Chapter 9
June 1939
‘ T he Jews have nowhere to run, and yet they still come in droves.’ Marie exhaled a plume of smoke, her cheeks hollowing as she took a deep drag from her cigarette. Her eyes momentarily closed, as if shutting out the world.
‘They’ll come here too, before long.’ I caught a flicker of fear in her eyes before she quickly blinked it away. ‘Remember Vienna and Nuremberg? The people at the rally—they were all possessed. It was eerie.’ I finished the last bite of my croissant and sipped my coffee, my thoughts drifting to those fleeing the horrors. I could only imagine their turmoil, torn between fleeing into the unknown or staying in their homes, hoping against hope that everything would somehow be okay. The mistreatment they endured, stripped of their rights, their lives peeled away layer by layer. The world had tilted on its axis.
The café was quieter than usual that morning. I had only recently returned from my holiday with Henri and was settling my affairs here. So much was changing. After our engagement, Henri asked me to live with him. I had given notice at work, packed up my apartment, and was preparing to leave for Marseille. Soon, I would be the wife of a wealthy industrialist, joining one of the most prominent families in Marseille. Yet, while my life seemed settled, the world around me was anything but.
* * *
The war in Spain ended in April, with around a million lives lost, and General Franco seized power. War now seemed inevitable. In France, especially in Paris, people put on a brave face. Many clung to the hope that war would not come, while others believed it was only a matter of time. The German army was advancing through Europe, and nothing seemed capable of stopping it. Would France be any different? As men received their call-up notices, the French government assured us that the army would protect us. Talk of evacuation had already begun, but the women of Paris remained resolute. ‘It won’t come to that,’ a young woman told me the other day, but older women—those who had lived through the Great War—thought differently. They had lost sons and husbands. They remembered the worst. Yes, we had won that war, but things were different now. Germany had been preparing for this moment for years. Some whispered that it was already too late for France.
‘So, how are the wedding plans going?’ Marie’s voice broke through my thoughts.
‘Well, we’re thinking of setting a date for next spring.’
‘Spring 1940? I wouldn’t wait too long. By then it might be too late, don’t you think?’
Her words hit me like a cold gust of wind. Henri was still young enough to be called to serve. The dread settled in, heavy and cold. Outside, Paris hummed as usual, the warm August breeze carrying the sounds of the city. The last vestiges of sunlight mixed with an azure sky, creating a rich palette of pinks, lilacs, and oranges as the sun dipped below the horizon. ‘Perhaps you’re right. I’m looking forward to my spa break at Champneys.’
For some reason, I had felt an overwhelming urge to visit London one last time, and when I heard about Champneys last month, it seemed the perfect opportunity.
‘Ooh, what luxury,’ Marie sighed.
‘Come with me. It’ll be fun.’ Champneys was all the rage in France, offering a three-week slimming course at Tring. Life had grown too comfortable lately, and I glanced down at my waistline, acutely aware of the snug fit of my skirt after several indulgent months.
‘I’d love to, but work calls. You know how it is, Nancy.’ She shot me a wistful look. ‘And Henri doesn’t mind?’
‘He’s been lovely about it, though he says he’ll miss me too much.’ I took a drag from my cigarette. ‘With all the unrest right now, he assured me it’s still safe to travel.’ Despite his reassurance, a flicker of unease crept in—Belgium and the Netherlands were mobilising their troops. The threat of war had hung over us for a while now, and everyone simply carried on as best they could. What else could we do?
***
At first, life in Marseille felt like an extended holiday. Henri’s household was managed by staff, and I didn’t have to lift a finger. My days were filled with shopping, fine dining, after-dinner drinks, and visits to the casino—one of Henri’s favourite places. It was a life of great privilege, one I quickly grew accustomed to, though I knew I would never forget my roots. But then the news of our engagement reached Henri’s family. They were polite, but an underlying tension simmered beneath the surface whenever we met. Fortunately, those meetings were rare.
Henri asked me to find a suitable apartment for our first home together. ‘Choose the best in Marseille,’ he said.
So, I embarked on my new mission, arranging countless viewings while Henri worked. His father had recently purchased a battleship to sell as scrap iron, but when the market crashed, the business suffered serious financial losses. Henri was now working long hours to repair the damage.
From the moment I saw the details of the large apartment at the top of La Canebière, I felt a warm rush through my soul. Situated on a hill, on the top floor of a luxury block of apartments, it commanded the finest views over Marseille. On one side lay the harbour, and on the other, the zoological gardens, filled with rare and exotic animals.
As I wandered through the empty apartment, my heels clattering on the parquet floors, I imagined the luxurious feel of Persian rugs beneath my feet. I pictured us dining by candlelight, the gentle evening breeze stirring the curtains, and later, sipping drinks in the living room, with soft music playing in the background. Perhaps we would dance, or I would curl up by Henri’s feet in front of a cosy fire on a chilly night—just the two of us, together, always. I smiled to myself as the estate agent rambled on, trying to sell me on the apartment while I daydreamed.
I pushed open the door to the bathroom and glanced around. It was spacious but a bit bland, with fresh white paint on the walls. The large window offered a delightful view of the Vieux Port, where boats of various shapes and sizes bobbed up and down in the harbour. I turned to see the grand white enamel bathtub, perched on gold claw feet in the middle of the floor. It was the perfect place to soak while admiring the view outside. From the main bedroom, the vista stretched towards the hills of Marseille, overlooking the gardens of Palais Longchamp and the zoo, with mountain ranges framing the skyline in the distance.
The next day, Henri met me during his lunch hour for a second viewing. I watched as he strolled through each room, calm and resolute, standing at the windows to take in the views. His neutral expression left me guessing, unsure whether he was pleased or disappointed. Finally, he turned to me and smiled. ‘C’est parfait.’
‘Phew! You had me worried. I thought you didn’t like it.’
‘Tell them we will take it immediately.’ Henri slipped his arms around my waist, leaned in for a kiss, then lifted me off my feet, twirling me around as he laughed.
‘Tomorrow, I will take you shopping for furniture, ma chérie. We have much to do.’
July 1939
My feet ached from hours of shopping, but Henri and I had finally agreed on a large oak dining table with matching chairs, along with a monogrammed Sèvres fine china dinner set and the finest crystal glasses. ‘We want the best for our dinner parties, Nannie,’ Henri said.
I had never hosted a formal dinner party in my life, and my mouth ran dry at the thought. I swallowed hard. My face must have betrayed my concerns because Henri pulled me close and kissed my forehead.
‘Do not worry. We have a cook and plenty of other help as well. I do not expect you to take on everything by yourself. You will find your way, just as you always do.’
* * *
The blazing sun streamed greedily through the windows as I stood in our new apartment. The drapes I had chosen earlier would look stunning. Madame Cheval had just left, taking her samples of fabrics with her after two hours of deliberation. I wanted only the finest—this was our first home together, after all. We had recently hired a housekeeper and a young girl with some experience in service. She seemed sweet and capable. Life was falling into place, and Henri was pleased as we looked forward to moving in together.
The previous day, British bombers had flown over Marseille before returning to England. The news hailed it as a demonstration of Britain’s air power. Tensions were rising. Japan was causing trouble in China, and Britain had recently conducted an air raid test. What surprised me more than the ongoing political affairs were the opinions of our friends and neighbours. They made comments like, ‘Oh, France won’t get caught up in any war,’ citing the Maginot Line. Here in Marseille, people carried on as usual, but in Paris, the atmosphere was described as ‘panicky’ in one publication.
The government had requisitioned private cars, forcing people to rely on public transport or bicycles. Perhaps it was the journalist in me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that grew stronger by the day. I didn’t know what lay ahead, but I had always sensed that Hitler would cause trouble for France. All we could hope for was that France was prepared to deal with him. In the meantime, I took a page from everyone else’s book and got on with life—making a home with Henri, planning our wedding. La joie de vivre.
1 September 1939
Germans Invade and Bomb Poland. Britain Mobilises.
I took the night ferry from the Gare du Nord in Paris and travelled to London, arriving on 2 September. While France buried her head against the imminent threat of war, there was no mistaking the tension in London. After checking in at the Strand Palace Hotel, I telephoned Champneys resort at Tring, only to discover they had made an error with my booking—it was for October, not September. Disappointed but determined to make the most of my trip, I decided to indulge in some shopping.
* * *
The next day, I disembarked from my train at Waterloo to a sea of khaki. The platform was brimming with soldiers, their kitbags at their feet, saying tearful farewells to loved ones. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked a guard.
‘War, miss. We’re going to war. Again! Bloody Hitler.’ He shuffled off, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.
It was 3 September. As I glanced around, I spotted a newspaper boy crying out, ‘Read all about it!’ The headline screamed: Britain at War with Germany, and my heart sank. Oh, Henri. What about France? I had to return—and quickly. Chamberlain’s words echoed in my mind, Peace in our time. Even France’s premier, édouard Daladier, had agreed with Chamberlain at Munich in 1938, conceding to Hitler’s demands in the name of peace. What foolishness. The Fuhrer wouldn’t stop until he had conquered the world.
* * *
The next day, I received two telegrams. The first was from Henri, urging me to return home. The second was from our friend, Emma, begging me to bring her daughter, Micheline, home from her boarding school in Surrey. My first thought was that the girl might be safer here in England, but then I remembered how miserable Micheline had been at the convent school and I felt obliged to bring her back to France. On my way out that morning, the hotel receptionist called me over and handed me a small cardboard box.
‘It’s a gas mask,’ she said. ‘They’ve issued one to everyone, madam.’
A chill zipped through me as I held the box. I hoped I would never have to use it.
* * *
My mission to collect Micheline did not go smoothly. The Mother Superior insisted on permission from Micheline’s mother, which took a further three days while I sent a telegram and waited for a reply. Back in London, we queued for four days at the French consulate for travel permits. Meanwhile, a blackout was in force, and the city felt like the countryside at night—no streetlights, not a chink of light escaping from windows. Even car headlights were dimmed. People carried gas masks everywhere, fearful of gas attacks, while walls of sandbags guarded the entrances of prominent buildings and hotels. It was a relief when we finally reached the ferry port.
‘Are you sure you want to travel to France, miss?’ The middle-aged customs officer looked perplexed.
‘Absolutely. It’s my home.’ I stared into his eyes, touched by the concern there.
‘I must tell you, if you sail today, you won’t be coming back. You do understand that, don’t you?’
I sighed. ‘Yes, that’s okay.’
‘But you’re not French, and we’re at war now. If you don’t mind me saying, you’re going to be a bit too close for comfort to Jerry, if you ask me.’ His ruddy cheeks turned a deeper shade of scarlet as he rubbed his smooth chin.
‘I understand perfectly. I’ll be fine, I assure you.’ Given his age, I guessed he had served in the Great War. My thoughts flashed to my brother, Stanley, now serving in the navy, who had seen the back of one war only to be thrust into another and an icy shiver raced down my spine.
‘Well then, I wish you the best of luck, miss.’
I took our papers from him, grasped Micheline’s hand, and boarded the ferry. She was an absolute gem, polite and no trouble at all.
‘Nancy, that man did not want us to travel.’ Micheline’s wide, fearful eyes met mine.
I sucked in a breath of briny air, the waves slapping against the boat. ‘It’s all right. We’ll be home soon.’
Micheline looked toward the diminishing mainland. ‘We will be safe in France, won’t we?’
Safe. The vision of Nazis in Berlin sailed into my mind. I squeezed her hand. ‘Yes, of course, we will. The war is far from us. Everything will be fine, you’ll see.’ But I couldn’t shake the bad feeling that clung to me, so I focused on thoughts of Henri, waiting for me at home.
Nightfall brought darkness, and the captain ordered all lights to be extinguished. Even smoking was banned, in case the Germans spotted the glow of a cigarette butt at sea. The last thing we needed was to be torpedoed.
‘I hate the dark,’ Micheline whispered, stifling a yawn.
‘France will be a beacon of light, you’ll see.’ I slipped my arm around her shoulders as we stood on the deck, watching the last piece of England vanish into the night. A sickle moon peeked out from behind wispy clouds. Micheline shivered against me, likely more from fear than cold. The waves roared, spraying the deck, so we wandered inside to find a seat. Soon, Micheline leaned heavily against me, her weight warm at my side, her eyes closed. As the hours passed, tiny lights blinked on the horizon, and the beam of a lighthouse guided us into port. Boulogne-sur-Mer. As we docked, I noticed cars on the main street, their lights blazing, and music drifting on the breeze. I turned to Micheline and smiled, laughter bubbling up from deep within me—more from relief than anything else.
‘Voilà, La France,’ Micheline said, her face lighting up as she gazed around.
I drank in the scene. Even by night, France was illuminating in her beauty, and peace slipped over me for the first time since setting sail. Home. Micheline threw her arms around me, hugging me tight, and we both laughed, tears slipping down my cheeks.
The train station was crowded with troops, and we pushed through the throngs of men and bulky kitbags. We boarded a train for the Riviera. I would make sure Micheline reached Cannes before returning to Marseille. As the train sped south, my mind raced. What if Henri was called up? Both Britain and France were preparing for war, and with Germany’s might, it would surely be a bloody conflict. I tried to push the thoughts aside. I had a wedding to plan and a future to look forward to as Henri’s wife. Despite the dire situation, I smiled.
* * *
My body felt like lead as I walked the short distance home from the station, the sun a fiery globe rising in a salmon-pink and orange sky above the mountains. The gulls welcomed me, their ravenous, wistful cries slicing through the humid air. Henri rushed toward me as I opened the door, engulfing me in his arms, squeezing me so tightly I could hardly breathe. His face was scratchy against mine, a shadow of whiskers evidence of a rough night.
His face fell as I told him about our journey, especially the sea voyage. ‘Nannie, I will never let you go again,’ he said. ‘I could have lost you.’ Wrapping his arms around me, he held me even tighter.
I felt like I might throw up, utterly drained, yet inside, I bubbled like champagne. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a bit flippant about my overseas adventure. Once again, luck had been on my side. Our housekeeper, Madame Dumont, flitted around the kitchen, making fresh coffee and warming croissants for breakfast. Her rosy cheeks grew rosier as she worked, a strand of grey hair falling loose from its pins.
‘Please don’t bother for me,’ I said, stifling a yawn.
‘Nannie, you must eat.’ Henri pulled out a chair at the table.
‘Oh, Madame Fiocca, what a terrible ordeal you’ve had. You need food. We don’t want you falling ill.’ Madame Dumont set a cup of coffee before me, then smoothed her white apron, resting her hand on her rotund stomach.
Worn out and slightly nauseous, I had no energy to protest further. I sipped the coffee and took a bite of the warm croissant. The sweet, flaky pastry with its rich buttery flavour teased my taste buds, gradually easing the queasiness.
‘We must marry as soon as possible,’ Henri said, pressing his forehead to mine. ‘I don’t know how much time we have before…’ His words trailed off.
I knew what he meant. The worst was happening, and people could no longer ignore the reality of the German war machine. ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘We must all be ready.’