Roger stood and looked out the window at the skaters.
“I’ve been told to go through the Swiss Consulate.”
“Please. They’re in Germany’s pocket.”
“Our flag has to come down. I’ll keep the lights on as long as I can, but it won’t be easy. No more funds will be transferred here until further notice.”
“Will we at least have contact with France?”
“Hopefully we’ll get packets from Free France in London, but they’ll have a hell of a time finding boats willing to bring them. The Swiss may come through and the Brits have been reliable.”
“I appreciate your help locating Paul, Roger.”
“Well, there’s one more thing, Caroline. About Paul.”
I braced myself. What could be worse?
“I found his wife’s name on the deceased list. Auschwitz-Birkenau. Rena Rodierre.”
“Rena? Oh no, Roger. It can’t be.”
“Typhus. Or so it said. I’m sorry, Caroline.”
I sat stunned. How was it possible? Poor Rena. Paul surely didn’t know. Paul. How would he react to Rena’s death? It was all too horrible.
I picked up a magnifying glass and searched the photo. If Paul was alive, I would find him. I would be there for him if I had to swim the Atlantic.
—
IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, I made more trips to Snyder and Goodrich. The little money Mr. Snyder provided helped keep my French Families Fund afloat, and Roger didn’t seem to notice. But the specter of shutting down the consulate for lack of funds loomed large. With no official contact in Paris and the rest of France in chaos, the shutdown made sense. But closing down just when people needed us most seemed so unfair. Plus, it was my only link left to Paul.
“You’re going to tear a retina with all this research,” said Roger one night as he headed home, attaché case in one hand, hat in the other.
“I’m fine,” I said, stuffing the frustration down deep. “I guess it’s just hard on the nerves, with our own navy planes bombing German submarines in Long Island Sound. And now this news about Paul.”
“I know, C. Are you going to the Vanderbilt party? You need to get out of here and have some fun.”
Roger was right. I was no use to anyone frazzled and burned out.
I ran home and changed into my best black dress, slipped Father’s retailored tux jacket on over it, and put my hair up. Did it make me look taller? I took it down. I looked pretty good for forty years old.
By the time I made it to the Vanderbilts’ brownstone home at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-first Street, just around the corner from our apartment, I was looking forward to getting out, even if it meant seeing Betty, who’d probably deny knowing me. I shuddered at the thought of seeing Jinx Whitney, for I’d inherited an intense dislike of the fatuous Whitneys from Father. I would simply avoid Jinx and reconnect with old friends. Didn’t I owe it to myself to at least stay on speaking terms with society? I couldn’t work all the time.
The Vanderbilts’ home was a lovely old place, one of the last remnants of the Gilded Age, and it was a shame to tear it down, but the area had become somewhat unfashionable, and the Queen of Fifth Avenue needed to downsize after her husband’s death. She had cut her staff from thirty to eighteen and moved to an even lovelier mansion. Mrs. Vanderbilt used the occasion to have one last party at the house, a fundraiser. It was a curious mix of bridge tournament, dancing, and feasting, all for twenty-five dollars admission, the proceeds going to charity.
It was the public’s first and last time invited into those hallowed halls, and many stood and stared. A young couple, still in their hats and cloth coats, walked about the first floor, mouths agape. They ogled the gold-inlaid woodwork and caressed the onyx pillars. A group stood before a Pompeian fresco in the entryway. That foyer alone could have housed ten needy families.
“Merle Oberon is here,” said a little man, fedora in hand.
The bridge players drifted into the library and took seats at the thirty card tables under the rock crystal chandeliers. The teams were arranged according to group: Junior League. Chapin School. Collegiate. Princeton. The Chapin group was one of the largest.
In front of a fireplace so large I could almost stand upright in it, two waiters in tuxedoes chalked in names on an enormous bridge scoreboard that looked like the pari-mutuel machine at Hialeah. The points of a compass designated the players. North and South. East and West.
As the jeunesse dorée took their seats at the bridge tables, I wandered the dining room, lured by the heavenly scent of rib roast and popovers. Trays of cold meats and seafood on the half shell, a stiff hothouse iris centerpiece, and a silver punch bowl of syllabub big enough to bathe in sat on a landing strip of white damask. The orchestra played Cole Porter and Irving Berlin while a waiter stood guard. Counting the silver?
Since the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor, it seemed every young man in New York had enlisted. Some college boys had come home at Christmas break and gone right into the service. Overnight, the armories filled with soldiers gearing up. Mrs. Vanderbilt allowed servicemen free admission to the party, and it was quite a sight to behold all of them in their uniforms. Naval aviators from Floyd Bennett Field in their navy-blue jackets with gold trim discussed war strategy with army reservists.
Most of our set trained at the lovely Park Avenue Armory, drilling in that soaring hall reminiscent of Europe’s great train stations. One could always tell those boys from the others, for they often had their uniforms custom made by the best bespoke tailors in New York. As long as they followed uniform protocol, servicemen could have their uniforms made of the best wools and silks, with the finest brass and tortoiseshell buttons.
“Not playing, Caroline?” asked Mrs. Stewart Corbit Custer, Mother’s bosom friend.
My lips brushed the smooth powder on Mrs. Custer’s cheek. It was especially good to see her that night, done up in aquamarine chiffon. She and Mother loved to tell the story of how angry Father got when they took me to the poultry show at Madison Square Garden a few weeks after I was born. They had brought me home to Southampton in a Moses basket atop stacks of feed bags in the backseat of the car.
“Trying to give the other girls a chance?” said Mrs. Custer. “Good of you, dear. You would surely skunk them all.”
From the looks of the scoreboard, the bridge teams were formidable. Mrs. M. Field and Mrs. Cushing. Mrs. Noel and Mrs. Dykman. Mrs. Tansill and Mrs. Auchincloss.
“I’m sorry Mother couldn’t make it,” I said.
“Me too, dear. Would you mind doing the tally for me? Your mother usually does it, and you are the most honest person in this room, I’m sure of it.”
“I’m happy to, Mrs. Custer.”
“We’re doing a two-hour time limit. Just gather the tallies at the gong and bring me the winner. You’ve seen it done a million times, of course.”
I dropped a pack of tally sheets and a box of little green pencils at each table and found Betty in the library, standing with Prudence Bowles, a sweet, doe-eyed Vanderbilt cousin; Jinx Whitney, a not-so-sweet Rockefeller cousin; and Kipper Lee, a dim girl with a gummy smile, one of Jinx’s furies.
The four stood in a huddle—something between rugby scrum and papal synod—as Jinx told a story. Was Betty still cross with me? Surely she’d soften once I made an effort.
“…and then I told her,” Jinx was saying, “the man is the member. We can’t make an exception. I don’t care if her father was the president of the United States. We’re simply full up now.”
Seeing her companions’ eyes flash to me, Jinx turned.
Jinx, who’d somehow managed to marry money, resembled a Frigidaire in both shape and hue.
“Oh, Caroline,” Jinx said. “My goodness, you’re in costume?”
“Nice to see you, Jinx.”
“Aren’t you lovely in black?” Jinx said.
“Yes, you look pretty,” Pru said. “It takes a certain skin tone to wear dark colors.”