Peach (10 page)

The train from Nice jolted slowly towards Paris, crammed with German and Italian soldiers. There were a few civilian agricultural workers with permission to move to another work area and a scatter of women and children. The train stopped at every small station and occasionally broke down; it re-started only to be halted in the middle of nowhere—just endless brown fields and the now distant snow-capped mountains of the Alpes Maritimes—while a search party of officious young German soldiers inspected their papers.

Leonie had asked Commandant von Steinholz to grant her special permission to travel.

“To Paris?” he’d commented lazily, tossing down his pen. “And what takes you there, Madame Leonie?”

“Family business,” she’d replied firmly. “I must see my lawyers regarding my will. In these uncertain times,” she added drily, “one never knows when one’s will might be needed.”

“Is that the only reason?” His amused gaze bored into her. He knew about Lais, she felt sure.

“I intend to see my granddaughter and to inspect my son-in-law’s property on the Ile St Louis. The de Courmont house is a national monument. It’s my duty to see that it is kept up to standard.”

“You’ll find the house a little changed,” said von Steinholz, pushing a button to summon his aide. “Though from what I hear, your granddaughter has not.”

“All I need from you, Herr von Steinholz, are the necessary
travel papers,” said Leonie icily. “I do not need your opinions.”

His eyes glinted angrily behind the gold spectacles, as he spoke to his assistant.

“Kruger, Madame is to leave for Paris. Please provide her with the necessary documents.” Turning to Leonie he said, “I will sign them personally to ensure that you will have no trouble on your journey. The papers will be delivered to you tomorrow.” Picking up the telephone he made it clear that she was dismissed.

As she left von Steinholz’s office Leonie had never wished more fervently for Jim.
He
would have known how to deal with this slimy man. But Jim was in England with the US Air Force Bomber Command. She had received this information from Gaston Lafarge, the baker in St Jean, the leader of the local Resistance and the source of all her information. It was Gaston who had also told her about Gerard. Handing her a long baguette loaf fresh from the ovens, he’d said, “I’m sorry it’s not such good news for Monsieur Gerard. He’s safe at the moment,” he added as Leonie’s eyes widened in alarm, “but we’ve heard he is interned at a forced labour camp near the Belgian border. The Nazis wanted the prestige of a de Courmont publicly cooperating in running the de Courmont factories, but Monsieur Gerard refused. Like so many others, his refusal cost him his freedom.”

Gaston had called her back as she walked dispiritedly towards the door. “There are many who need our help,” he had said, in a low voice, “escaped prisoners, airmen who have been shot down, women of many nationalities fighting for
us
, Madame. They need to be smuggled out of the country. We are setting up a route through the South of France via Marseilles to Spain. They will need a place to hide along
the section of coast and it seemed to my colleagues that the cellars beneath your hotel would be ideal.”

“Beneath the hotel,” whispered Leonie, “but the
Germans
are in the hotel!”

“Exactly! And therefore what better place? With the exception of von Steinholz and his staff the Germans and Italians staying at the hotel are only temporary. They are unfamiliar with its routine. They are officers on leave—resting from their labours.
They are there to have a good time
. To them the hotel cellars are only a place with an infinite supply of champagne. No one would suspect such audacity! The big problem is to link up the route from the north. And it is a problem.”

Leonie hesitated. She longed to say yes, but there was Leonore to consider. If they were caught it was Leonore who was running the hotel. It would be
she
the Germans would take. And there was Peach, only seven years old. She couldn’t risk putting the child in such danger.

“Please consider it, Madame Leonie,” begged Gaston holding open the door for her. “We would be most grateful.”

War could make heroes of the simplest men, thought Leonie, admiring his courage. “I’ll discuss it with my granddaughter Leonore at the hotel,” she promised.

Caro’s letter, written weeks before, arrived the next day, hand-delivered by a farmer driving the sort of pony and cart that Leonie had ridden in as a young girl in her Normandy village and which had suddenly appeared again on the demotorised roads of France. Only the rich black Mercedes, the big Citroëns and shiny dark de Courmonts used by the enemy were to be seen on French roads these days.

She’d kept the contents of the letter to herself for a day and for the first time she blessed the lack of communication that left Amelie in ignorance of her daughter’s activities.
But finally she had to tell Leonore why she was going to Paris.

Leonore had sat as if carved of stone and then she had begun to cry. “How could Lais do such a terrible thing?” she’d wailed, “
How could she!
But it’s true, Grand-mère, I’m sure of it!”

Poor Leonore, the strain of keeping the hotel going while maintaining her position of aloof non-cooperation was beginning to tell. At first she had rebelled. Without telling Leonie, she’d stormed into the Commandant’s office and told him she would do nothing to cooperate. The hotel could be closed.

“As you wish,” von Steinholz had replied with his cynical knowing smile, “though of course the hotel will
not
close. It will merely be requisitioned. As will your grandmother’s villa. And you and she—along with the little girl—will be interned.” He’d consulted a chart on his desk. “There is a camp here, near the Italian border, that would be suitable I think.” He’d smiled at her over the tops of his gleaming gold-rimmed spectacles and Leonore had known she was beaten. Even if she let go the hotel and even though she would consider internment for herself, she certainly couldn’t be reckless enough to inflict such a thing on Grand-mère and Peach! And the villa was Grand-mère’s treasured home, her refuge from the world. The idea of it being filled with enemy officers filled her with rage. Any rebellion on her part would have to be more subtle—and much more careful.

When Leonie told her of Gaston’s conversation Leonore grasped at the chance. “We’ll do it,” she’d said eagerly. “The cellars are vast and with a little work they could connect with the villa. But we must think of how we can help to set up the rest of the chain.”

“Meanwhile,” Leonie had sighed, “something has to be done about your sister.”

The Palacio d’Aureville was Florida’s smartest hotel and even wartime restrictions hadn’t managed to dampen its aura of glamour and excitement. Sunbronzed naval officers in tropical whites lingered for a few days R.&R. before heading back to base at Pensacola, enjoying the Palacio’s comforts—the luxury of a good bed, a decent bath and the splendid bar that never ran dry. Air Command pilots, glamorous in blue, with tense, tired eyes, waited for orders. And buff-clad army officers, Sam Brownes polished and battlecolours decorating their well-tailored jackets, tried to forget for a few brief days that the world was at war.

Amelie de Courmont pretended not to notice the tell-tale signs of nervous strain in her guests, the slight tremor of a hand, or the persistent small tic in the cheek or the strange, suddenly blank look in the eyes of men who had seen too much of the horrors of war. She simply did her best to give them everything they might need—rest, good food, a decent drink. The Florida girls who ran the always-open canteens for servicemen or worked long shifts in factories emerged beautiful and energetic as soon as they were freed from their toil to provide entertainment, companionship and affection. And, sometimes—love.

The design of the hotel was based on the Palace of the Alhambra at Granada with courtyards and fountains and beautiful gardens laid out in the manner of the Generalife, leading along delightful shady paths to the sea. True, the paths were a little more overgrown than they should be now
that there were only two old men to help with the acres of gardens instead of the prewar crew of a dozen strong young ones. But even though the paintwork of the hotel was a little shabby, the linen sheets were still the finest; and no one seemed to mind the long waits for service because the staff were at a minimum.

Though Amelie de Courmont was physically a younger replica of her mother Leonie, somehow, with her air of alert efficiency and her ability to take care of a dozen tasks at once, she seemed all-American. In fact she was entirely French by birth—and completely Brazilian by upbringing and instinct. Amelie had inherited the good bone structure of her mother and she in turn had passed it on to her daughters—the straight positive nose, the slanting cheekbones, delicate jaw and wide-spaced eyes. And the same blonde mass of hair. But despite Amelie’s feminine Brazilian charm, she had a steely determination that had made her a success in a man’s world. When Amelie de Courmont wanted something, she usually found a way to get it.

Amelie put in long hours, rising at five every morning and falling exhausted into bed well after midnight. Showered and dressed smartly as befitted her role as manager and proprietor of the Palaçio, her blonde hair firmly held in place by one of the new velvet-mesh snoods, and with Gerard’s enormous sapphire engagement ring that she would never remove, glinting on her left hand, she would walk across the gardens to the hotel. It would have been easier to move into a suite at the hotel now that she was alone, but she forced herself to return to her house every night, walking through its lonely rooms, blinking away the tears that she refused to let fall. She would cry when they all returned, she promised herself, and not before. Who would have dreamed that this would happen? How could she have known the day she fell and broke her hip and the decision
was made for Lais to take Peach to France, that she would lose both of them? She’d gone over the “if-onlys” so many times that she didn’t even bother any more.

After that terrifying telephone call when Peach was so ill and Gerard had left for France, she had tried to tell herself that it would be all right, that her little girl would survive and that her two grown daughters would return home with their sister before the axe of war cut off the escape route. Sometimes at night in bed, she would pray, offering to bargain with God. “I’ll give away all this,” she promised, “the hotels, the money, the luxury—everything. If you’ll just give my children and my husband back to me, safe and undamaged.” But her lovely, darling little girl Peach now walked only with the aid of a calliper. It hurt so much to think of those young, once-strong legs encased in steel and her recurrent nightmare was one in which Peach cried to her endlessly to “take them away, take them away, Maman,” and she was helpless to do so. Of course Peach was now seven years old and Amelie had no concept of how she might really look. She had only her memories.

The gardens were particularly lovely this morning, trees and grass glittered with dew and the hibiscus and bougainvillaea were just beginning to open and show their gay pink and purple and orange colours. Of course the grass needed cutting and the paths should be edged, and the bushes were in dire need of pruning, but still, they were beautiful.

Amelie called in at the hotel’s kitchens en route, picking up a cup of coffee and a fresh-baked roll which she munched as she walked along the corridor, safe in the knowledge that at this early hour she wouldn’t be observed.

Her office was cool and pleasant though later it would become oppressively hot. Amelie used the air-conditioning
only sparingly, conserving energy and reserving such luxury for her guests.

A typed list of matters to be dealt with waited on the desk, prepared last night by her secretary, and beside it, a list of
priorities
. Heavily underlined. Such as finding out about the liquor supplies, and where could they get replacements for the lawnmowers and what about lightbulbs? And they were desperate for a shipment of cigarettes!

Amelie put down her coffee cup carefully as the tears brimmed in her eyes. She’d held them back for so long, refusing to cry for Gerard, or even for Peach—and now she was crying over lawnmowers and lightbulbs. It was all too much to cope with.
It was simply too much!
Sometimes it felt as though she were giving one long party at which she was an unwilling hostess. “Oh Gerard, Gerard, where are you? Are you even alive?” Shocked she heard herself cry out the question she’d never permitted to cross her mind. Gerard had to be alive. And Lais and Leonore? There had been a few scattered communications via diplomatic bags, but nothing positive, just that they were still in France, that at that moment they were all right. And Peach, her little love?

Picking up her pen, Amelie dashed away the tears and began determinedly making notes as to whom to call that day. The only way to keep herself sane was to work, just the way she had when her first husband Roberto died. Work was the magic talisman of the lonely and desperate and it was only when she was working that she felt
real
.