Coco at the Ritz, page 18
As Coco and Spatz prepared to travel to Germany, Coco felt confident they would win Schellenberg’s approval. As it happened—and as the couple heard on BBC radio—Churchill was scheduled to stop in Madrid in early December on his way home from a conference in Tehran. Coco would use her connections to get a meeting with the prime minister. As cover, she would go to Spain with an aristocratic Englishwoman named Vera Bate, who’d once worked for Coco in Paris. They’d say they were in Madrid to scout locations for a new Chanel boutique. Vera had been a close friend of Churchill’s since childhood. If Coco ran into trouble getting access to him, Vera could help.
Most of the hotels in Berlin had been bombed to rubble, so Spatz arranged for Coco to stay at a villa outside town, where the mistress of Momm’s boss, a young woman named Karin Mertin, lived. Spatz would bunk with a friend in a house near the Tiergarten. “Karin is clothes-mad. It’ll be a huge treat for her to be with a real Parisian couturière,” Spatz said the night before they left Paris. “And you’ll help our cause if you’re nice to her.”
The couple’s “cause” was to keep Spatz in Paris. Momm was threatening to transfer Spatz to Istanbul if Spatz didn’t volunteer himself for the assignment in Turkey.
The next evening, Coco sat opposite Karin Mertin at a corner table in the dining room of a villa outside Berlin. Karin was young, barely in her twenties, and exceptionally pretty with white skin and pale gold hair. “Do you think this color washes me out?” Karin asked as she fluttered her hands over her yellow chiffon dress.
“It’s lovely on you,” Coco lied. The dress was the hard hue of a child’s crayon and not at all becoming. Usually Coco had no qualms about speaking her mind. But since Karin was the mistress of a high-ranking German, flattery seemed wise.
Also, Coco was Karin’s guest at the villa. A rambling white-stone affair with lavish gardens under a cover of fresh snow, the house sat on a lake surrounded by pine forests. The wealthy Jewish owners had abandoned the home, and it now served as a safe house for the mistresses of high-ranking Nazis, far from the Allied bombs and the prying eyes of wives.
Coco would be here only one day. Just long enough to convince Walter Schellenberg, head of Nazi intelligence, to approve Modellhut. But first she had to get through dinner with Karin.
In the rectangular dining room, a fresh pine scent hung in the air. Wagner wafted in from a gramophone in the foyer. A portrait of the Führer hung over the mantel, and one wall showcased two Monet landscapes that Coco recalled seeing in a drawing room in Paris. Ugly green brocade drapes lined the tall windows; a fresco of cupids holding flower garlands surrounded the high ceiling. “It came from a château in France and cost a fortune,” bragged Karin. Her voice had the sweet, round tones of a child.
Her body, though, had a womanly grace. She was small and curvy, with an oval face dominated by large green eyes. Though the Nazis frowned on makeup, Karin wore heavy cosmetics: pancake foundation, rouge, goopy black mascara, eyebrow charcoal, stoplight-red lipstick. “I’d get stared at if I went out like this in Berlin,” she said. Karin checked her face in her compact mirror and fluffed her silky hair. Then she clicked the compact shut and dropped it in her beaded purse. “No one cares out here.”
Coco wore heavy makeup, too. Fending off a stab of envy, she thought if she had Karin’s youth and flawless complexion, she’d only wear a little lipstick and, maybe, a touch of powder on her nose.
Beyond the windows, the sun had disappeared into the lake. The room was dark, warmed by candles at the center of each table. Through the blue haze of cigarette smoke, a few faces loomed—middle-aged men in Nazi uniforms and pretty young women. Some were very young, still in their teens. They’d landed here from farms and villages, plucked by some German officer in a Mercedes as they herded sheep or served meals in a roadside café.
Their clothes were too expensive, the diamonds in their rings too large, the cars that had brought them and were parked outside with chauffeurs napping at the wheels too shiny and new. None of the girls were used to having money, and as soon as they got some they spent it on jewelry and clothes, on furs and leather luggage with silk linings and built-in cosmetic trays. Coco had once been as penniless as the poorest of these young women, but she never let her fortune go to her head.
“You will never have money. You will be lucky if a farmer will have you,” the nuns had told Coco when she was a child. She began to understand that without money, she’d always be nothing. She wasn’t so stupid as to dream of being rescued by a rich man who came along and proposed to her. That was for other girls, lesser girls. She’d seen what marriage and motherhood had done to her mother, and she vowed to make her own way without a husband. But to be truly free, she had to have money. This became her mantra: Money is the key to the kingdom. It wasn’t about buying objects. She had to buy her independence at any cost.
* * *
When the food arrived, Coco was dismayed to see it was typical heavy German fare: venison schnitzels, potatoes smothered in cream, and streusel and cherry tortes for dessert. Coco ate little, puffing on a cigarette, while Karin devoured her meal and nattered between bites. “I’m so bored here,” she said. “There’s just so many walks you can take, so many novels you can read—anyway, all the juicy ones have been banned. I can’t go to Berlin because of the bombing, not even to see my poor mother. The last time I was there, she had my dead uncle laid out on the kitchen table. He’d died of a heart attack while visiting her, and she couldn’t get anyone to remove the corpse. It happened during an air raid; part of her building was hit. The lights went out, and when they came on again, the windows had shattered, some walls had caved in and my uncle was dead. I wanted her to come here, but she wouldn’t leave her brother.”
Karin emptied her wineglass and called for the waiter to bring her a refill. She emptied that one, too, and ordered another. “Mother doesn’t approve of my lover, though she took the cash he gave her,” she continued. “He’s so generous. He gave me an entire suitcase of banknotes for the couture shows last fall. But you know what? I only bought three dresses. God, the selection was horrid.”
Karin lifted her big, mascaraed eyes to the heavens and sighed deeply. “There was nothing at Maggy Rouff or Schiaparelli. Finally, I found this dress and two others at Jacques Fath for eight thousand francs each.” She grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray that floated by on the arm of a waiter. “What snobs those vendeuses are. When the woman at Fath told me the price, she had her nose in the air so high, I thought it would hit the ceiling. She didn’t think I could afford it. But I didn’t flinch. I took out the money and slapped it on the counter in front of her. A few banknotes floated to the ground, and, boy, did I enjoy watching her grovel around on her bony knees to pick them up.”
Karin was slurring her words now. But she kept downing glasses of champagne. She drank because she was bored, because her lover was married, because she missed her friends in Berlin, because even with her silly, frivolous brain, she sensed the shift in the air, that the Nazis were in trouble, that the high life she’d been enjoying for the past few years was coming to an end.
“Snobs, all of them.” Karin leaned forward, blowing her sour wine breath in Coco’s face. “You know who else snubbed me at Fath’s? Isabelle Mayer, that skinny witch who’s married to the rich Jewish banker. I was assigned the little gilt chair next to her in the front row, but as soon as my bottom hit the velvet cushion she jumped up, looked at me like I was the Devil himself, and stormed off to the opposite side of the room.”
A cold severity crept into Karin’s girlish voice. “I told my lover about it, and the next day the Gestapo knocked on her door, arrested her, and sent her away.” Karin straightened her shoulders and drew herself up proudly. “I showed her. No one’s heard from Madame Mayer since.”
Another person deported. Madame Mayer was a sometime client of Coco’s. She was a tall, slender woman with a cool, aristocratic air. It was hard to picture her as a prisoner in a dank cell. Perhaps she’d disappeared to a house in an obscure corner of France, or even to America. Probably not, though, Coco thought with a dropping feeling in her stomach.
* * *
It was one a.m. before Coco got away from Karin. She took a couple of narcotic pills and fell into a long, deep sleep under the down comforter. The next morning the chauffeur who’d brought her to the villa the evening before drove her to Schellenberg’s office. Weaving through the burned-out streets of Berlin, Coco shivered. The city looked apocalyptic. Entire blocks had collapsed. On one boulevard a large crowd had gathered to watch a group of men with ropes pulling down the only wall still standing. On other streets, exposed stairways stopped in midair. Huge craters marked the spots where Allied bombs had taken out entire buildings. Patches of blackened snow piled up, and dense yellow smoke hung in the cold sky. Pedestrians trudged through the rubble in overcoats, their faces hidden behind scarves to stifle the gaseous fumes. Sirens blared, and intermittently, planes roared overhead. Coco thought about the possibility of being burned alive in a bomb blast with no one able to find her.
Schellenberg’s office stood unscathed on Berkaerstrasse in a sleek Art Deco building that had been a Jewish nursing home before the war. Spatz was waiting for her in the lobby. He looked gray and anxious, but he forced a smile on seeing her. “How did you sleep, mein liebling?” he said.
“I had a dreadful evening with Karin Mertin. How was yours?”
“Uneventful. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Coco and Spatz took the elevator to the second floor. A brisk secretary ushered them into the intelligence chief’s office. Schellenberg sat behind his immense black lacquered desk. Spatz had confided to Coco that the desk was tricked out with secret compartments holding automatic weapons that could be fired by the touch of a button. Next to Schellenberg’s big, important desk, a humble military camp bed had been set up so he could catch a few hours of sleep. He didn’t have time to go home for a proper night’s rest.
The intelligence minister stood and greeted the couple with handshakes. No raised arm. No Sieg Heil or Heil Hitler. “Mademoiselle Chanel, Herr von Dincklage, so nice to see you,” he said in beautifully accented French.
Schellenberg was tall, slim, and movie-star handsome with abundant straight brown hair and elegant, chiseled features. Next to Spatz, he was the best-looking German man Coco had ever seen. Schellenberg wore a crisply pressed uniform and shiny black boots. Spatz had also confided in her that the intelligence chief had one cyanide capsule hidden under the stone of his blue cabochon ring and a second implanted in a back tooth, so he could kill himself if captured.
Schellenberg smiled warmly at Coco. “My wife is a big fan of your perfume.”
“The next time you’re in Paris, stop by my boutique—I’ll give you a few bottles for her,” said Coco.
“Merci. You are very kind.” Schellenberg nodded. When he raised his chin, his smile had disappeared. “Now, let’s get to the matter at hand.”
Schellenberg motioned to Coco and Spatz to take armchairs and settled himself in the swivel chair behind his desk. “Captain Momm has briefed me, but I’d like to hear more about exactly what you’re proposing,” Schellenberg said.
Spatz let Coco explain. Speaking in French, she told Schellenberg she would go to Madrid and request a meeting with Churchill through the British ambassador, Samuel Hoare, “an old friend of mine,” she said. “I’ll tell Winston about the opposition to Hitler in your high command. I’m sure he doesn’t know how extensive it is. I’ll tell him there are people willing to negotiate, to bring an end to this war. I can put the English in touch with them. I’m sure Winston will listen to me. He trusts me. And he knows how awful this war is for everyone.”
Schellenberg tented his hands in front of his face and leaned back in his chair. “Herr von Dincklage, what do you think?”
Spatz hesitated. He shifted awkwardly, uncrossing his legs, before crossing them again. “I think it’s worth your consideration,” he said finally.
Both Spatz and the intelligence chief knew it was treason to even talk to the enemy. Men had been shot for much less than planning crazy schemes like Operation Modellhut.
Coco fixed Spatz with a severe look, silently urging him to say something stronger in defense of her plan. But just as Spatz opened his mouth to continue talking, an air-raid siren howled. The lights went out, then came on again, as an auxiliary generator whirred. A shapely nurse entered with a first aid kit and put it on Schellenberg’s desk. She exchanged a glance with Schellenberg that made Coco wonder if the nurse wasn’t also sleeping on the camp bed at night. A strange pang of jealousy buzzed through her. Why couldn’t Spatz have more backbone, more authority, like this man? She sensed that Schellenberg was more on her level.
A plane rumbled overhead, drawing Coco back to the conversation. They discussed the details for fifteen minutes. Then Coco said, “There’s one more thing. I’d like to take a friend to Madrid. Vera Bate. She’s related to the British royal family, but she lives in Rome.”
“Yes, Captain Momm told me,” said Schellenberg, shaking his head. “I don’t know.… Bringing in another person, an Englishwoman, complicates matters.”
Coco cut him off. “I’ve never traveled alone in my life, and I’m not starting now!”
Schellenberg crinkled his brow. Coco feared she’d gone too far. Her heart hammered in her chest, and her hands felt clammy. She needed Vera because Vera was much closer to Churchill than she was. No matter what, Churchill would certainly agree to see his old childhood chum. But Coco knew she should have tempered her request with more politesse. Her instinct was to bulldoze her way through obstacles. But Schellenberg wasn’t someone who could be flattened easily.
Still, he offered no further objections. “We will arrange for your transportation and accommodation in Madrid,” he said, rising and extending his hand to Coco, then to Spatz. “I don’t need to remind you”—Schellenberg looked solemnly from one to the other—“total discretion.”
They nodded. “Of course,” said Spatz.
“And now, you should return to Paris immediately,” said Schellenberg. “The Führer is coming.”
“Today?” said Coco.
“I was just informed a few minutes before you arrived. He’s at the chancellery and is expected here before lunch.”
Coco thought she’d like to meet the monster who was ruining Germany and France, but Schellenberg wasn’t about to let her and Spatz dawdle. How could he possibly explain why a French fashion designer and her lover were in his office? Grabbing Coco’s elbow, Schellenberg pushed her toward the door as Spatz followed. “Good luck, Mademoiselle Chanel,” he said.
* * *
“Why must you take Vera along?” asked Spatz in the car on the way to the train station. “She lives in Rome, and you haven’t seen her in years. She could ruin everything.”
“I want her,” Coco said flatly. She wouldn’t tell Spatz that she worried about her ability to get an audience with the prime minister.
“If you must take a companion, take Karin Mertin,” Spatz persisted. “Momm says she’s bored to tears at the villa and could use a change of scene.”
“I won’t spend another moment with that moron,” Coco said.
“What if Vera won’t come?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“It makes me nervous.”
“I go with Vera or the mission is off.”
From there, the quarrel escalated. Coco flung insult after insult at Spatz. He was weak and inept. No wonder his superiors were threatening to transfer him to Istanbul. They probably just wanted to get rid of him. All he did in Paris was play cards and golf with his friends and go out to lunch. He was ineffectual. There was a darkness in Coco that made her say wicked things, untruthful things, but also sometimes terrible truths that no one wanted to hear and that were better left unsaid.
At the end of Coco’s tirade, Spatz glowered at her but said nothing. They rode in silence on the train to Paris. When they finally returned to the Ritz, Coco left Spatz in the salon while she took a bath. Afterward, she turned down the satin comforter on the bed, which had been freshly made up with creamy linen sheets, and slipped in. As she drifted off, Spatz entered the room and sat on the edge of the comforter. “Darling, this is silly—not talking,” he said in English.
“I’m sorry I said those things in the car. I didn’t mean them,” said Coco.
“I know, darling.”
Spatz removed his shoes, then his jacket, shirt, and trousers, and got in bed beside her. He kissed her. Slowly, she relaxed and responded. She was glad the lights were out and he couldn’t see her. With her clothes on, her body looked fifteen years younger than it was. Naked, her age was obvious. Skin hung loosely around her belly, upper arms, and knees. Her small breasts had flattened out and sagged. Coarse black hairs had begun sprouting where they’d never been before. Every day she inspected her face in the natural light in front of a window as she held a hand mirror. Just that morning she’d plucked a hair from her chin. I’m turning into an old hag, she’d thought. With the lights out, she could pretend she was once again a firm, supple beauty, younger even than Spatz.
The fantasy kindled her need, and she finished quickly. Afterward, Coco turned away to light a cigarette. Spatz sat up on one elbow and kissed the top of her head. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea to take Vera to Madrid,” he said.
