Once Upon a War

By Dixie Swanson

'"A woman's life is never a fairy tale ... neither is war. "

So begins Giselle Berger's story. A charming fashion prodigy from Alsace, she dazzles Parisian high society in the late 1930's. Then Germany invades, occupies Paris, and upends her world. She must design for Nazi wives ... while spiriting Jewish babies to safety. As the Gestapo closes

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dixie Swanson
• Release date: Jul 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986562513

Dixie Swanson

Dixie Swanson, a native Texan, grew up with a love of words. A retired doctor and history buff, she and her husband live in North Carolina with their dim little dog, Fudge.

Book preview

Part One

Paris at Peace

CHAPTER ONE

To Paris

MONDAY, 2 MAY 1938, Colmar, Alsace, France

Once upon a time …

No. Wait. Stop.

This is not a fairy tale; a woman’s life is never a fairy tale.

Neither is war.

This is a story that could have happened. Indeed, much of it did.

So, let’s start over. Let me set the stage for you.

In far northeastern France, the tiny province of Alsace nestles between the Vosges Mountains and the Rhine River. Storybook towns dot the area. All down the green hills, placid cows and cranky goats graze while their bells play a gentle melody into the pine-scented air.

The fertile Alsatian plain unfurls from the foothills to the Rhine like a green and gold patchwork quilt. The vineyards and fields nourish people near and far.

Alsatians are unique. They drink their own French wines and German beers with equal gusto. They have some German customs as well as some French ones. Their local Germanic dialect is so ancient neither the Germans nor the French understand it.

They are a peaceable people who just want to be left the hell alone. Lord knows, they’ve earned it.

Germany snatched Alsace in a war in 1871. For the next fifty years, life went on … in German only. French was not tolerated. Anyone who disagreed was expelled and their property confiscated.

The Great War from 1914 to 1918 returned Alsace to France.

That world war saw carnage on a staggering scale. Even victorious nations, like France and England, lost a huge number of their young men.

When our story opens, a scant twenty years after the end of the ‘war to end all wars,’ French Alsace sits … once again … at the crossroads of history.

East of the Rhine the fearsome Third Reich beats the drums of war. If old Germany was proud and tough, Hitler’s Reich is cruel and savage.

France protects itself along every kilometer of the French-German border with the Maginot Line. Not a wall, it’s a sophisticated ‘necklace’ of fortifications above ground … connected via tunnels below. In eastern Alsace, it runs a scant ten kilometers from the Rhine. Tens of thousands of troops man the line, living and working mostly below ground.

Our heroine’s family lives just outside Colmar, the town that provisions the line in that area. They sell much of their farm’s cheese to feed the soldiers.

In 1938, people in Europe and America flock to the movies for entertainment. Before the feature film, newsreels play. In the dark, on the silver screen, moviegoers see and hear hordes of outsized, enraptured Nazis chanting and saluting Hitler during his rants.

If a news photo is worth a thousand words, a newsreel (with sound and moving pictures) is worth a million. Hitler’s Germany scares the bejeebers out of people, even without translation.

In Europe, people over forty remember the Great War and shudder at the future.

Their children, born in the grim shadow of that war, rush forward to their own bright, shiny dreams.

Against this backdrop, our heroine, Giselle Berger, sets out for Paris. She does not know the lesson Napoleon learned the hard way.

Geography is destiny.

❆

Giselle stood next to her mother on the platform at the Colmar gare waiting for the morning train to Strasbourg. The cool, damp, spring air whiffled around her legs. Not that Giselle noticed, mind you. She was too excited.

I’m going to Paris; I shall be more famous than Coco Chanel. Soon.

Giselle was a younger version of her mother: petite and boyishly built, with Maman’s delicately chiseled nose and sweet smile. The only thing she got from her Papa was the deep blue of her eyes. She fiddled with her thick, light brown braids, a nervous habit she would lose the very next day. She was twenty, but in braids, lace-up shoes, and anklets, she looked fourteen.

I brought you food. Just in case. Maman handed Giselle a twine-tied parcel of dry sausage.

Giselle kissed her Maman’s cheek, "Thank you, chère Maman."

Maman gives me enough for a week, of course.

Do you remember? When you girls were little? Papa told you this train station was made of gingerbread.

Giselle laughed.

It looks like it, but I couldn’t break off a piece.

Just then, Giselle’s papa, the large, heavily mustachioed Armand Berger, limpety-clomped up to them. His club foot slowed him a bit but had yet to stop him. His dog Galant, a young Alsatian shepherd, trotted happily beside him.

People east of the Rhine called these dogs ‘German shepherds,’ but Papa was picky about his Alsatian roots … and his dog’s. Through all the upheavals in Alsace, the Berger family kept their farm.

Here’s the receipt for your trunk, Papa said. It’s checked through to Paris. No need to claim it in Strasbourg.

"Remember the gingerbread gare? Giselle asked her Papa. I believed until I was, what, ten?"

Shhh, Papa covered his dog’s ears. Galant still believes.

If you say so, Papa, Giselle giggled.

I also added an open return ticket. If Paris does not work out.

Oh, Papa, Giselle said. You should not have spent the money.

Nonsense. He smiled. But remember your promise?

He fixed her in his gaze, mustache on the droop, his blue eyes intent.

I’ll come home if you insist, Giselle nodded.

Try for your dreams, my duckling, but if there’s a war, you might be better off here at the farm, Papa said gently.

Oh, Armand, she knows. She knows. Cousin Adele will watch out for her. Maman patted his arm.

Giselle said nothing.

If I hear one more word about war, I’ll drown myself in the Rhine.

Maman teared up; Giselle followed, as she’d never been out of Alsace.

Papa produced two snowy handkerchiefs for his ladies … and a third for himself.

I intend to cry all the way home, he pretended to blubber.

Laughter lit Giselle’s face.

Papa smiled and wagged a finger at her.

Remember. Do not speak to a man without a proper introduction. You are very beautiful and …, he trailed off, not wanting to frighten her.

Yes, Papa. If you say so, Papa.

I am not the beautiful sister. Honore is.

Papa wrapped Giselle in his arms. His large shoulders sheltered her. She inhaled the gentle scent of his cherry tobacco pipe smoke.

She felt peace.

He felt panic.

Where had the years gone? Why does this one have to be the one to leave?

Write to your maman every week, he said, his voice cracking.

Won’t you read the letters? Giselle teased.

"Ach, that’s a girly thing," he lied.

Giselle hugged her Maman, who smelled faintly of the dried lavender she tucked into her armoire.

Maman kissed Giselle briskly on each cheek, then held her at arm’s length.

"Paris will love you. Haute couture will never be the same," she pronounced with certainty.

Giselle reached for her valise and her suitcase of samples, but Papa got to them first.

I can do this myself, Papa.

He smiled at Giselle.

I know, my duckling … and that is the entire problem.

❆

The rail car, warmed by afternoon sun, rocked sideways on its way to Paris. It lulled some people to sleep, like the nun in the front of Giselle’s third-class carriage. Giselle did not sleep; she was too excited.

Giselle applied her first-ever lipstick, looking into her first-ever compact. She grimaced.

I should have known Honore would choose the wrong color for me.

Giselle wiped it off.

She opened the Paris guidebook she bought in the Strasbourg gare. Giselle easily found Cousin Adele’s address.

Right in the center of Paris. Maman says she’s quite old. But I’ll move when I get a good job.

As the train went west, the landscape changed before her eyes. Half-timbered houses, all but standard in her small town of Beauville, disappeared. Simpler, newer buildings made Beauville look rather shabby.

A sudden rain shower flicked water in on her. She tried to raise the stuck window but could not. A dark young man appeared.

These can be hard, he said. He parked his cigarette in the side of his mouth and fiddled the window closed. The acrid smoke bothered Giselle’s nose.

Thank you, Giselle whispered toward the floor.

I live in Paris. He pointed at the guidebook. Going to visit?

Giselle twitched her head sideways.

I can show you the sights.

She again did not speak.

I wonder if he’s a boulevardier.

Very well, he said, grinding out his cigarette on the floor. "Play the coquette."

After a while, Giselle needed the lavatory but knew better than to leave her valise and samples unattended.

Is it a sin to wake a sleeping nun?

An eternity later, the nun awakened and Giselle asked for her help.

Of course, my child, she said. Her gray eyes twinkled from within her wrinkles.

Giselle went to the car ahead for the toilet. She screwed up her face in disgust, in part because it opened onto the roadbed below. After she rinsed her hands, she dried them on Papa’s handkerchief. She wasn’t about to touch the communal towel.

This is foul.

As she stepped out, her young man blocked her way. Cigarette smoke clung to his cheap hair oil. She stiffened in fear.

You aren’t pretty enough to be rude to me. He pushed her backward, toward the privacy of the lavatory. His hand grazed her breast and a jolt of fear paralyzed Giselle.

Suddenly, he howled and lurched backward.

The nun held his collar and whacked him … repeatedly … with her stout umbrella handle.

You. Are. A. Rogue.

She bellowed with each blow, while the man hollered after each one.

Giselle’s eyes widened in shock, and then delight.

He’s no match for the nun.

Soon, a trainman appeared, his white mustache a-twitch. Instantly he knew the nun had everything well in hand … possibly too well in hand. He pulled the chain; the train screeched to a stop. Passengers popped up to watch.

That crazy old nun’s beating me … for no reason.

The nun thrashed him again.

"Ta geule. You assaulted a jeune fille," the nun stated.

The rogue shut up.

The passengers cheered.

The trainman apologized to Giselle on behalf of the French national railway as well as all decent Frenchmen around the world.

We can take him to a police station. That will delay your arrival in Paris, he said. Or, we can put him off the train here. Your choice, mademoiselle.

Giselle looked at the nun who nodded.

Please put him off, Giselle said, eyes downcast.

But I have a ticket … the rogue whined. The nun raised her umbrella; he trailed off.

First, you will apologize, the nun harrumphed.

I’m sorry, but …

The nun whacked him. He yelped.

No proper apology contains the word ‘but,’ you worm.

I’m so … very … sorry. I behaved badly, he said, eyeing the nun. I won’t do it again.

She raised the umbrella, threatening.

Or may God strike me dead, he cringed.

I’ll remind Him of that in my prayers tonight

The nun let go of his collar.

The rogue accepted his fate, though he didn’t yet understand it.

The trainman, Giselle, and the nun walked him into the space between the cars. By then, passengers hung out of the windows to watch le scandale. The man looked at the rail bed and paled.

It’s nearly two meters down, he wailed. You can’t …

The nun put her booted foot on his bottom and shoved. He flew … face down … into the muck. He emerged, slightly bloodied, spitting gravel. The crowd cheered.

The nun retrieved his suitcase and flung it after him. It opened in mid-flight; cheap underwear fluttered down around the humiliated man.

The crowd cheered again.

Giselle joined the chorus.

The nun dusted her hands.

The train restarted, and the women returned to their carriage. The nun patted the space beside her.

I’m Sister Marie-Jeanne. And you?

Giselle Berger.

The nun gave Giselle a wicked grin, I must confess. I undid the latches on his suitcase.

The two women laughed.

Why are you going to Paris, my child?

"I’m a couturière, well, only a dressmaker now, but I want to design."

Best not lie to a nun.

I auditioned children in Strasbourg for the Notre Dame choir school in Paris, she said.

How were they?

Adorable, but … she shook her head.

A bit later the nun asked, Where was your hat pin?

I don’t have one. I don’t like hats. I prefer a beret.

Paris is vicious to country girls. The nun shook her head.

What do you mean?

Parisians look down on girls from far-flung provinces, like Alsace. Calling someone ‘provincial’ is an insult, she said, then touched one of Giselle’s braids. You are lovely, my child. To be taken seriously, put your hair in a chignon … or wear a habit.

Giselle laughed.

As they pulled into Paris, the nun pressed a roll of bills into Giselle's hand.

What is this? Giselle asked.

It’s the rogue’s money. He owed it to you.

But, but how did you get it? Giselle asked, wide-eyed. Then she grinned. Did you pick his pocket?

I wasn’t always a nun, my child.

❆

Later that afternoon, Eighth Arrondissement, Right Bank, Paris

The taxi sped away, belching sticky, black exhaust onto sweaty Giselle.

At least I’m here, with my luggage.

Then she looked around and smiled, her fatigue forgotten.

This is beyond my dreams.

Five-story townhouses with creamy stone facades paraded down the leafy street, a sidewalk cafe and pharmacie at the far end. A barbered poodle watered a tree while the owner feigned disinterest.

Giselle found the house number and rapped the knocker.

Repeatedly.

Eventually, a wizened, old woman opened the door a crack. Badly hunched, she peered up at Giselle through smudged glasses. She wore a black Chanel suit and teetered on high heels. The front of her suit was ‘decorated’ with bits of dried egg. The woman’s hair was an inky black frizz. She had crayoned on only one eyebrow, and her lipstick was askew. A cat meowed from between her feet.

Who are you? The woman demanded in a raspy voice.

I’m Giselle … Giselle Berger … your cousin Fleur’s daughter … from Alsace?

Each assertion met with puzzlement until the penny dropped … finally.

Are you here? Is it today? Oh, dear, well, come in. I’m feeding the boys. The old woman opened the door wider. Before Giselle could enter, cat stench walloped her nose: overwhelming, long-standing, never-cleaned-up cat stench.

Giselle froze.

I won’t go in. I’ll take the next train home first.

I’m afraid I am allergic to cats, madame, Giselle lied and pretended to sneeze.

Oh, for the love of God, Fleur, the woman snorted. Why didn’t you say so? You and your allergies.

She slammed the door in Giselle’s face.

CHAPTER TWO

Two Upsets and a Friend

WHEN THE OLD woman slammed the door, Giselle sat on her trunk and burst into tears.

I won’t live there. It stinks. She’s senile, gâteuse.

Just then, a matron bustled out of the pharmacie with a glass of water. She reminded Giselle of Penelope, Maman’s favorite red Faverolle hen with her fluffy red hair, a short stout body in a brown dress, and skinny legs.

She offered Giselle the water.

What is it, dear girl? she asked.

Overwhelmed at the kind gesture, Giselle disintegrated into tears, sobs, sniffs, and hiccups.

The woman patted Giselle’s shoulder, unable to parse the exact problem.

"Shhh, shhh.Come into the pharmacie. My husband and I will get you sorted."

Giselle followed, and soon she was in the kitchen behind the pharmacie. It smelled like home, with a lamb stew simmering in the oven. After introductions, Madame Sarah Haussmann dispatched her husband to fetch Giselle’s trunk.

She cut Giselle a slice of fresh lemon cake, and Giselle ate with her best party manners.

Another piece of cake? Mme Haussmann asked when Giselle finished.

Thank you, no. It was delicious, but I couldn’t. Giselle patted her mouth with a napkin.

Her stomach growled its disagreement. She had not eaten since breakfast.

Where did I lose my food parcel?

Bernard Haussmann came in, wiping his hands on a rag.

Done. One trunk safely inside, he boomed. Do you have everything, now?

Yes, thank you so very much. You’re very kind, Giselle said.

Handcarts are helpful, no? M. Haussmann asked over his glasses. Tall and stout, he wore a spotless white pharmacist’s smock and a kindly expression. So why have you no place to stay?

"Her cousine is Mme Girard," Mme Haussmann said.

Ah, yes, M. Haussmann nodded gravely. The cat lady.

"You’ll need a pension just for women, Madame said. Very acceptable for a good girl on her own. I’ll telephone around."

Thank you. That is most kind.

She disappeared into the pharmacy where the telephone sat.

"Tikun olam," M. Haussmann said.

I’m sorry? Giselle replied.

It’s Hebrew. It means heal the world, he said. We Jews are taught to help people in need. You’ve made my wife’s day.

Oh, lovely, Giselle said with a smile. May I serve you a slice of your wife’s cake?

Father Benedict says the Jews killed Jesus, but these people seem nice.

"Thank you, no. Eat. Eat. Save me from temptation."

Giselle ate the much-desired second piece. Soon, Mme Haussmann returned, waving a piece of paper.

"Only one customer with a pension has a vacancy. Go look at it."

Thank you, Giselle said.

If it is not right, come back. We will put you up for the night.

I appreciate your kindness, madame, monsieur, Giselle said.

M. Haussmann settled Giselle and her belongings in a taxi. Giselle eyed the rogue’s money while the taxi ferried her the dozen blocks to the rue Scribe.

I have no idea what a pension will cost, but this should help.

❆

Just north of the Opera Garnier, on the rue Scribe, the pension sat on a street where every building had a similar facade. Shops were common at street level, offices above. Several, like the pension, were only residential.

The multi-story cream-colored limestone building had enormous carriage doors at the street level. These stout doors took up half its frontage on the street. The inset wicket door just for people, the portillon, seemed minuscule by comparison. Wrought iron balconies graced the upper floors in front of French doors.

I hope this is home.

The landlady, Madame Elize, ran to fat and smelled of sour dishrags. She barked out the rules in French garbled with some mittel-European language.

Monday. Front rent. No rent? Tuesday. Out.

What Giselle understood sounded dreadful.

Mme Elize stopped on a landing and pointed skyward.

"You top. Alone. Très privé," she said, trying to sell an attic as a penthouse.

Giselle scouted it out and returned to Mme Elize.

Let’s talk about the price, Giselle said, a good opening for negotiation, or so her mother told her once. The woman held out her hand.

No Jew. Pay. First. Last week, Mme said. Or go.

She had no idea what religion had to do with anything, but she was too tired to argue. She paid up.

Upstairs, she flopped onto the lumpy, dusty bed with squeaking springs. Her sister, Honore, would focus on the stained ceiling, or the peeling wallpaper.

Giselle did not care a whit.

There are no cats. I’ll look for another place as soon as I have a job.

Giselle unpacked. She put on her new cotton wrapper she’d made just for Paris. The inexpensive blue cotton from India was sprigged with charming paisleys of a lighter blue and pink. Even in a shabby pension, she felt chic.

She went downstairs to bathe. The sight of two taps on the tub cheered her.

Oh la la. Hot and cold running water? I don’t have to lug pots of boiling water for a warm bath.

A metal rigging stood over the tub.

And a shower!

Giselle had never used a shower. Honore wanted one, very vocally, but it would be a huge project. Papa said a boiler was easy, but running pipe through walls a half meter thick was out of reach.

Giselle stepped into the tub, pulled the curtain, and set about working the taps. After a few false starts, she had lovely warm water. She shampooed her hair and lathered off the grime of travel. She stepped out … into a puddle.

Oh no. The curtain goes inside the tub.

With her threadbare towel, she sopped up the water as best she could. By then, she was sweaty, so she rinsed off … this time with the curtain inside the tub.

By dinnertime, Giselle was ravenous. Mme Haussmann’s lemon cake was long gone, and breakfast in Alsace was just a distant memory. She put on one of her bias-cut shifts, the one in blue, and found her way to the unadorned dining room. The table seated twelve, though only nine or ten women sat around it. Some were youngish, but most were old, forty if they were a day.

Mme Elize introduced her.

This new girl. Giselle. She shrugged. No work shower.

Mortified, Giselle grimaced into her lap, missing reassuring glances from other boarders. She ate the glutinous stew, skipped the vinegary wine, and fled the table as soon as it was proper.

❆

Not many people can reproduce a Chanel garment from a photograph, but Giselle did it … at twenty. Legend has it Michelangelo once drew a perfect circle freehand to audition for a commission; Giselle’s suit was the fashion equivalent of that.

Giselle seemed obsessed with fabrics as a small child. By age six, she sewed burlap with a blunt needle. At eight, Papa put blocks on the treadle of Maman’s sewing machine. At ten, she started with the modiste, Mlle Carentan, in Beauville.

She’s better at sewing than I am, Maman said. Can you teach her while she helps you?

Every day, Giselle rushed through morning chores. After school, she hurried to the dressmaker’s. She pushed Mlle Carentan to teach her as many constructions as possible on as many fabrics as possible. The modiste kept her suspicions to herself for a while, as girls wander off things.

When Giselle was sixteen, Mlle Carentan clued in Giselle’s parents, but not Giselle.

She is a prodigy. When she asks to go to Paris, let her.

❆

3 May 1938

A night’s sleep restored Giselle’s optimism.

She twisted her thick, wavy hair into a chignon, never again to wear plaits outside her home. She dressed in her blue bouclé suit and new, beige leather court shoes called ‘pumps.’ She studied herself in the mirror.

Mlle Chanel could not have done better.

After admiring her suit from all directions, Giselle grabbed her sample suitcase and walked the few blocks to the House of Worth.

Sunshine, a light breeze, and tubs of flowers cheered her. When she passed the Opera Garnier, that overwrought, monstrous wedding cake of a building, she thought it unbearably beautiful.

Well-heeled Parisians gravitated to that area of the Right Bank. On the rue de la Paix she passed a debonair older man whose lavender beret matched his lavender tie. He carried a baguette under one arm and a little pug puppy under the other.

How Parisian is that?

I’m here. I’m really here. I’ll see these things every day.

Such was the power of place … especially to an ingenue.

The six-story House of Worth took up a half a city block. The doorman, a stork of a man, sneered at her. Cardboard suitcases use the service entrance.

Giselle fumed.

Our goats have better manners.

Giselle entered the back door via an alley. A girl in a too-tight blouse glanced at Giselle, then returned to picking her teeth with the aid of a toothpick and hand mirror.

We aren’t hiring.

"I’d like to make an appointment with the maître, please."

If we were hiring … which we are not … we’d call the Syndicate, the girl said, probing between her teeth.

What is the Syndicate? Giselle asked.

I cannot imagine picking my teeth in front of someone.

The girl stared at her. "If you knew anything about haute couture, you’d know."

Giselle straightened … lifted her left eyebrow halfway to her hairline … then fixed the girl in a stern gaze.

I require the address of the Syndicate. Now, please.

The girl flicked her toothpick into the trash. Or what?

She all but threw down the gauntlet for a duel.

Giselle shrugged and smiled. I’ll scream. Then, when someone comes, I’ll sob and say you slapped me.

She left with the address.

It was a shame to use both Maman’s death stare and Honore’s tactics, but the girl deserved them.

❆

Each step hurt more than the last. Her new shoes rubbed blisters on her heels.

I should have bought stockings. Or not walked here.

She pushed open the door to the Syndicate, and a foxy little dog shot out from the back, all happy and yappy, his nails tapping on the floor. A slim young man in his twenties followed, berating him in mock anger.

Napoleon. Quiet, you little monster. The man clapped his hands at the dog. After a sassy last woof, the dog curled up in his bed.

He looked at Giselle’s suit, then clutched his chest.

If you made that suit, I’m in love, he said.

Thank you, Giselle said.

Then he pointed at her foot. Oh dear, you’re bleeding.

Giselle looked down at her blood-stained shoes. Her face crumpled and tears appeared.

I can’t do this. I can’t.

No, no, no, the man said. He flapped his hands. No tears. You’re too talented to cry. Please, please, please tell me you have samples in that suitcase?

Yes. Yes, I do, Giselle sniffed.

"Parfait, he said. You must promise to stop crying or I shall start."

He fanned his eyes with his hands and Giselle giggled.

You sit, I’ll get bandages, he said.

Giselle blotted her tears, bandaged her heels, and composed herself.

The man sat down in a chair across from her and smiled widely.

So, he slapped his knees. What’s your name? Why haven’t I heard about you? He waved both hands in protest. No. No. Wait. Don’t tell me. You probably have some hideous name, like Jezebel. Just show me your work.

Giselle smiled at him. I made this suit in the style of Mlle Chanel.

She removed the jacket and handed it to him. He reverently stroked the buttonholes.

Oooh, perfectly hand-bound buttonholes.

He turned it inside out.

And the inside’s as beautiful as the outside. Please, tell me you have samples, he said.

"Bien sûr."

She showed him garments and he gushed praise. Giselle’s despondence dissolved.

I’m Robert Marin. You’ve come to the right place.

He offered his hand and Giselle shook it.

Giselle Berger.

He explained the Syndicate was part school, part guild for haute couture, part employment agency.

Lots of girls from the provinces can’t shank a button, he said. You? You are my first real find. How old are you?

Twenty, she said.

How long have you been sewing?

My maman says I showed her the bias drape at three, when I folded a napkin into a shawl for my dolly. I began helping a dressmaker at ten.

"You are the Mozart of modistes."

You flatter me. Giselle blushed.

I have no idea what that means, but it sounds good.

I speak truth. Let me set some things up for you. Please, just sit. Promise you won’t leave? he asked.

I promise.

Robert and Napoleon spent a few minutes in the back, then he returned with three cards containing interview details. He dealt them to her like playing cards.

Schiaparelli needs a cutter. Poor pay, but they promote from within.

Giselle nodded.

He played the second card.

"Chanel, la mademoiselle her very own self, needs a finisher, he said, then paused. But … she will be rude to you … you are a serious threat to her."

I doubt that, Giselle said, dipping her head.

I’m dead serious. Do not turn your back on her, especially if she’s fiddling with a letter opener.

Giselle tittered.

Lastly? Maison Ivoire … they need new blood, he said with a sigh. The last owner left a mess. I know the new people socially. Lovely.

Giselle felt faint.

I have three interviews.

Do you charge a fee? Giselle asked. I haven’t any money for something like that.

Not to worry, the house pays the fee, he said, then sighed. It’s a shame I can’t charge a premium for you.

Thank you so very much, Giselle said.

Here’s a temporary Syndicate card. When you get a job, you’ll get a permanent one. This lets you into all the wholesale houses.

I’ll let you know how I fare.

Just remember me when you are rich and famous, he said.

He blew her a kiss as she left.

❆

Saturday, 7 May 1938

For several days, Giselle flapped around the pension in slippers so her heels could recover. On Saturday, she sat in the courtyard to write home. She looked around for inspiration, but the beauty of Paris stopped at the carriage doors.

The tree in the middle of the courtyard was spindly. It got minimal light, except at high noon, and almost no water, thanks to wall-to-wall cobblestones. The only other green came from weeds that crabbed their way up between the stones.

Sensitive to parental feelings, Giselle wrote that Cousin Adele was ‘not set up for guests after all.’ She described her pension as ‘very correct’ on a chic street near the Opera Garnier.

She did not mention the rogue or his money.

As she licked the envelope, another boarder flopped into a decrepit outdoor chair.

The girl looked like a living, breathing Kewpie doll, which was all the rage. She had baleful, big brown eyes, a red bow mouth, and red hair, complete with spit curls.

She took inexpert puffs on a cigarette.

I’m Scarlett, she said, then broke into a coughing fit.

Giselle.

Sorry. I’m learning to smoke, she said, holding the lit cigarette as far away as possible. I guess that’s obvious. Do you smoke?

Giselle shook her head.

Supposedly it’s sophisticated, Scarlett said. I need all the help I can get. I don’t want to take tickets at the Louvre for the rest of my life.

You seem nice just like you are, Giselle said.

I’m trying. Red hair, red name, red fingernails. Scarlett smiled and wiggled her fingers. A girl like me needs a look.

What? Giselle asked, confused.

I’m not trained for anything. Tearing tickets is hardly a skill, she shrugged. I read a lot though.

Ah, well, I can sew, but don’t read much. I’ve never met anyone named Scarlett, Giselle said.

I was born Rose, but I go by Scarlett. After Scarlett O’Hara? she said to Giselle’s blank stare. "From Gone With the Wind. The book?"

Oh, yes, Giselle said. I haven’t read it. Sorry.

I have my own copy, Scarlett said. I’ve read it twice.

Wasn’t it very expensive? Giselle asked. I hear it is a big book.

Well, yes and no. I borrowed it from the library … and then I moved, Scarlett said with an impish, gap-toothed smile. It’s a sin not to finish a good book. I take good care of it.

Giselle laughed and felt much better. Where are you from?

A little town you’ve never heard of, Scarlett said.

Me too, Giselle said.

Scarlett crushed out the cigarette and waved away the smoke. Since we’re from the same place, let’s be friends.

Yes. Definitely. Yes.

Why are you wearing carpet slippers? Scarlett asked. Giselle told her the sad tale.

I need my foot to heal … fast, Giselle said. I have interviews.

Scarlett slipped off her shoe and held it up. Try slides.

Giselle looked at the sculpted cork wedge with a single red patent leather band across the ball of the foot.

I could wear something like this with my black linen shift, Giselle said. Scarlett, you’re a genius. Where can I buy some?

They cost the eyes, she said. If mine fit, wear them.

Giselle put them on and pranced about, smiling.

They fit just fine, Giselle said. What do you think?

I’ll varnish your toenails, Scarlett said.

I just need some red accessory to make a look, Giselle said.

I don’t want my toenails varnished.

I have a pair of red sunglasses, Scarlett said. Everyone on the Cote d’Azur wears them.

You’ve been there? Giselle asked, impressed.

Often, but only in magazines.

CHAPTER THREE

A Job

FRIDAY, 13 MAY 1938

Giselle, being Alsatian, had some German traits, like punctuality. She arrived at her third interview ten minutes early, then collected herself until the clock struck two.

Maison Ivoire sat in the epicenter of haute couture on the leafy rue du Faubourg St. Honoré. Enormous swags of creeper draped the maison’s creamy facade. The doorman, in black livery, proudly flicked fantasy dust motes from polished brass fittings.

She perched on a bench across the way, lest she wrinkle her black linen dress. With red slides and red sunglasses, she felt adequate to the task, but just barely. Her heels bled again after her Chanel interview, so she was back to Scarlett’s slides.

With two of her three interviews done, she could relax, sort of. She slipped into reverie, lulled by the breeze through the leaves of the plane trees.

I have one job offer at Schiaparelli.

She remembered the jowly M. Henri at Schiaparelli. He praised her samples, then offered her a job as a cutter, which according to him, was beneath her talents.

When he mentioned the pay, Giselle’s stomach rumbled in protest.

Thank you so much, Giselle said. I’ve just started interviews. May I let you know in a few days?

Ordinarily, no, but with your talent, I’ll wait, he said, standing. "Bonne chance."

As Giselle heard no church bells while sitting on the shady bench, she waited and reminisced about her interview with Chanel.

Giselle, eager to wear her Chanel-style suit, depended on an adhesive bandage to protect her heels from the vicious beige pumps.

Mlle Chanel, in her atelier on the rue Cambon, might photograph well, but in person, she had sallow skin, harsh features and chipped nail varnish.

She drapes herself in ropes of pearls to distract from her face.

Giselle wore the blue bouclé suit, only to have Chanel sneer at it.

The suit is, I suppose … adequate … , Mlle Chanel said. Smoke flowed from her nose like a dragon’s breath. But it is so … rural.

Robert Marin was right; Chanel thinks I have talent.

However, I need a finisher, she said, scribbling a number on a card and sliding it to her. This is the best a girl … like you … can expect in this town.

It was half the Schiaparelli offer.

Giselle stood, Thank you for your time, Mlle Chanel. I will decline.

I wouldn’t work for you if you were the last woman on Earth.

Remind me of your name again? Chanel said to Giselle’s back.

At least her heel did not bleed until after the interview.

Someone tapped Giselle’s shoulder, jolting her from her reverie.

"Mlle Berger? I’m Hervé, the doorman from Maison Ivoire. I think you have an appointment with us at two, non?" he asked with a smile.

Is it two? The church bells haven’t rung, Giselle said, slightly panicky.

The Church of the Madeleine doesn’t have bells, he said kindly.

I am so sorry, I hate being late. Giselle stood, only to have the contents of her black raffia tote spill onto the ground. Giselle retrieved her belongings.

Not to worry. He smiled.

Hervé lifted her sample case, and offered her his arm to cross the street.

Once inside, she removed her red sunglasses, folded them, and stuck one temple into the neckline of her shift, making an insouciant drape.

Tell me their names again, please? she asked Hervé who showed her into the petit salon on the ground floor.

She is Mme Ivoire, and he is Didier, he said. "She rescued this house, along with Didier, the maître."

Ivoire. Didier.

They’ve never bitten anyone, Hervé said gravely. Please, sit. I’ll bring refreshments.

Thank you, M. Hervé. You’ve been very kind.

Giselle looked around the salon and smiled.

I belong here.

The high ceilings and wide-plank floor screamed elegance to a farm girl. Sparkling white trim set off cream walls. Tall French doors accepted a breeze perfumed by a topiary rosemary.

The furniture was not fancy, just good French craftsmanship in graceful, carved woods. Upholstery in a palette of peach and green tied everything together.

Fashion plates from hundred-year-old magazines delighted the eye with their framing. A green silk dress had a matching velvet ribbon as part of the mat. A lavender hat and veil had matching veiling between the art and the frame.

Oui, I do belong here.

Madame Ivoire arrived, wreathed in an aura of Gauloises cigarette smoke mixed with the marshmallow scent of Shalimar.

I’m Anna Ivoire. she offered her large, square hand. Giselle shook it, her own mouth too dry to speak.

The most striking thing about Mme Ivoire was her cigarette holder. She held it above eye level, pinched between her upraised thumb and first two fingers, almost like a tray. She circled it around like a phonograph record, then gestured with it for Giselle to sit on a small sofa.

Unlike most women in couture, she did not always wear black. That day she wore a navy faille sheath and matched it to a lapis lazuli theatre-length cigarette holder, as was her custom. It was an affectation, to be sure, but a harmless one.

Giselle sat.

Mme Ivoire was one of those women who looked forty, whether twenty or sixty. Descended from Greek fishermen, she was olive-skinned and decidedly thick. Thick hair, thick nose, thick ankles. She was also well-corseted, well-coiffed, and well-dressed. Only the gray in her hair pointed her north of fifty.

"Didier, our maître, will join us in a moment," she said.

Giselle smiled. Mute.

"Hervé told me you are both young and chic, she said. He was right. It is an unusual combination."

Giselle blinked. Twice.

Madame Ivoire, pointed at the suitcase.

You’ve brought us samples? she asked.

Can the girl even speak?

Giselle nodded.

But first, tell me about your dress, she said. I like it. Is it your design?

Speak, please, before I die of old age.

"You do? Oh, yes, thank you. What a lovely thing to say. Um, yes. I have several of these shifts. They’re like uniforms to me … they’re minimal construction. The bias cut carries both design and drape. I belt them sometimes.

"I wanted to wear my copy of a Chanel suit, but the shoes for it made my heels bleed … so I have to wear slides. It’s not a copy, exactly. I did it from photos, not a real garment.

Anyway, I adore linen, don’t you? People think it is cool, but it is a very warm fabric, so I like a tissue weight for summer. Black linen is hard to launder, as faded black is not gray, so I add alum and India ink …

Giselle knew she should stop, but could not find the stopping point.

If a woman’s power was in her poise, as Maman said, Giselle had misplaced hers by running late.

The door opened and a slim man with prematurely gray hair walked in. He wore an impeccable pale gray suit and woodsy green tie with the same ease that Papa wore a waxed jacket and muddy gumboots.

Giselle stood when he entered.

Please, don’t stop. You were talking textiles? he said with a mild smile. His eyes were somewhere between the gray of his suit and the green of his tie. He was perhaps late thirties or early forties, but the gray hair made it hard to tell.

"This is Didier, our maître," Mme Ivoire said. And this is Mlle Giselle Berger.

Please get this girl to stop talking.

Giselle smiled, blushed.

Do I offer my hand? Or does he? Oh, never mind.

She stuck her hands behind her back and looked at the floor.

Madame and Didier shared a glance and a smile, and Hervé appeared with the refreshment trolley.

Brigitte thought lemonade might be refreshing, Hervé said. And of course, our cheese straws, fresh from the oven.

Thank you, Hervé, Madame said.

After Hervé left, Didier spoke. Please sit, Mlle Berger.

Giselle sat.

You must rate. Hervé never feeds anyone he doesn’t like, no matter how important they are, Didier continued. Please help yourself.

Giselle nibbled a cheese straw, sipped, and smiled.

Didier rubbed his hands against each other in anticipation. Now, let’s see those samples.

Giselle relaxed … a little.

Both Didier and Madame examined her work with a practiced and pleased eye. Both had the same thought.

This girl has more than talent. She’s a prodigy.

Your Chanel-style suit could pass for the real thing, Didier said before excusing himself for another appointment.

Anna Ivoire will move Heaven and Earth to hire this girl.

The room seemed to deflate and Giselle returned to something approaching her right mind.

I need a fitting assistant, Madame Ivoire said, lighting another Gauloises from a crystal lighter. But you are better than that.

"Thank you, Madame," Giselle said.

I’d be willing to take you on as an apprentice of sorts.

Thank you … very much … but I don’t seek an apprenticeship, Giselle said.

"You’re far too talented to hand someone shears and pins."

Giselle smiled.

You have talent, she said. But first you must learn the business.

What do you propose? Giselle sounded noncommittal.

Start by coordinating fittings. Not difficult, unless you put the wife and the mistress in adjoining rooms.

And after fittings? Giselle asked.

"Learn production, in our atelier, she said. Our people are some of the finest in the world."

Giselle nodded.

"Finally, spend time with Didier, learning the business of haute couture: pricing, ordering, and publicity."

That might just fit me, Giselle said, unaware of her pun.

I’d crawl over shards of glass for this.

When would you promote me to designer? Giselle asked, sounding a great deal like her maman, who handled the business at the farm. Papa was far too kind to do that.

"Sooner rather than later. Your youth will attract young clients. No young woman wants to go to her mother’s doctor … or her couturière."

Could you be more specific? Giselle asked.

Assuming everyone is happy, January, she said. Seven months.

And what do you propose in terms of starting pay? Giselle asked.

Madame said a number that was twice what Schiaparelli offered.

I can live on that. But Maman says never take the first offer.

I am very flattered, Madame, truly I am, Giselle said. But I’d require triple that to join a house in transition. Both of us are taking a risk.

She got double and worked until her fingers bled.

❆

May and June 1938 passed in a blur of work, but to someone finally on the escalator of a major career, it was sheer joy. Giselle might have been just a fitting assistant, but she was the best in Paris.

In an immaculate white smock and black serge skirt, Giselle delivered every garment to its proper fitting room, steamed and on its adjustable wire dress form, a ‘birdcage,’ with its paperwork on the desk.

She kept the rooms pristine; she refreshed bouquets of fragrant white lilies, snipped their anthers lest pollen stain garments. She cleaned large crystal ashtrays between clients, and more than once caught a champagne coupe headed for a wedding gown.

She anticipated Madame Ivoire’s needs. She even dressed for them. She wore a measuring tape around her neck and an inexpensive nurse’s watch on her smock. In one pocket, she kept tiny scissors and tailor’s chalk. In the other, she had a small notebook and pencil. She wore a pincushion for glass-headed dressmaker pins on her left