Coco at the Ritz, page 6
“We need your files,” said the shorter, stockier soldier, who seemed to be in charge.
“My files?”
“Those are our orders—to collect all the files from Paris couture houses.”
“Why?”
“We just follow orders, madame.”
“This is an outrage!”
The taller soldier stepped forward and poked Coco in the shoulder with the tip of his rifle. “Where are they?”
Coco led the soldiers to a room off the studio where her files were stored in floor-to-ceiling metal cabinets. The tall Nazi pulled on a few drawers. “They’re all locked,” he said.
“The keys are in my suite across the street,” Coco said.
“We’ve no time to wait,” the short Nazi said.
Coco watched, horrified, as the soldiers smashed the locks with the butts of their rifles. “You can’t do this!” she cried. She ran to the phone and called Spatz at his office. The receptionist put Coco on hold for several minutes, then told her Herr von Dincklage wasn’t in the building.
The Nazis emptied Coco’s files, making several trips, carrying armloads of documents downstairs to a German army truck parked on rue Cambon.
When they’d left, Coco said to Manon, who’d hung back through the ordeal, trembling with fear, “At least they didn’t take the dress off my back.”
* * *
The day after the Nazis confiscated Coco’s files, Spatz arrived at the Ritz to take his breakfast with her. She hadn’t seen or talked to him since the previous morning. “Where were you? I called and called,” she said.
“Busy day. I’m sorry.” He looked hard at her, and his expression said, “Don’t ask me to explain.”
Spatz did not have a room at the Ritz, as Coco had originally thought, but kept an apartment on Avenue Foch in the elegant Sixteenth Arrondissement favored by German officers. A month into his affair with Coco, he began spending a couple of nights a week there. He never gave Coco the phone number at the apartment or invited her to visit. He claimed he used it mostly for poker games. No matter where he slept, though, with Coco or at his own place, he usually joined her at eight a.m. in her suite.
When Coco told Spatz what had happened, he pounded the sofa cushion with his fist. “Those fools! I’ll have everything sent back and the locks on your cabinets replaced.”
“What are they up to?” Coco asked.
Spatz sighed heavily. “The Germans are moving couture to Berlin.”
“Couture can’t exist outside Paris!” scoffed Coco. She sank into the sofa beside him. A waiter from the restaurant downstairs arrived with the couple’s breakfast: a pot of coffee, two sliced apples, and a basket of croissants. After shaking out white linen napkins for Coco and Spatz, the waiter poured each of them a cup of coffee, bowed at the waist, and retreated through the front door. Coco picked up the copy of Le Figaro on the breakfast tray and scanned the pages.
“You won’t find anything about it in there,” said Spatz. He explained that Gestapo agents had broken into the offices of the Chambre Syndicale de la Couture, the organization that had regulated high fashion since 1868. They’d ransacked the files, confiscating all export records and documents related to the creation of collections going back to the nineteenth century. “I didn’t know they were raiding individual houses,” he said, shaking his head. The Germans planned to keep French ateliers open to supply a workforce to make the clothes, but French couturiers would move their headquarters to Berlin. “Coco, there’s a place for you,” he said.
“Are you crazy?” Coco set her cup down in its saucer so roughly that liquid spattered the front of her white silk blouse.
“You’ve been complaining you’re bored to death.”
“I am.”
“This is your chance to reopen your house,” said Spatz.
“Not in Berlin!”
Spatz insisted he could finagle a special situation for Coco. She and she alone would remain in Paris. He was sure his bosses would agree. Wasn’t she the greatest of all French couturiers? Her atelier on rue Cambon would be a monument to her unique status. He promised he could get her all the materials and trimmings she needed, despite severe rationing.
“I’ll think about it,” said Coco.
Spatz broke off a piece of croissant and popped it in his mouth. “Very well, darling,” he said.
* * *
During the next few days, Coco began to consider that perhaps reopening wasn’t such a bad idea, if the Germans allowed her to remain in Paris. She’d been so stupid to close the House of Chanel, largely to exact revenge on her workers. Her relationship with them had steadily deteriorated since 1936, when her entire staff walked out in the wake of widespread labor strikes across France following the election of a socialist president. Coco hadn’t been able to shake her anger at her seamstresses, who’d scrawled “OCCUPIED” in white paint across the front door at 31 rue Cambon and refused her entry to the fashion house she’d created, which was her life and which she loved above all else. Three years later, it felt good to fire them all. Except Manon, the only one who dared cross the picket line. A case of cutting off my nose to spite my face, Coco thought now.
Without work, she felt exiled from her true self. Spatz understood this about her. He validated her ambitions, just as Boy Capel had. At Spatz’s urging, Coco agreed to discuss a possible Chanel relaunch with a reporter from Ce Soir. Spatz arranged the interview with the venerable evening paper, which now, under Gestapo control, published an avalanche of German propaganda dressed up like legitimate news.
One afternoon, a reporter, Emile Ponson, arrived at Coco’s rue Cambon apartment. He was a small man in his fifties with sparse gray hair and deep creases on the sides of his mouth. Like so many Parisians of the time, he had the worn-out look of an old, cracked shoe. Coco puffed on a cigarette as Ponson removed a pen and a notebook from the pocket of his jacket. “All of us who cover couture are very happy to hear you’re reopening,” he said.
“Nothing is definite,” said Coco, talking around her cigarette.
“Will you be hiring back any of your former employees?” Ponson asked.
“I’ve been in touch with many of them, and they are all ready to go back to work,” Coco lied.
“What about fabric? Accessories? Won’t supplies be hard to get?”
“It’ll be a reduced collection, probably only twenty or thirty models. But I’m looking forward to seeing my seamstresses and getting the ateliers up and running.”
Ponson shifted awkwardly in his seat. “You’ve softened your views since 1936.”
Coco gave him a severe sidelong glance. “I’m sure my workers are as bored as I am at home doing nothing.”
For forty minutes, Coco patiently answered Ponson’s questions. He kept bringing up the strike of 1936, but Coco refused to discuss it. Instead, she nattered on about her plans to update her ateliers with fresh paint and improved lighting. Finally, Ponson closed his notebook, signaling that the interview was over. “Thank you for your time, Mademoiselle,” said Ponson. “I hope I’ll soon be back to report on your new collection.”
Ponson’s article appeared on the front page of Ce Soir the following day, next to a story about General de Gaulle being sentenced to death in absentia by Germany’s puppet government at Vichy. A Ritz porter delivered a copy of the paper to Coco’s suite at five p.m. She lit a cigarette and sat on the settee by the window to read:
All good things have returned to Paris, we affirm every day, including Chanel. Here she is, the most brilliant and elegant Parisienne, the woman who after the first world war invented the little black dress in jersey. Chanel is here, living at the Ritz, and she is full of projects, full of plans, full of courage. She promises that she will soon reopen her fashion house and resume designing clothes for the chicest of the chic.
An unflattering pen-and-ink portrait of Coco illustrated the article. That drawing of me is despicable. I’d never wear a turtleneck! she thought, and tossed the paper onto the coffee table.
Spatz came in at six. “Have you made up your mind?” he asked after he read the article.
“I don’t know,” Coco said. “I don’t trust the Germans. What if I agree to it and then they confiscate my building and force me to go to Berlin?”
A cloud passed over Spatz’s face, and he flinched slightly. Then he quickly recovered. “I won’t let that happen.”
* * *
A week later, as Coco continued mulling whether to reopen her house, Misia insisted on visiting her at the Ritz. Misia said she had a special present to deliver—a little bonsai-style tree that she had made herself (despite her near blindness) from feathers and pearls, Coco’s signature gemstone. The real reason, Coco suspected, was she wanted to inspect Coco’s new suite.
As soon as Misia arrived, she minced through the two rooms, laid the tree on the bedroom windowsill, and said, “You’re so eager to sleep with your German, you’re willing to do it in a maid’s room?”
“How do you know it’s a maid’s room? You can’t see!” cried Coco.
“I can see well enough to know they’ve stuck you in a cramped little nothing of a suite.”
“So it’s smaller. I’m saving money!”
Coco didn’t tell Misia that she was surprised Spatz couldn’t wrangle her something larger. It distressed her to think he had no real influence with the Reich. She’d heard no word about when her nephew might be released, and whenever she asked Spatz about it, he grew impatient. “I’m working on it. These things take time,” he insisted.
There was no question of Coco changing addresses, of moving to another part of town. She had to be at the Ritz, where she could keep an eye on her shop across the street, the source of her income. At least she had a lovely view of the hotel garden and surrounding rooftops. She’d moved in a few of her things: a crystal chandelier, which she hung over the bed; her dressing table (though it barely fit in the corner); and pictures of André and his family. Within no time, she felt at home.
As Coco settled into a chair in the small space converted to a sitting room, she watched Misia make an elaborate display of inspecting the meager accommodations. Misia appeared to have recovered entirely from her fright when the Nazis had arrived in June with their bombs and guns. She had been dining with Coco at the Ritz when a fiery explosion outside had rattled the windows. Misia was too afraid to go home, so she and Coco passed the night in silk Hermès sleeping bags in the hotel’s basement shelter. The next day Coco had fled to André’s house in the south, while Misia barricaded herself with ex-husband Sert in the Right Bank apartment they’d once shared.
Misia didn’t miss an opportunity to disparage the Germans. And with the hauteur that came with her pedigree—her father was a famous Polish sculptor and her grandfather a celebrated Russian cellist—Misia now felt she must guide Coco through the Occupation, just as she’d guided the young couturière through the first war and introduced her to the Paris beau monde of money and culture.
As a child growing up in Brussels, Misia had played the piano for Franz Liszt, a family friend. In her youth in Paris, she was painted by the greatest artists of the day, including Vuillard, Lautrec, Bonnard, and Renoir. She was, as Cocteau once described her, the “beribboned tiger” of the Faubourg salons, a regal beauty who married up three times, conquering new social worlds with each husband: Thadée Natanson, publisher of the avant-garde art journal La Revue Blanche; Alfred Edwards, the wealthy owner of Le Matin, France’s foremost newspaper; and José Maria Sert.
Watching her friend, now so frail and diminished, Coco thought of the first night they’d met, at a Paris dinner party in 1916. At the time, Misia ruled the Paris salons. Coco was a mere dressmaker. She didn’t say two words to Misia the entire evening, but she knew she’d bewitched the older woman. She could feel Misia’s eyes on her throughout the meal. As Coco was leaving, Misia admired the pretty couturière’s mink-trimmed red velvet coat. Coco took it off and placed it over Misia’s shoulders. “It’s yours,” she said.
“What a lovely gesture, but I can’t possibly accept it,” Misia said, returning the coat to her.
Coco handed it back to Misia. “Maybe, then, just wear it tonight. You can give it to me tomorrow.” Misia took that as a sign Coco wanted their lives to entwine. So, the next day, she entered the hushed foyer at 31 rue Cambon and climbed the stairs to Coco’s third-floor studio. The pose was underway. Coco stood in front of the triple mirrors, draping fabric on a mannequin, a tall, thin girl who resembled Coco, with dark bobbed hair and olive skin. Coco unfurled a bolt of black satin over the girl’s shoulders and around her hips and kneaded the fabric with her square, large-knuckled hands. Gradually, the outline of an evening dress came into focus. When she was done, she lit a cigarette and stepped back to admire her work. “Yes, that’s what I want!” she said, blowing a jet of smoke toward the ceiling, then turning to Misia. “What do you think?”
“It’s lovely.”
“I’m glad you think so, because I designed it for you.”
After that day, Coco and Misia became inseparable. They talked on the phone every morning, never made a move without consulting the other, and sometimes dressed as twins. Still, Coco never lost her envy of Misia’s pedigree, and Misia always felt envious of Coco’s creative success. The love the two women felt for each other would always be pricked by resentment and competition.
* * *
“So where is Spatz?” Misia asked after she’d made her point to Coco about the tiny suite.
“Why do I have to tell you everything?”
“Because you owe me everything.”
Coco sighed and shook her head. “I have no idea where he is.”
“Off on some Nazi business, no doubt.”
“He doesn’t tell me where he goes during the day.”
In fact, Coco didn’t want to know. She preferred to nurture her fantasies of Spatz as a dashing diplomat. At the Ritz, he never mingled with the Nazis. He always took the tiny, rattling lift from a discreet side entrance, the same entrance Coco used on the French side of the hotel.
“Don’t you care what the Nazis are doing?” Misia pressed. “This morning I went to buy a new pair of gloves at Maison Charonne and found the windows smeared with anti-Jewish slogans. Poor Monsieur Charonne was so embarrassed, but he’s a brave man. He kept the shop open.”
Coco stared at Misia. “You can’t blame Spatz for that.”
“Every day the Germans strip the Jews of more of their rights. Who knows where it will end. Look at what happened to Max’s brother-in-law. What if they come for Max next?”
“The priests will protect Max,” Coco said, as if to convince herself.
Misia slid up on her chair and leaned toward Coco. “Aren’t you worried about what will happen if the Allies win? What people will think? You’ve been living with a Nazi.”
“Please. He’s not a Nazi. Maybe he’s a member of the party, but he’s not like the others.”
“He works for the Nazis. Don’t fool yourself that he’s a harmless bureaucrat. He’s devious. I can tell.”
Coco stood up abruptly and started pacing. She wished she was in her old apartment on rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, where there were rooms upon rooms and she could close doors on Misia.
The older woman narrowed her eyes. “Does it ever occur to you that Spatz is using you?”
“No one uses me!”
Cocteau had taunted Coco that she was using Spatz. For sex, mostly. He was being critical, not out of sympathy for the German but because he thought Coco was fooling herself that she was in love with him. And he was right, in a way. She used Spatz. And loved him. Used, loved—in the end, it was all the same.
“Why is he with you when he could have a young beauty?” Misia said.
“He likes sophisticated women.”
“He likes rich old dames who are well-connected.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“I wouldn’t take a German into my bed if he was the last man on earth.”
Misia grabbed her handbag off the windowsill and, banging her knee on a corner of the sofa, stormed out.
* * *
Coco couldn’t bear to think that Spatz didn’t want her for herself. Despite her ferocious independence, she longed to be adored by a man in a lasting union. Enduring love, though, had eluded her, and she felt this as a failure. She had a profound sense that she’d missed what was really important in a woman’s life—marriage and children. Even though all she’d seen in her youth was how it brought women misery. But for her, it would have been different. Could be different. Did Spatz see this yearning in her? Did he sense her vulnerability? Was Misia right? Was he using her?
All he had told her about his work was that he oversaw textile production for the war effort. But what exactly did that mean? Most of France’s wool and silk had been appropriated for German uniforms and parachutes. Fabric and clothing for the French had been severely rationed. And now the Germans wanted to move couture to Berlin. Perhaps Spatz seduced her because he needed her help to make this a reality. But she had already said she wouldn’t do it. So what did he want?
She brooded over this all afternoon. That evening, as they were sitting in the back seat of a black Mercedes driven by a German chauffeur—in civilian clothes this time—Coco asked Spatz directly. “Don’t ruin this by looking for reasons to suspect me,” he said, squeezing her hand. “You know I care about you.”
“You also care about pleasing your bosses.”
Spatz dropped her hand and spoke quietly. “I just found out couture is not moving to Berlin after all. At least, for the time being. The Reich has… well, let’s just say other priorities. So, if you decide to reopen your house, you can absolutely stay on rue Cambon.”
“I’m still thinking about it.” Coco looked out the window at the wide, tree-lined boulevards of the Sixteenth Arrondissement. They were headed for Bignon’s, a quiet bistro on Avenue Foch, not far from Spatz’s apartment. Since the Occupation, Bignon’s had begun serving German food and become a favorite spot of the Nazi officers who lived nearby, many of them in grand apartments that had been abandoned by their owners at the start of the war.
