

  A short polite man introduced himself as an embassy escort. The British ambassador, Sir Samuel Hoare, wished to see me, if now was convenient? I bit back my question as to how an appointment had been facilitated so quickly, letting him lead me outside to a waiting car. As the chauffeur drove us through Madrid, the man reached over from the front seat to hand me an envelope. He did not say a word, turning away at once while I hid my surprise and hastily pocketed the envelope. I had not expected someone employed by the embassy itself to be Spatz’s contact; I had not anticipated anything that had happened so far. I fought back anxiety as I tried to apply lipstick while the car jolted over potholes. Had Churchill arrived earlier than expected? Perhaps that could explain why my phone call this morning had prompted such a swift response.

  I was ushered directly into the office of Ambassador Hoare. He was a slender man with a receding hairline, long nose, and impeccable manners, whom I had met briefly at one of Bendor’s gatherings; he greeted me warmly, gesturing to an upholstered chair before his desk. His office walls displayed hunting scenes in oils, banal depictions of aristocratic privilege.

  “I trust your travels were not too onerous?” he said. I reached for my cigarette case and then paused, thinking he might not like me to smoke. When he nodded his assent, I flicked my lighter. “Everything is far more trouble nowadays,” I said, forcing out a smile. “But yes, it was not as onerous as you might expect.”

  “And your accommodations, I hope they are agreeable?” He regarded me with a pale, steady gaze, his intent unreadable. It made me nervous, reminding me of my meeting in Berlin. Hoare seemed to know entirely too much, making me abruptly blurt out, “I do not intend to stay long, Your Excellency. I merely wish to apply for an appointment to see Sir Winston and—” I was reaching into my coat pocket for the envelope with the message from the German conspirators when I remembered I was not suppo
sed to reveal it yet. Fingering it more closely, I realized it was too thick to contain a slip of paper. Had the escort entrusted me with crucial documents?

  Samuel Hoare sighed. “I am afraid you have come a long way, mademoiselle, only to be disappointed. Sir Winston is not here.”

  “Oh,” I said, hiding my frustration and withdrawing my hand from my pocket without exposing the envelope, though it made a crackling sound that seemed unbearably loud to my ears. “But I understand he is due here soon, yes?”

  “I fear not. Sir Winston unfortunately had to cancel his visit.”

  I gaped at him. “Canceled? But, why?”

  “I regret that I am not at liberty to disclose that information, mademoiselle.” He glanced toward the closed door of his office. As he returned his gaze to me, my chest constricted. All of a sudden, I felt breathless. “Madame Bate-Lombardi is here,” he went on. “She arrived in rather a state, I’m afraid.” He pursed his lips before he said, “She has made serious accusations that have raised our concern. Your name was mentioned, which is why when you phoned this morning, I made time for you at once.”

  As I lifted my cigarette to my lips, I found I could barely inhale. “Accusations . . . ?”

  “Yes. Again, I regret I am not at liberty to explain. However, it would be advisable for you to return to Paris as soon as possible.” His voice lacked any hint of inflection, as though he was remarking upon a sudden change in the weather. “I’m afraid I cannot be of assistance to you, nor can I guarantee your safety should you choose to remain in Madrid.”

  I sat still, feeling the envelope in my pocket. I knew without looking that whatever it contained, it could not be just a message. I heard Spatz in my head: If at any time, you fear you might be compromised you must abort the mission; and I murmured, “I see,” starting to stand, to extend my hand to him, too nervous to inquire about what on earth Vera might have said. As he shook my hand, he told me: “Sir Winston fell ill in Tunisia. He will return to England once he recovers. If you care to leave a communiqué for him, I will see that it is forwarded.”