Chapter 2

Marseille. 9 October 1934

T he crowd heaved as people lined the streets, waiting for the King of Yugoslavia’s arrival. Camera in hand, I stood ready, with my notebook and pen tucked into my bag. I’d barely settled into my Parisian apartment before being sent on this assignment. Marseille was beautiful—a shimmering jewel on the French Riviera. So different from Paris, yet it felt like home. Paris moved to a unique rhythm, driven by café culture, art, and fashion. The women there frequented Chanel and other prestigious houses, and it seemed as if every woman in France had to be seen in the latest designs. The pressure to conform was palpable. But here, life was more relaxed. Tradition held sway—fishing, basket weaving, old-world charm. To me, Marseille was the pearl in the Mediterranean.

‘Nancy, the king’s here. His boat just docked.’ Marie squeezed in beside me, her cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with excitement. The anticipation in the air was palpable, a mix of curiosity and awe as the crowd buzzed with energy. I could feel the thrill vibrating through my bones, yet there was an odd sense of foreboding in the pit of my stomach. This wasn’t just another day—it felt like something was building, something more than just a royal visit.

The crowd erupted in cheers, and in the distance, I caught sight of two figures by the harbour slipping into a sleek black car: King Alexander and the French Foreign Minister, Louis Barthou. My position on La Canebière gave me a clear view of the port, and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of admiration for the spectacle. Here was a man who had weathered political storms, a king trying to unite his people amidst the chaos of Europe.

The state car inched forward, greeted by roars of welcome from the throng. I watched his gloved hand, poised, moving rhythmically in that practiced motion of royalty. For a moment, I wondered what thoughts preyed on his mind—did he feel the weight of his position as heavily as it seemed? And then, in a blink, he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

‘Long live the king,’ a man bellowed nearby.

And then the world shattered. The crack of gunshots split the air, sharp and jarring. Time seemed to slow as the sound echoed in my ears, disbelief washing over me like cold water. Screams rose in a chorus of terror, and the crowd erupted into chaos. My heart lurched as bodies surged around me, pulling me along in their desperate flight. I felt the press of panic all around me, the air thick with fear.

‘Ils ont fusillé le Roi,’ a man gasped beside me, his voice strangled with horror.

‘Oh, crikey! They’ve shot the king!’ The words slipped from my lips, a mix of disbelief and dread. My heart hammered in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears as I sprinted, adrenaline coursing through my veins. The street blurred around me, and I wasn’t even sure if Marie was still by my side. My mind raced, thoughts colliding with each other—where was she? Was she safe? Was I safe?

I bolted to the end of the road, turned a corner, and ducked into a bistro, collapsing into a chair away from the windows. Breathless, I yanked out my notepad, my hands trembling as I scribbled down the details. I had been trained for this—to capture events as they happened, to find the story in the chaos. But this... this was different. The story would be huge, but at what cost? The nausea churned in my stomach, and I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus. Scanning the bar, I spotted a telephone and dashed over to call the press office in Paris. The receiver felt heavy in my hand, the dialling tone buzzing in my ear. Breathlessly, I relayed my account of the day’s events.

‘Marseille—the King of Yugoslavia was shot today. It’s unclear how serious his injuries are….’ My voice wavered as I spoke, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in. How could I convey the chaos, the horror of it all, in just a few words? After the call, I slumped onto a barstool. ‘Waiter, double brandy, please.’ My fingers fumbled with my purse, coins slipping from my shaky hands. The drink arrived, and I knocked it back in one go, the warmth of the alcohol barely taking the edge off the tension coiled in my chest.

Outside, a crowd had gathered on the quayside, and I wandered over to the open door. A gendarme stood at the centre of the group, speaking in low, urgent tones, and as I listened, the voices around me blended into a blur, words muffled by shock.

‘Quinze personnes blessés,’ a woman murmured behind me. I turned, straining to understand her.

‘What are they saying?’ I asked.

She looked up at me, her face pale, eyes dull. ‘The king is dead. Louis Barthou is badly wounded, along with several others. They’ve taken him to the hospital.’ She shook her head and walked away, her words trailing off in her native tongue.

I returned to the bar. ‘Another brandy, Monsieur.’ I needed the courage, or so I told myself as I glanced around the room. The atmosphere was tense, with people either silent or whispering in hushed tones. Then the door swung open, and Marie slipped in, carried by the briny breeze.

‘What happened to you?’ I hugged her, relief flooding me.

‘Oh, talk about exciting! I tried to keep up, but the crowd swept me away.’ She sank onto a stool, placing her purse on the polished bar. ‘You’ve made yourself comfortable,’ she said, nodding at the drink in my hand.

‘To calm the nerves,’ I replied, finishing the last drop, grateful for the warmth it brought to my throat. ‘So, what’s the latest?’

‘The gunman went on a spree, firing into the crowd. Fifteen people are injured—don’t know yet if anyone else has died.’

‘Did they catch him?’ The scene replayed over and over in my mind, the gunshots echoing like a never-ending loop.

‘Not sure. Did you call it in?’

‘Yes, just.’

Marie exhaled deeply, dabbing at her cheeks before smoothing her sleek black hair back into place. She was resilient and strong-willed, and I realised I needn’t have worried. We were both lucky to escape with our lives. Strewth! That was my first real brush with danger, and the thrill of it still buzzed under my skin. It’s only later, when you grasp the full extent of what happened, that it hits you—the realisation that you’re one of the lucky ones, alive to tell the tale. Pale, shocked faces surrounded us, people consoling one another. The poor king had only come here to strengthen the alliance with France and rally support against Mussolini’s anti-monarchist actions. And yet here we were, treating it like a game, reporting it as if it were mere excitement. Marie pointed that out. In truth, it was shocking and tragic. But the world needed to know.

Later, we heard the assassin had been cut down by a mounted gendarme’s sword before the furious crowd descended upon him. A life for a life, they said, as if that somehow balanced the scales. I tried to process it all—the brutality, the swift justice, if you could call it that. There was something disturbingly final about it, a sense that in this chaotic world, everything could end in an instant. And yet, life continued, indifferent to the loss of one man, even a king.

When I finally returned to the hotel, the weight of the day pressed down on me like a heavy shroud. I left Marie in the lobby, barely muttering a goodbye, and headed straight for my room. My legs felt like lead as I climbed the stairs, each step echoing in my ears. A long soak in the tub was in order, along with another drink. Perhaps it was cowardly, retreating into the comfort of warm water and alcohol, but I needed something—anything—to help me make sense of the madness.

Once in my room, I peeled off my clothes, each piece falling to the floor as if shedding the day’s horrors. I threw open the windows in the bathroom, letting the cool breeze kiss my skin. The scent of the sea drifted in, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender bath salts. I sank into the suds, the water enveloping me like a comforting embrace. As I leaned back, my gaze drifted out across the harbour.

The late afternoon sky was a soft, milky blue, flecked with gulls that cried out into the air. It was peaceful—heaven, even—yet tinged with sadness. The calm after the storm. I felt a strange mix of relief and melancholy, so many conflicting emotions swirling within me. The world outside appeared so serene, yet underneath, it roiled with unrest. And here I was, caught in the middle of it all, a witness to history in the making.

And yet, despite everything, I had never felt so alive. It was as if the danger, the uncertainty, had awakened something within me—a spark that refused to be extinguished. Luck was on my side, having landed this job as a reporter for the Hearst Newspaper Group. I never imagined my life would take such a turn, yet here I was, navigating a world of power, politics, and peril. The interviewer had said, ‘The downside is we need you in Paris.’ Downside? Who was he kidding? Upside, more like. Paris, the city of light, of revolution, of endless possibilities.

I soon discovered I had a knack for reporting—no surprise, given my gift of the gab. I could charm information out of the tightest-lipped sources, turn a phrase with ease, and craft a story that would captivate readers. It was amazing what you could do when necessity called for it, as the old proverb said. Adapt or perish—that was the way of the world now. And Mum would be surprised. I could almost hear her voice, sharp and cutting, as if she were standing right behind me. ‘You’ll never amount to anything,’ she often said, her words like acid, burning holes in my confidence. ‘You’re such an ugly girl—perhaps that’s God’s way of punishing you.’

Her acidic words had hardened me over the years, toughened my skin. Each barb she threw was another layer of armour I wore. As I grew older, I’d yell back, no longer afraid of her sharp tongue, my defiance a shield against her cruelty. I never understood why she used religion as a weapon against me. Her warnings didn’t scare me; they drove a wedge between us, pushing me further from God. If He was so cruel, I wanted no part of Him. The world didn’t need divine judgment; it needed action, change, courage.

I sipped my brandy, letting the memories blur into a hazy fog. My mind drifted to the political rumblings of the time, the undercurrents of tension that seemed to pulse beneath everything. The world’s gaze was fixed on Germany, on one man—Herr Hitler. His name was on everyone’s lips, whispered in fear, spoken with disdain, or, disturbingly, admiration. Times were changing, and unrest was growing across Europe. The storm clouds were gathering, dark and ominous.

Germany’s new laws seemed intent on alienating the Jewish community, turning neighbours into enemies, dividing a nation. With Hitler now president, a new era had begun—an era of aggression, of expansion, of dangerous ambition. I couldn’t help but wonder what the Führer’s intentions were. His speeches were filled with promises of a stronger Germany, a nation reborn from the ashes of defeat. But at what cost? His vision of the future was terrifying, a world reshaped by his iron will.

After leaving the League of Nations last year over disputes about military parity with Western powers, Germany had made its intentions to rearm clear. And I doubted anyone could stop that. The world seemed to be sleepwalking toward disaster, blind to the dangers ahead. I felt a chill run down my spine, a sense of foreboding that I couldn’t shake. What did the future hold? What role would I play in it? Could any of us stop the tide that was coming?

I gazed out at the harbour once more, the sun sinking lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the water. The gulls continued their dance above the waves, oblivious to the turmoil below. I envied them, their freedom, their simplicity. Life was so much easier when you didn’t have to think about the consequences, about the future. But that wasn’t a luxury I could afford. Not anymore.

As the evening settled in, I resolved to keep pushing forward, to keep fighting for the truth, for justice. The world was on the brink, and I would do whatever it took to make sure my voice was heard. For now, though, I allowed myself a moment of peace, of quiet reflection. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new stories to tell. But tonight, I let the brandy, and the bathwater soothe my weary soul.

***

That evening, the silence of the hotel wrapped around us like a heavy blanket, broken only by the soft clinking of glasses and murmurs from distant corners. The day’s chaos had faded into memory, yet its residue clung to me, a heaviness I couldn’t quite shake. I found myself in the hotel lounge with my colleagues, seeking solace in the amber glow of our drinks. The tension in my muscles slowly unwound with each sip, though my mind remained restless, haunted by the events I had witnessed.

I’d admonished Richard for leaving both Marie and me in the lurch during the chaos, and now he was doing his best to make it up to us by keeping our glasses full. An icy breeze swept in as the door opened, and a couple waltzed in from the street, their laughter light and carefree. They made their way to the bar, where another couple greeted them with hugs and kisses on both cheeks.

The man turned and caught my eye as he spoke in rapid French, his voice low and confident. His hazel eyes were striking, enigmatic; his black hair slicked back with effortless precision. The blonde on his arm, dressed in a sleek, Chanel-like gown, followed his gaze and locked eyes with me. Her expression hardened, a stony mask of possession, as she tightened her grip on his arm.

For a brief moment, I felt exposed, vulnerable under their scrutiny. It was only then that I realised how fast my heart was beating, a wild rhythm that echoed in my chest. I took a drag on my cigarette, trying to steady myself. I was used to men staring—I’d been stared at enough times in my life—but this felt different. There was staring, and then there was staring. His gaze was more than just admiration or curiosity; it was as if he saw something in me that even I hadn’t yet recognised. He hesitated for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching into a faint smile before he turned away.

‘He gave you the look,’ Marie whispered, nudging my arm.

‘Yes, well, he can look all he wants.’ I exhaled a plume of smoke, trying to brush off the encounter with a casual shrug. But I couldn’t deny the flutter of excitement that had sparked inside me, as much as I tried to ignore it. He had the air of a French playboy, the type who could sweep a woman off her feet and then leave her spinning in the wind. And I had no interest in getting tangled up in that. Not now. Not with so much at stake.

‘Enjoy life, Nancy, that’s what I say. Take what you can.’ Marie laughed, her eyes twinkling with mischief, the carefree spirit that had always drawn me to her.

‘Damn right,’ Richard chimed in, draining his brandy in one gulp. He ran a hand through his sandy hair, flashing a wide grin. Richard was American, full of bravado and charm, and both he and Marie had taken me under their wings since I’d arrived. They were the best of fun, a whirlwind of laughter and adventure that had made the chaos of this city bearable.

I puffed on my Gitanes, the smoke burning the back of my throat, a welcome distraction. The man at the bar glanced my way again, offering a small nod of acknowledgement, as if we shared some unspoken understanding. I froze for a moment, caught in that strange, invisible pull that sometimes draws you to another soul against your better judgement.

‘His name is Henri Fiocca,’ Marie said, leaning in closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I asked a waiter.’ She lit a cigarette and exhaled a swirl of smoke, her eyes glinting with curiosity. ‘Very wealthy, apparently.’ She raised an eyebrow and winked, as if she’d just discovered a juicy secret.

Henri Fiocca. The name rolled around in my mind, foreign yet somehow familiar. I studied him from across the room, wondering what kind of man he really was beneath that polished exterior. He seemed so sure of himself, so at ease in his own skin. But I had learned long ago that appearances were deceiving. What lay beneath that suave facade? Could there be something more, something real?

I wasn’t interested in finding a man, much less falling in love. My focus was fixed on my career, my future. Besides, I was already in love—with Paris, with the thrill of the chase, with the rush of adrenaline that came from living on the edge. Love was a distraction, a complication I couldn’t afford. But as I watched Henri laugh with his friends, as I felt the faint echo of that earlier connection, I couldn’t help but wonder. Was this one of those moments that could change everything? Was this the beginning of something I hadn’t seen coming?

And then, just as quickly, I shook the thought from my mind. I had made a choice, a commitment to myself and my goals. Paris was my lover now, and there was no room for anyone else. Yet, as I took another drag from my cigarette, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I had just crossed paths with someone who would leave a mark on my life—whether I wanted him to or not.

‘I have a friend, a news correspondent in Berlin,’ Richard said, interrupting my thoughts, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘She says it’s absolute hell over there right now. The Nazi Party is ruthless. Hitler’s SA patrol the streets, hunting for Jews. When they find them, they beat them up—in broad daylight, with everyone watching.’

‘Oh, Lord. And no one does anything to help?’ Marie’s voice rose, incredulous.

Richard shook his head. ‘What can they do? Anyone who tries gets arrested—or worse. It’s sickening. They beat them with steel rods, break their arms, force them to scrub the cobblestones, even urinate on them. Anything to hurt and humiliate.’

‘It’s no way to treat a human being,’ Marie said, shaking her head. ‘Surely they don’t mistreat everyone. Not the elderly?’

‘They don’t care,’ Richard replied. ‘Young, old, even the sick. To Hitler and his cronies, their lives are worthless. There’s a lot going on in Berlin right now—more than most people know.’

As I listened, a wave of irritation and disgust washed over me. How could anyone treat another human being like that? And if such horrors were happening in the open, I shuddered to think what was happening behind closed doors. The Nazi Party seemed rotten to its core, evil. The world needed to wake up and take a stand. Around us, people dressed in their finery dined and drank, oblivious to the suffering just across the border. Did they even realise how fortunate they were?

I was fortunate. The girl from Oz, who had left home on a whim thanks to an old aunt I barely knew—dear Aunt Hinemoa. Her life had seemed so exciting, so romantic to the younger, naiver version of myself. She must have known how rotten things had been for me. Her legacy had brought me here, to faraway shores, to start a new life.

I believed in destiny—or leaving things to the gods, as some say—and it reminded me of the story Mum once told me about my birth. I was born in New Zealand, delivered by a Māori midwife who told Mum I was born with a veil over my face. The midwife said it was a sign of good luck, being born in the caul, and she’d said, ‘Wherever your daughter goes, whatever she does, the gods shall bless her and take care of her, always.’

I’d never thought much about it before, but maybe I was blessed. I had a certain awareness, a quiet voice inside me that whispered during the worst of times, guiding me. Now, I’d finally landed on my feet, and I was determined to make the most of every day.

I’d found a cosy studio apartment on rue Sainte-Anne, just a stone’s throw from Place de l’Opéra. As soon as the concierge discovered I was Australian, she told me the flat was mine. She explained how she’d fallen in love with an Australian soldier during the Great War and adored my countrymen.

My new place was small, but the moment I stepped through the door and into the building’s heart, I knew I was home. A quaint cobbled walkway led into a main atrium with ancient oak beams cladding the upper walls. A sweeping stone staircase wound its way to the top floor. The rooms were bright and airy, with beautiful period features. Large windows framed the living room, opening onto a narrow balcony. I loved throwing them open whenever I was home, gazing out at the people below as they strolled by, shopping or enjoying the cafés. The furnishings were simple—just a bed, a cupboard for clothes, two armchairs, a small table for my typewriter, and a radio. Parquet floors ran throughout, and an open fire with a grey marble surround gave the place warmth. Outside, plane trees lined the streets, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. The city felt so feminine, so beautiful and exotic. Even the cathedral, Notre Dame, meant ‘Our Lady.’

In Paris, women were free to go out alone, to enjoy a drink in a bar. In Sydney, only a certain type of woman would dare do that. France had her own rules, so cosmopolitan. The language was still a barrier, but with the help of my old French phrasebook and my new friends, I was improving. I loved how the locals said my name— ‘Nonceee,’ often inviting me to join them at cafés. Tomorrow, we were returning to Paris. The thought of getting back to my little flat warmed me. Who knew what tomorrow would bring, or the day after that?