The Milliner's Secret

by Natalie Meg Evans

  Ottilia feathered the pencil over an eyebrow. ‘I envy you. I look for the future and I don’t see anything. I only see what is behind.’

  ‘You will be happy again.’

  ‘No. The day Dietrich broke off our engagement, it was like slamming into a wall. I still remember every word he said. “I find it impossible to go ahead in life with you.” Ahead in life. His went on, mine stopped. I was nineteen. I don’t remember what that Gypsy told me at Epsom, but I remember stumbling out of her caravan in despair.’

  Not knowing what to say, Coralie retired to a lavatory. The flush wasn’t strong enough to drown the identity card so, very reluctantly, she fished it out again. Standing on the toilet seat, she lifted the top of the cistern and dropped the card inside. She heard the door to the Ladies open and shut. Blotting her hands on lavatory paper, straightening her dress, she unlocked the door to the cubicle and stepped out. ‘Good God! Julie!’

  Coralie stared at her former nanny, whom she’d supposed was still in the country. Where had that milkmaid complexion gone? The girl in front of her looked more like twenty-nine than the twenty she must now be. In a tight satin dress, scarlet lipstick and a matching pillbox hat balanced on her exaggeratedly rolled hair, Julie Fourcade was a bad translation of a Hollywood starlet. Hiding her shock, Coralie said, ‘Have you come to see Florian? Poor boy got so thin without you. But why haven’t you visited? Where are you living? Not on rue Jacob, or we’d have bumped into each other.’

  Answering with a vague shrug, Julie added, ‘Busy, you know how it is. And I’m not back with Florian. I have a new man.’

  Yes, Coralie thought. The signs were there. ‘I hope he looks after you.’

  Julie’s gaze skimmed Coralie’s gown, upswept hair and the doll-hat with its hot-pink feathers. Her eye dropped to the coral bracelet. ‘Ramon gave you that, didn’t he?’

  ‘“Coral for Coralie.”’

  ‘My man gave me this.’ Julie flashed an opal ring, showing it proudly to Ottilia before going to the cubicle that Coralie had just vacated. ‘Nice to run into you both. Pop over to my table, have a drink, if you like. Now, pardon me, I’m bursting.’

  As the bolt clicked, it dawned on Coralie that Julie hadn’t asked once about Noëlle.

  Their German officers stood as they returned to the table. A good sign, as it meant they regarded them as ladies, not tarts. Thank God Dietrich had not thought to look for them here – not yet, anyway. Eleven hours to go, trapped, until Ottilia was safe away. Only then could Coralie and Una leave. Coralie saw Una on the dance floor with the senior black-uniformed officer.

  ‘I have an idea,’ she said to those remaining at the table. She spoke German and the men stared, too slow to hide their surprise at her educated accent. Mademoiselle Deveau had been a good teacher, and she’d picked up more from Dietrich than perhaps he’d ever realised. ‘Two of you dance with us, and the one left behind can order dinner. The chef here’s very good. He has nothing to cook with, of course, but his way with fresh air is . . .’ She kissed her fingers. Offering her hand to the oldest of the men, she said, ‘While we dance, I’ll tell you who taught me German.’

  Her partner was in his mid-twenties, muscular, with wide-apart eyes and a broad nose. He smelt a bit sweaty, which induced her to lean back rather than copy other women, and drape herself against his chest. Oh, well, charming signatures out of men was Una’s forte, not hers. It wasn’t long before she spotted Julie, with a German partner, her plump arms around his squared-off shoulders. He seemed rather entranced. Was he the provider of opal rings?

  Phrases had been coined to describe the relationship between invader and civilian, but the word ‘collaboration’ was the most loaded. To some, it meant ‘working relationship’. For those like Serge Martel, it meant profiteering, and to certain women, it meant sexual congress. To others, Coralie supposed, it might even mean love.

  Her partner, she learned, was called Ulrich and he came from Lower Silesia, to which she replied, ‘Where the coal comes from.’

  He seemed taken aback and she wondered if he’d been taught that the French were ignorant and lived in rabbit holes – just as they’d been told that the Germans were starving and smoked cigarettes made from dung. She asked about his regiment, hiding her relief when he pointed proudly to the lightning-strike runes at his throat and said, ‘Waffen-SS.’

  Presumably that meant he wasn’t Gestapo. When she said, ‘I thought you might be a policeman,’ Ulrich looked so offended that she asked quickly, ‘What does SS stand for again?’

  ‘Schutzstaffel. It means “Elite Guard”.’ He showed her a skull-and-crossbones ring on his knuckle.

  ‘We’ll all look like that if food gets any scarcer,’ she said. It didn’t get a laugh. Neither did it get them any nearer a signature on an Ausweis. She searched again for Una and instead saw Ottilia, dancing with another of the younger SS officers, lost in her trance. Ah, there was Una – clearly doing her best to stick close to Ottilia. They needed to have a meeting, re-draw their plan, because Coralie was certain of only one thing: Ottilia would not sustain her composure for eleven hours.

  ‘You were going to tell me how it is you speak German so well, Fräulein.’

  ‘Mm? Oh, a teacher, here in Paris. Half the time we’d speak French, the other half German. And I read a few books. Silly romances,’ she said, deciding not to mention A Farewell to Arms. ‘I don’t like too much reality.’

  She caught Una’s eye then, only to see her friend’s expression petrify. Four men stood at the edge of the dance floor. They were looking from couple to couple, as if crossing faces off a list. Tall and well-built, they were not typically French. Neither was the cut of their suits. Coralie saw them confer, then signal to Ottilia’s dance partner.

  Coralie’s partner had seen them too. ‘They are officers of the Gestapo. It seems they wish to question your friend.’

  ‘They’ll have made a mistake. Otill— ’ She cleared her throat. ‘Ottilie is a bit dim, but she’s no danger to anyone.’ Ottilia was being led off the dance floor, towards the men. Take your time, Coralie urged wordlessly. You are a florist from rue de Madrid, enjoying a last night out in Paris before going to your aunt at Perpignan.

  One of the Gestapo was less heavy-set than his fellows. He had a facial scar, and round spectacles that gave him the look of a scholar. Or even a cleric. A Homburg hat was wedged under his arm and he was taking off leather gloves, presumably so he could search inside Ottilia’s bag. She was proffering it meekly. There was nothing alarming in his demeanour.

  He raised a succession of items up to the light. A lipstick, a pen, the gold cigarette holder. Finally, an ID card, which he inspected with agonising thoroughness.

  When he gave the handbag back to Ottilia, Coralie let out her breath, but relief was short-lived. More questions, it seemed, and soon Ottilia was making the fluttering gestures that prefigured tears or sometimes hysteria. You are Ottilie Dupont, who trained at a technical school on the Left Bank. You are unemployed because there are no flowers in Paris.

  Had Dietrich summoned these men? Had he followed them, perhaps from the Bois de Boulogne or avenue Foch? Coralie looked at Arkady, a horrible thought stealing in. He might have been trailed to Ramon’s. The Gestapo might already have taken Noëlle and Ramon, Dietrich making good his threat . . . Your child for my child. Stop it, she ordered herself, or you’ll be in hysterics before Ottilia. Maybe somebody here had called in the secret police . . . Coralie’s gaze found Serge Martel, and he stared back at her for the count of twenty, then put his hand to his heart and gave a small bow.

  The Gestapo had Ottilia surrounded.

  ‘Where will they take her?’ Coralie asked her partner.

  ‘The Gestapo have a place on avenue Foch, with prison cells and interrogation rooms.’ Ulrich put distance between them. ‘You went with that woman to the ladies’ room. You were gone a long time.’

  ‘We were fixing our faces.’ Her voice split. ‘Touching up our lipstick.’

&
nbsp; ‘But she is your friend?’

  ‘Not really. I hardly know her.’

  There. Betrayal was so easy and she was no better now than Serge Martel or her father. I have to be, she told herself.

  They were taking Ottilia towards the stairs, two Gestapo holding her arms. Four men, to remove a woman as slender as a wine-glass stem.

  Coralie muttered an excuse to Ulrich, and, afraid he would try to stop her, ran as if to the lavatories. Changing direction, she cut behind some tables, keeping to the shadows. In her haste, she stepped out of one borrowed shoe, turning her ankle. Excruciating, but she mentally blanked out the pain and pulled off the other shoe. The club’s stairs were lit by tea lights, a candle on each step. Coralie climbed soundlessly, knowing the arrest-party was just ahead of her. Perhaps Ottilia had, belatedly, put up a fight. Coralie could hear her demanding her cloak in near-hysterical German. So much for being mild-mannered Ottilie Dupont.

  Coralie had no particular plan and her only weapon was a hatpin. And even though it was a nice sharp one, it wouldn’t fell four trained policemen. There was just a chance that, as they left the club, she could slide between them and whatever vehicle they drove. If she could get Ottilia running, they might seize their one advantage: the streets of Paris. Coralie knew the back ways, the cut-throughs. If they made it as far as the Butte de Montmartre, she’d find the ancient, rustic lanes where no car could follow. She stepped forward. It was, literally, now or never.

  A hand clamped hard over her mouth. Somebody had come noiselessly behind her. She tried to kick but was bodily lifted up the last few stairs, and shoved hard against the wall. A voice said in her ear, ‘Don’t fight me.’

  Dietrich.

  ‘I can’t save you both. Kurt.’ Another shape loomed. ‘Take over and keep her quiet.’

  Time to draw a breath, then a different hand covered her mouth. She heard Dietrich shout, ‘Major Reiniger, stop, please. I have new orders regarding the woman von Silberstrom.’

  A challenge was given in answer, then Coralie heard Dietrich again: ‘I am Generalmajor von Elbing and I am to take this woman to Luftwaffe Headquarters. She is of great interest to the Reich and to my superiors. Hand her over, please.’

  Coralie got a corner of her mouth free. Her man – had Dietrich called him Kurt? – had a softer grip and must have decided she didn’t need to be put in a wrestling hold.

  She asked, ‘Was tut er jetzt?’

  ‘Pulling rank. Let him get on with it.’

  Dietrich was challenged again. One of the Gestapo – Reiniger, presumably – demanded, ‘On whose orders, Generalmajor?’

  ‘On the orders of the commander in chief of the Luftwaffe. On Reichsminister Göring’s orders.’

  ‘He isn’t in Paris. I must know who gives you orders here.’

  ‘Reichsminister Göring.’ Dietrich remained polite, but with an edge. ‘Are you questioning the instructions of the man who answers directly to the Führer?’

  Silence. Had Dietrich overshot himself? Coralie couldn’t see much, but she could hear Ottilia’s frightened breathing.

  Dietrich tried a more conciliatory tone: ‘I suggest, Reiniger, you return with me to avenue Marigny and put your doubts to General Hanesse, my immediate superior. I should perhaps have explained that it was he who issued this order following a telephone call from Berlin.’

  ‘I know the general. We’ll take the woman away with us and call on him in the morning.’

  ‘But the general is leaving Paris early tomorrow.’ Dietrich made a thoughtful sound. ‘Here’s an idea. He will be dining at the Ritz, now, at his usual table. He won’t object too strongly to our disturbing him, I’m sure. Let’s go and find him.’

  That seemed to be the secret code, the ‘Open, Sesame.’ Coralie heard the scuffle of shoes and at last saw a female shape in the darkness. The shape dissolved, but somebody moved fast towards it. A swing door bumped open and closed.

  A car engine fired nearby. Ottilia was gone, but was she safe?

  They waited, Coralie and the companion she had not yet seen. A muttered discussion took place among the Gestapo men, seasoned with profanities. At last, the swing doors bumped again, several times, and they were gone. The club’s majordomo, the cashier and the cloakroom attendant crept out of a side-room. A low-powered light came on.

  Coralie glanced up and screamed. The man beside her possessed a face out of a horror film. Much of one cheekbone and the jaw beneath had been cut away, flesh stretched over bone. Scar-like sutures showed where it had been stitched. The eye above, the right eye, was covered with a black patch.

  A sardonic smile suggested that her reaction was not new. ‘Oberleutnant Kurt Kleber, friend and colleague of Generalmajor von Elbing. And, no, I don’t know where he’s taking that lady, but I’m to conduct you to a safe house.’

  That house turned out to be Ottilia’s place on rue de Vaugirard. Coralie recalled Dietrich saying that he’d moved into a place ‘special to us’.

  Kleber helped Coralie from the staff car that had brought them from the club. Her ankle had swollen alarmingly.

  ‘This house is Luftwaffe property,’ Kleber said, misreading her hesitation. ‘The Gestapo will not force their way in.’ He took her arm. ‘You are all right? You are not wearing shoes.’

  ‘I turned my ankle, like an idiot.’

  Kleber helped her inside to the lift. They ascended to the second floor, where she’d come so often with Dietrich in the summer of 1937. Preparing to hobble around packing cases, Coralie was astonished to find the flat bare, a pristine blue carpet covering the floorboards.

  ‘What happened to all the crates?’

  Kleber helped her to a sofa. ‘Do you mean the art collection that was stored here? Generalmajor von Elbing shipped it out as soon as he moved in downstairs. I saw the last few crates being loaded up.’

  ‘Where was it sent?’

  ‘You will have to ask him.’ Kleber brought up a footstool and talked of sending for a doctor.

  ‘Cold water and cloths will do.’ When he came back with them, she asked, ‘Where has Dietrich taken my friend?’

  ‘I really cannot say. Is there anything I can bring you to make your stay here more comfortable?’

  She felt like saying, ‘My daughter,’ but in the end requested an aspirin, toiletries, some garment to sleep in. Oh, and something to eat. She was anxious about Noëlle, Ottilia, Una and herself. Yet, somehow, ravenous. ‘Who lives in this flat?’

  ‘Nobody. I share the one downstairs with Dietrich. Two other personnel were here for a while, but they’ve been put back on active duty. I expect you could do with a drink.’ Kleber reached into a sideboard and brought out a bottle of pale spirit. ‘Kirsch?’

  ‘If it’ll help the pain go away.’

  He handed her a glass, saying, ‘We have met before.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She’d have remembered.

  ‘Oh, we have. You came with Dietrich to the German pavilion at the Expo, though we weren’t introduced. You were wearing pink.’

  ‘I was. You’re right.’ And the shock of seeing Dietrich and two well-dressed men exchanging Nazi salutes had never left her. Neither stranger had looked remotely like this unfortunate fellow, however.

  A smile moved one side of Kurt Kleber’s face. ‘I have changed, I hardly need say. I was caught in an explosion. Perhaps you will remember if I say that I was the elder of the two who met ¬Dietrich, the less handsome one.’

  ‘Is the other man here too?’

  ‘No, at war.’ Kleber topped up her glass and promised he’d telephone Luftwaffe HQ opposite, and ask for a dinner to be brought from the kitchens there.

  ‘What about the Corvets, the concierge and his wife? Don’t they still live here?’

  Kleber looked blank. ‘German staff come in daily from across the road to clean. Apart from that, we look after ourselves. Never fear, there is a bed freshly made up. Shall I show you? No? Very well. I will bid you goodnight.’

  He clicked his
heels and left.

  Coralie stayed on the sofa, emptying her glass sip by sip. Kurt Kleber had called this a ‘safe house’ but that could mean anything, depending on the motives of the people operating it. If Dietrich was really her enemy, she was in deep trouble, but she felt less afraid of him now. Serge Martel, on the other hand . . . an informant. A collaborator. A smiling enemy. As she knocked back the last of her drink, she tested her ankle. The cold compress had done some good and she made it to the bathroom. She wanted to wash away the smell of the Rose Noire, and all traces of the enemy’s touch.

  CHAPTER 22

  There is a particular sound a person makes when slipping back into a steaming bathtub. Coralie made that sound, then felt guilty. Noëlle might be awake, calling for her. Even so, she admitted, as she lathered soap into a flannel, a few moments’ bliss would not bring down the sky.

  Curls wrapped in a towel turban, she was half asleep when the sound of a key turning in a lock roused her.

  She heard, ‘Guten Abend!’ A man’s voice. Someone bringing her dinner? She’d assumed the domestic staff at Luftwaffe HQ would be female, but thinking about it, they were much more likely to be military stewards. She lay absolutely still, except that she pushed the big toe of her uninjured foot into the cold-water tap to stop its loud, giveaway drip.

  There came a light rap at the door. ‘Take your time, Coralie. Dinner will arrive in half an hour.’

  ‘Dietrich?’

  ‘I’m leaving clothes for you, from Ottilia’s cupboard. She will not mind as you are such good friends now.’ He spoke French, rather haltingly. ‘Unless, of course, you wish to dine in that very revealing evening dress.’

  A note of insecurity? She asked, ‘Is Ottilia with you?’

  ‘No, and I am not going to tell you where she is. I shall be in the sitting room, waiting.’

  He’d chosen a black Javier dress in knitted silk, with a same-fabric belt. ‘He probably thinks nuns overdress,’ she muttered, as she put it on. But once she saw herself in a mirror, she admitted she looked like a grown-up Frenchwoman. Autumn–winter, five years old, she judged. A dress from the era of sleek hair and near-masculine restraint.