I shuffled into the kitchen and saw that the outside door had come loose on its hinges. It yawned open into the yard. The trees were magical in the silvery light. An owl sounded in the woods. I walked out into the courtyard with the floating lightness of a dreamer. The air was fresh and sparked with electricity against my skin. A shadow dropped like a curtain as a cloud passed over the face of the moon.
I turned towards the road and started. There were shapes moving in the spot where I had seen the gypsies dance so many years before. At first I couldn’t make out what they were and squinted like a near blind woman into the blackness. Then the cloud passed over and the moon shone again and I saw them: the silhouettes of two men and four women, the eldest of whom leaned on a stick. One of the women stood in front of the others, her scarlet dress billowing around her and her hair flying over her shoulders like a flag on the mast of a ship. She raised her hand towards me.
I wasn’t frightened but my breathing quickened. Tears blurred my eyes. Maman?
My feet pressed the ground with longing and desire. I wanted to run to her, to be enfolded in her arms. I wanted to be where she was, not alone in the moonlight. But gravity held onto my body and my feet would not move. Another cloud passed over the moon and I sensed something shift in the atmosphere. The others inched forward, their faces stars shining in the darkness. I looked at each of them in turn. Aunt Yvette and Bernard with their angelic blondeness; Minot’s smile; Madame Ibert’s graceful eyes; Madame Meyer’s plump cheeks. I understood why they had come as clearly as if they had told me. They wanted to say goodbye.
I turned to my mother. She spoke to me without moving her lips: Nothing is wasted, Simone. The love we give never dies. It only changes form.
I caught a glimpse of Kira gazing at me with her vivid eyes and felt myself slipping back into the unconsciousness of sleep. Before I plunged into the darkness I heard my mother whisper: Never be afraid to keep giving love. The words landed on my aching heart as softly as a kiss.
‘Simone, the lavender is waiting for you!’
I opened my eyes. The sun was streaming through the hole in the roof, filling the room with light. I stared at the blue sky, waiting for the dull pain that was always in my heart to seize me. But it did not come. Instead, a different sensation flooded me. I wondered how it was that I could feel these flickers of joy lighting up my soul when there was nothing worth living for.
The wind had dissipated and the air felt cool and fresh. I breathed in; there was a smell of damp and pine, the smell of autumn in Provence. I listened to a bird singing in a nearby tree, trying to work out what it was. Then another sound, like a murmur, started up. I sat bolt upright, straining my ears. The faint hum of a motorcar echoed in the air. Was it the motor truck bound for Sault? The sound became louder. I glanced around the room, looking for my dress. There were clothes hanging out of the dresser I had salvaged from one of the bedrooms, but nothing I could wear. Where was my dress? I spotted it hanging on the back of the door, where I had put it the night before. I tugged it on over my head and slipped on my shoes before running out of the house.
I still couldn’t see the car, but I was certain it was heading for the farm. Then it appeared through the grove of trees. A dusty Citroën with the grille missing. Who is it? I wondered. Most of the cars in the village used charcoal gas for fuel, but this one was running on petrol. The car pulled to a stop in the yard. I couldn’t see the driver through the glare of the glass. The door opened and André stepped out.
‘André!’ My heart melted at the sight of him. He has heard, I thought. He has heard and my dear friend has come to comfort me. André called my name back in greeting but said nothing more. He stepped around the front of the car and opened the passenger door. One leg stretched out, then another. A walking stick followed. Everything slowed down. André reached forward to help a man in an RAF uniform out of the car.
‘Roger?’ I whispered.
They both turned to me. I stared at the man in the RAF uniform, trying to find traces of my lover in the gaunt-looking figure. His head was shaved and there was a jagged scar above his left ear. No, it wasn’t Roger. It was another Allied serviceman, a friend of Roger’s perhaps, who had come to deliver bad news to me personally.
The man placed his stick in his right hand and limped up the rise. André stayed by the car. I could tell by the set of the airman’s jaw that walking caused him pain. I should have moved forward to make it easier for him, but I was frozen to the spot. I feared I would not be able to bear the news he was bringing me.
The messenger looked up at me. ‘Where are all the animals?’ he asked. ‘I was expecting you to have set up your own zoo by now.’
His face broke into a smile and then I saw beyond the ravages of war. The flickers of joy I had felt in my soul that morning burst into flame.
‘Roger!’
I ran towards him, my feet barely touching the earth, and threw my arms around his waist. Roger pressed me to his chest and leaned down to kiss me. His lips were tender, warm, alive. I kissed him and kissed him as if he were the last breath of oxygen on earth. Tears ran down my cheeks and mingled with our kisses. The tears tasted of possibilities, and the return of love and laughter.
We parted for a moment, our gazes locking in an embrace of their own. I should have asked what had happened to him, how he had escaped from the camp, but I could not find the words. All I knew was that he had died, and that I had died, and now we were back among the living. We had been given another chance.
A motor started and I turned in time to see André wave at me through the window of the Citroën. His smile was gentle and his eyes bid me farewell. I thought my heart was going to burst. I watched him turn the car around and disappear down the road.
‘André is the one who gave us this chance,’ I said. ‘He brought you back for me.’
‘He’s as tenacious as you,’ Roger said. ‘He searched every hospital until he found me.’
I closed my eyes, overcome by the sensation of flying. Green hills and forests loomed up ahead of me. Waves broke on the pristine white sands of wilderness beaches. I felt like an explorer coming upon a mystical land. It was beautiful, as if my soul had been set free from earthly restraints and I could see the past, present and future. There was pain and sadness and terror, but most of all there was goodness and love.
‘I think I am hallucinating,’ I said, opening my eyes. ‘I am seeing Tasmania.’
Roger laughed and slipped his arm around my waist.
I gazed into his smiling face and found myself smiling too. We walked together towards the remains of the farmhouse. Whatever else I had to face, I would not face it alone. My Australian had returned. Just as he had promised.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
During World War II there was no unified organisation known as ‘the Resistance’ in France. In the post-war period the term is generally used to describe isolated groups such as communists, socialists, farmers, students and networks of everyday citizens who undertook a wide range of activities to ‘resist’ the Nazi occupation of their country. These individuals and groups did everything from producing underground newspapers, concealing Allied servicemen and forming escape lines for Jewish people, to performing acts of sabotage and taking part in combat. However, for the purposes of simplification, I have used the term ‘the Resistance’ to describe the cause with which Simone Fleurier aligns herself when she joins an escape network.
Part of the delight of writing Wild Lavender was to put my fictional characters in amongst the real characters of Paris and Berlin at the time such as Jean Renoir and Count Harry Kessler. I hope that readers familiar with the various artistic and social movements in Europe from the 1920s to World War II will take gratification in spotting the real personalities amongst the fictional. The Folies Bergère and the Casino de Paris were, of course, famous music halls of the day. The Adriana and its impresario, Regis Lebaron, and artistic director, Martin Meyer, are creations of my imagination.
As far as
possible, I tried to be true to the timing of historical events but there is one place where I changed the year. The Folies Bergère production of ‘La Folie Du Jour’, starring Joséphine Baker, and the lawsuit between Mistinguett and the Dolly Sisters, actually took place in 1926 but I brought these events a year forward to 1925 to fit the story.
It was certainly an eye-opening and pleasurable journey to write Wild Lavender, and I hope that reading it has brought you much enjoyment too.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
While Simone Fleurier was making her journey from Pays de Sault to become France’s most famous music hall singer and a Resistant, I was making a journey of my own. Writing Wild Lavender has been a wonderful, enriching experience, due mainly to the people I met while researching and writing it.
Firstly, I would like to thank four men in France, without whose generous help and efforts this book would not have been possible: Xavier Jean-François, who generously gave of his time to translate research questions for me, contact organisations and academics in France on my behalf, and lend support to the project in any way he could; Michel Brès and José Campos who were wonderful researchers for me in Pays de Sault and Marseilles; and Graham Skinner, whose knowledge of French transportation systems and the railways at the time of the story was invaluable.
Also assisting me with my French research were: Nicolas Durr and his father, Gilbert Durr; Pascale Jones; Chris and Vanessa Mack; Antoine Carlier; Selena Hanet-Hutchins and her mother, Kari Hanet; and Robbi Zeck and Jim Llewellyn of Aroma Tours, who introduced me to the delights and history of lavender cultivation in Provence.
I am also grateful to the people who generously helped with research in the area of their expertise: Gary Skerritt and Adam Workman for information on vintage cars; Fiona Workman for medical questions; Christine Denniston and Sophia and Pedro Alvarez for their information on tango dancing in Paris in the 1920s; Jeff Haddleton and Fiona Watson for information on ballroom dances; Barry Tate, aviation historian, whose excellent information on aircraft I didn’t get to use in this novel but am saving for a future one; Steven Richards of Hewlett Packard for saving me from computer purgatory; Andrea Lammel for checking my German phrases; Dr Larissa Korolev for proofing my Russian phrases; Damian Seltzer for his irate Argentine tango dancer’s curses, Alvaro Covarrubias for putting me in touch with Damian, and Rosalind Bassett for putting me in touch with Alvaro; and of course, thank you to my dashing dance partner, Mauro Crosilla, for taking up the challenge of learning the tango with me so I could experience the dance for myself.
Special thanks should also go to the staff at the State Library Information Service and Ku-ring-gai Library for always going the extra mile in finding information for me.
I would like to express my gratitude to my wonderful agent, Selwa Anthony, for all her enthusiastic support and for being a source of inspiration and balance for me during the writing and editing process. I am also grateful to her right-hand man, Brian Dennis, for giving wise advice on the practical matters of being a writer.
The journey of writing Wild Lavender was made all the more enjoyable by my ‘pit crew’ at HarperCollinsPublishers who so skilfully changed my tyres, adjusted my suspension, checked my brakes and refuelled my engine before sending me off for another round of editing. In particular I would like to thank Linda Funnell, Shona Martyn, Catherine Day, Karen-Maree Griffiths and Kylie Mason. I would also like to say that getting to work again with my editors, Julia Stiles and Nicola O’Shea, on this book was one of the things that made it worthwhile writing a novel almost as big as War and Peace – the pleasure lasted longer that way! Their inspired insight was very much appreciated.
Finally, I would like to thank my family and my friends for being the constant support that they are during the writing process. Life would not be the same without them.
Thank you, all!
About the Author
Belinda Alexandra has been published to wide acclaim in Australia, New Zealand, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Holland, Poland, Norway and Russia. She is the daughter of a Russian mother and an Australian father and has been an intrepid traveller since her youth. Her love of other cultures is matched by her passion for her home country, Australia, where she is a volunteer rescuer and carer for the NSW Wildlife Information and Rescue and Education Service (WIRES).
Discover the world with Belinda Alexandra …
White Gardenia
From the glamorous nightclubs of 1930s Shanghai to the bitter days of Cold War Russia, Anya must roam the four corners of the globe to search for what she values most. Buy it now.
Silver Wattle
The dazzling story of Adéla and Klára, two exceptional sisters searching for success, love and salvation in the Australian film world of the 1920s. Buy it now.
Tuscan Rose
As Mussolini’s grip tightens around beautiful Italy in the 1930s, the young orphan Rosa must discover exactly what she is willing to sacrifice for survival. Buy it now.
Golden Earrings
When talented ballerina Paloma delves into her family’s history she unravels the secrets of the past and discovers a shocking story of passion, betrayal and flamenco in the Spanish Civil War. Buy it now.
Sapphire Skies
What really happened to Soviet fighter pilot Natalya when her plane went down in WWII? Secrets and lies, enduring love and terrible sacrifice all combine in this story of a love to defy the decades. Buy it now.
Preview
White Gardenia
BELINDA ALEXANDRA
In a district of the city of Harbin, a haven for White Russian families since Russia’s Communist revolution, Alina Kozlova must make a heartbreaking decision if her only child, Anya, is to survive the final days of World War II.
White Gardenia sweeps across cultures and continents, from the glamorous nightclubs of Shanghai to the harshness of Cold War Soviet Russia in the 1960s, from a desolate island in the Pacific Ocean to a new life in post-war Australia. Both mother and daughter must make sacrifices, but is the price too high? Most importantly of all, will they ever find each other again?
Rich in incident and historical detail, this is a compelling and beautifully written tale about yearning and forgiveness. White Gardenia announces the arrival of a powerful new talent.
‘impossible to put down’ NW
Silver Wattle
BELINDA ALEXANDRA
Belinda Alexandra returns with a dazzling novel about two exceptional sisters, set in the Australian film world of the 1920s.
In fear for their lives after the sudden death of their mother, Adéla and Klára must flee Prague to find refuge with their uncle in Australia. There, Adéla becomes a film director at a time when the local industry is starting to feel the competition from Hollywood.
But while success is imminent, the issues of family and an impossible love are never far away. And ultimately dreams of the silver screen must compete with the bonds of a lifetime…
Silver Wattle confirms Belinda Alexandra as one of our foremost storytellers. Weaving fact into inspiring fiction with great flair and imagination, this is a novel as full of hope, glamour and heartbreak as the film industry itself.
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 2004
This edition published in 2014
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
www.harpercollins.com.au
Copyright © Belinda Alexandra 2004
The right of Belinda Alexandra to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Alexandra, Belinda.
Wild lavender.
ISBN 978 0 7322 7628 7 (pbk).
ISBN 978 0 7304 4385 8 (ePub)
1. Entertainers – Fiction. 2. World War, 1939–1945 –
Fiction. I. Title.
A823.4
Wild Lavender Page 60