‘No, I’m sorry.’ And she was. She knew she’d have to plead. ‘I can never make up for my years of coldness towards you, Tommy. But I still need to try.’
‘I should never have said such a thing.’
‘But it was true.’ She reached for his hand. No one saw. ‘My conscience torments me. I have to help her.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘We’ll go together then.’
Alexandrine sagged with relief.
Then he looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Dress up. Tonight it’s essential. Dress up as you would to a party.’
She considered, although it seemed bizarre. ‘All right. But why?’
‘If you’re caught you can make it look like you’ve been out having fun and you lost track of time. You’re a Comtesse, you live at the Ritz, they’ll believe you – especially if you act a little drunk. You might spend the rest of the night in some police cell, but they’ll let you go in the morning.’
Again, she was made nearly speechless by the depth of experience he seemed to have in conducting clandestine activity. ‘But what about you?’
He scraped a hand though his shock of hair. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘But I do worry.’
The truth of such a statement, one he had so hopelessly longed to hear from her for so much of his life, and now said so easily, moved him. They had come such a great distance in such a short time, Tommy and his dead father’s wife, with all the lost years to make up for. ‘I have a disguise of my own,’ he told her, after a moment. ‘And I know already that it works.’
* * *
When Polly knocked on the door of Alexandrine’s suite, the Comtesse admitted her, having just been delivered a letter stamped by the Swedish Red Cross.
‘It’s from Lana Mae!’ cried Polly.
‘Zita got one, too,’ said Alexandrine, beaming, as happy about it as Polly was.
They tore open the thin envelope together, to find an even thinner sheet of paper inside.
Polly hesitated. ‘Perhaps you should read this alone, Alexandrine. She addressed it to you.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling – she’d want you to read it, too.’
‘Would she though?’ said Polly, thinking of the impenetrable ties that bound her three guardians.
‘There are no secrets between us,’ said Alexandrine.
The absurdity of this statement hit Polly at once. But it was only when she said nothing in reply that Alexandrine looked up at her and realised it, too. She at once grew uncomfortable.
‘Sometimes I think there are more secrets between us than there are stars in the sky,’ Polly said. ‘Why is that, Alexandrine?’
The Comtesse seemed to be forming an acceptable answer in her head. Then Polly’s own look made her abandon it. ‘It is the habit of lifelong friendships,’ she said, simply.
‘We have known each other – we have loved each other – for more than two years, Alexandrine. When will I be let in?’
The Comtesse blanched. ‘But we let you into our hearts at once – when your Aunt Marjorie died.’
Polly again said nothing. She knew she didn’t have to.
Alexandrine grew defensive. ‘Some secrets simply cannot be shared.’
‘Really?’ said Polly ‘Or do you mean they cannot be shared with me?’
Lana Mae’s letter lay on the bed between them, unread.
‘Perhaps I can break this habit,’ said Polly, ‘by telling you some of my own secrets, Alexandrine. Are you ready to hear them?’
The Comtesse’s eyes widened. ‘What secrets could you possibly have at your age?’
Polly looked hard at her. ‘This one for a start: Aunt Marjorie gave me a loaded gun – just before she died. It was hidden in the green Hermès handbag.’
The Comtesse gasped.
‘Someone stole it,’ said Polly. ‘Was it you?’
She had made Alexandrine speechless.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Polly, ‘I think it was Zita.’
The Comtesse was pale. Then she gave Polly a single nod of confirmation. ‘Then it most likely was, darling.’ She filled her lungs. ‘It was hers in the first place. I took it from Zita on the train. I told her I’d thrown it from the window – but I lied. I gave it to Marjorie. She said she would throw it from the window herself. Now I know that she didn’t either.’
Polly saw. The beginnings of trust were being built at last. ‘Why did Zita have a gun at all?’
‘To kill herself,’ said Alexandrine.
Polly was horrified. ‘But why?’
Yet trust proved incremental. The Comtesse’s shutters came down.
Polly tried again. ‘Here’s another secret then: Tommy and I are colleagues in resistance . . .’
She’d expected a more forthright reaction but didn’t get it. This startled Polly. ‘Did you hear what I said?’
Alexandrine had. ‘Are you in love with him?’ she asked, simply.
Secrets proved tenacious on both sides. ‘We are colleagues,’ Polly stressed.
The Comtesse seemed to accept this. But whether this acceptance was for what Polly had claimed – or because Alexandrine had gleaned the truth in Polly’s heart – Polly could not have known.
Alexandrine kissed her. ‘Let’s read Lana Mae’s letter now,’ she said.
They did so. Together.
Dear crazy old Comtesse
So, as cancers go, mine’s got golden eggs with it, and they’re all being served ‘over easy’! And if that sounds sorta cryptic, honey, then I’m sorry for it, but I gotta speak a lotta hooey if I ever want this letter to get through to you, even with them swell gals from Sweden. But if you put your pretty head onto it you’ll most likely guess why. Worked it out yet? Jesus, honey, you sure are dumb! Lemme give you one last hint: this type of cancer I got rhymes with ‘cake’, and if you wanna put an F at the front of it, then I ain’t gonna stop you.
Phew.
Listen, honey, you mustn’t worry about me. Camp Vittel sure ain’t the Ritz, and you know what? I couldn’t give a flying fig tree about that. My life’s never been richer, and I don’t mean in pennies, because, baby, I ain’t got none of those left – another thing for the fig tree. I’ve reached the bottom of my rock pile now, honey, but Jesus, what I got for it. It’s let me SAVE LIVES – lives that would have been yet more casualties of this lousy war otherwise. Just imagine that? If not for what I’ve done people would be dead right now. This makes me so happy.
I wouldn’t mind betting you’ve been working on plans of your own in this area. Shoehorning all that wealth and position into something that gives something back. You’ve never been flashy, God knows, so whatever it is that you’re up to I’m sure the volume’s down low. Good. That’s the best place to keep it. But if I’m somehow all wrong about you, baby, and you’re not on the path to make great, then lemme say this: you should be. We Ritz Girls have long had it lovely, honey. Ours ain’t a fair share. So, go spread yours around some. Use what you got to save others.
It was humiliation that fuelled me – it’s got more zoom to it than gasoline. If I met that kraut Metzingen now, I’d thank him for it. But getting called a dumb whore in l’Espadon is nothing to what you’ve experienced at kraut hands. That’s some mighty fuel of your own you’ve got there. I reckon you could fly to the moon on it.
I gotta go now, baby, I’m getting tired. I’m a better actress than old Zita these days, and sometimes I even fool myself. I get actual pains! I’ve still got my lucky pink bismuth.
I think about you Girls always, and all the fun we had – and all the fun we’re gonna have just as soon as this lousy war’s done itself.
And remember, no matter what happens, baby, put on your best frock for it.
Your ever-loving Lana Mae xxx
* * *
When Polly had gone, Alexandrine marvelled at her old friend’s exquisite timing. If Alexandrine had harboured even a scrap of a doubt about what she had to do, Lana Mae would have obliterated it with her letter. Yet as it was, t
he big-hearted American had still planted fresh seeds. Alexandrine began to give thought as to what else she might do to resist once Suzette was safe. The only surprise about Polly’s confession of resistance activity with Tommy was that she, Alexandrine, was not surprised by it.
It felt right. Why should either of the young people Alexandrine loved not seize opportunity to fight for France, too?
On the other side of the tissue-thin letter paper was an extra message, scrawled not by Lana Mae, whose handwriting was distinctive, but by someone else’s hand. This handwriting was atrocious, near to illegible – like a doctor’s prescription, Alexandrine thought. She stared at it a moment, trying to decipher it, only making out single words here and there, but no sentences. In the end she gave up, too distracted for such a trying task. Alexandrine placed the letter upon her bed again, with the intention of coming back to it when everything was done at the Marais. Her mind would be at peace by then, she knew. She’d have a much better chance of understanding what on earth the extra bit said.
Alexandrine opened her built-in wardrobe, where gown after gown met her gaze. It took her a while to decide on something appropriate to wear, with Tommy’s insistence that she dress for a ‘party’ both guiding and confusing her, given how un-celebratory was the occasion.
When at last she settled upon the ideal dress it seemed ridiculous she’d not chosen it at once for its great significance.
Alexandrine decided upon a Lanvin gown.
* * *
From somewhere in the blacked-out Paris streets between the Marais and the 1st arrondissement they heard a clock tower strike two o’clock, and Alexandrine felt that little bit more reassured that they could actually make it to the guichets – the narrow-arched entryways that led to the courtyards of the Louvre – without anyone demanding to see their identification papers. Suzette was sandwiched between her and Tommy, her arms hooked through their own so that they could hurry her along and catch her if she stumbled. Suzette wore a coat thrown over a summer dress, even though it wasn’t chilly; her yellow star had come loose at a corner, but they were all so used to seeing them – and in Suzette’s case, wearing them now – that none of them thought to remove it.
Suzette had let them take her from her apartment without complaint only because she was half asleep. They’d given her little explanation. All that had registered with the old servant was that there was some imminent danger and, together, her would-be daughter and her would-be grandson had come all the way from the Ritz to spare her from it.
Yet now that Tommy had led them through a bewilderingly indirect route comprising back alleys and rear courtyards, entrances, and even staircases of apartment houses, the once familiar city had come to seem like some cunning nocturnal trap.
An alley had ejected them onto the rue de Rivoli near where it connected with the avenue de l’Opéra – the only major thoroughfares it had been impossible to avoid. Across the curfew-imposed emptiness stood the tantalising guichets of the Louvre. Suzette was now awake enough to know that she’d been taken far, and at a very early hour, on a dearth of information. They waited in the shadows until Tommy felt absolutely certain they could dash across the road to reach the gloomy safety of the arches without being seen.
‘You’re very dressed up,’ said Suzette to Alexandrine, taking advantage of their momentary stillness to appraise what she was wearing.
Alexandrine retained her humour. ‘Let me guess – I look like a tart.’
‘I would never say such a cruel thing, Madame,’ Suzette protested. ‘You look very elegant.’
Alexandrine raised an eyebrow. ‘Thank you, Suzette.’
‘Have you been to some soirée?’
Alexandrine looked to Tommy and decided it was easier to lie. ‘Yes.’
Suzette turned to Tommy now. ‘You look handsome, too – I’ve never seen you in such shiny duds.’
Tommy, dressed in a showy blue serge suit, was a visual match to Alexandrine’s beautiful Lanvin gown.
‘You almost look like one of the krauts,’ said Suzette, teasing him, ‘splashing his phony exchange rate dough on the first thing he tries on at Printemps.’ Then the accuracy of this observation hit her. ‘That’s just what you look like, little one,’ she said, staring at him in incomprehension. ‘That suit’s so shiny you could pass for one of the bastards.’
He glanced uncomfortably at Alexandrine. ‘Shhh, Grand-mère.’
‘Why shhh? Where are we going?’
There was no movement to be seen along the inky black rue de Rivoli or up the deserted avenue de l’Opéra.
‘We can chance it now – let’s go,’ said Tommy.
‘Wait –’
But Alexandrine and Tommy had Suzette secured by the arms, and they pulled her into the street, across the two narrow lanes and safely into the archways of the Louvre. They paused again as Tommy peered into the great Louvre courtyard for any sign of Wehrmacht patrols. As he’d predicted, there were none.
‘We’ll stick to the sides of the courtyard where the shadows are deepest,’ he told them, pointing at where he meant, ‘and make our way around to the opposite guichets.’
‘Wait,’ said Suzette, panting. ‘I need to get my breath.’
‘Of course, darling,’ said Alexandrine. ‘You take as long as you need.’
The old woman took longer. ‘Now tell me where we’re going,’ she demanded, releasing herself from their hold.
‘We told you, Grand-mère. The Latin Quarter,’ said Tommy.
‘You told me nothing at all.’
‘Yes, we did – there’s danger if you stay in the Marais. We’re taking you to safety with a friend.’
‘Every night’s a danger,’ said Suzette, ‘what makes this one any different that I can’t spend it tucked up inside my own bed?’
They had already decided between them not to tell her what they’d learned of the imminent round-up until she was hidden.
‘Please trust us, darling,’ said Alexandrine. ‘We wouldn’t be going to this trouble just to make a joke.’
But Suzette was too canny. ‘I can tell you’re not giving me the whole story, because I’m not a fucking fool. So, I’ll ask you again, Madame: what makes tonight different?’
‘Please keep your voice low, Grand-mère,’ Tommy pleaded. ‘Someone will hear us before we can make it to the Seine.’
The rumble of approaching vehicles frightened all three of them.
They threw their backs against the narrow passage walls, while the glow of approaching headlights threw a dull illumination into the reaches of the archway. They watched in shared anxiety as the dim blue light licked its way along the walls, while the vehicles drew closer along the rue de Rivoli, headed east towards the Marais. Then the first of the vehicles passed: a familiar green and cream Paris bus.
‘Cops,’ said Suzette, in amazement, ‘dozens of ’em, did you see inside? They looked like they were going off on their summer holidays.’
A second bus passed, and Alexandrine saw a gendarme she even recognised: the fleshy face of Teissier, unmistakable even in shadowy profile through the bus window. A third and a fourth bus passed; each one filled with policemen, and not only those from the city gendarmerie, but young men wearing varying kapi on their heads signifying rural constabularies.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said Suzette, ‘half of them are country boys. What are they doing bussing them all here?’
More buses followed, but these became emptier, until the final vehicles had no one inside at all save the drivers. A chill fell over the three of them, hidden in the archway, as the last bus disappeared east.
Suzette turned to them, angry. ‘You know what those cop buses are about, don’t you? And that’s why we’re here.’
‘Suzette,’ Alexandrine began.
‘Don’t fob me off because you think I’m so old – tell me what’s going on right now if you want me to go one step more.’
Alexandrine looked helplessly at Tommy. She made an attempt. ‘I receiv
ed an anonymous note.’
Tommy stepped in. ‘The cops – the krauts are using them to conduct a round-up.’
‘A round-up of what?’ But Suzette knew the answer before she’d finished asking the question. She went weak in her legs. ‘Oh God.’
‘Suzette!’ Alexandrine had to steady her in her arms.
The sound of two sets of feet rapidly nearing from the rue de Rivoli sent fresh alarm through them. Tommy looked desperately into the vast courtyard, knowing they couldn’t make a run for it without giving themselves away. He gestured for them to press themselves tight against the passage walls again.
Two figures appeared at the archway entrance, silhouetted against the night sky. They stopped, peering in. Alexandrine, Tommy and Suzette held their respective breaths. One of the new arrivals was slim, not especially tall; the other was unmistakably a young child. Clearly believing they were safely unobserved, the two newcomers came into the passage, breathing hard with fear and exertion.
Suzette gasped, recognising them in the gloom.
The two nearly cried out.
Suzette stepped forward. ‘Don’t be scared, Anaïs, it’s only me – old Suzette from the Marais – don’t you recognise my wrinkly face?’
They did. Then they gaped at Alexandrine in her beautiful gown.
‘Madame Suzette?’ said the older of the two, Anaïs, a girl in her early teens, who was dressed in what seemed to be a makeshift uniform.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Suzette looked to the younger child. ‘And I know you, too, don’t I? It’s little Vidette.’ She turned to Alexandrine. ‘She’s Alma’s grandchild. Her mother died of consumption.’
‘Alma?’
‘Alma from the queues – you gave her that old Hermès scarf, remember?’
Alexandrine did remember. Then she realised that the tiny girl was wearing the item at her throat.
‘What are you doing here so late?’ Suzette asked the older girl. And to the little one she asked, ‘Does your granny know you’re out?’
‘Granny woke me up and told me to go with Anaïs,’ said Vidette. ‘She wanted me to have her nice scarf.’
The Heart of the Ritz Page 34