Chapter 6

May 1937

H enri Fiocca surprised me one evening, a month after my trip to Juan-les-Pins, as the summer heat began to give way to autumn’s cool embrace. He called out of the blue, and before I knew it, we were having dinner that weekend before he dashed back to Marseille. I told myself not to get too excited, quelling the murmuration that rose and dipped in my stomach. But as the months passed, Henri kept calling whenever business brought him through Paris. I began to look forward to his visits, finding comfort in his company. Henri was attentive, considerate, and romantic. He brought roses, champagne, and treated me to the finest dinners. Before I knew it, I had grown quite attached.

I volunteered for news assignments in southern France whenever possible, just to be near him. Recently, he whisked me away to Cannes for the weekend, where he introduced me to his good friends, Emma Digard, her partner, Emmanuel Martinez, and their lovely fourteen-year-old daughter, Micheline. We clicked instantly and had a wonderful time together.

Meanwhile, the Spanish Civil War raged on, dominating the headlines. Hitler and Mussolini continued their support for Franco, sending Panzer tanks, aircraft, and troops. The fighting was brutal, and now the German and Italian air forces joined in, raining bombs on villages and towns. Reports poured in of bloody battles, reprisals, and executions. Men, women, and children slaughtered. Towns reduced to rubble. For Franco, this was a battle for power and control over Spain. For Hitler, it seemed personal—a chance to test Germany’s military might.

I had recently read an interview with General Franco by the American journalist, Jay Allen. Franco had told him, ‘There can be no compromise, no truce. I shall advance. I shall take the capital. I will save Spain from Marxism at whatever cost.’ When Allen asked, ‘That means you will have to shoot half of Spain?’ Franco reportedly smiled and replied, ‘I said whatever the cost.’

Now, news had reached us of the aerial bombings in Guernica. Just a week ago, on April 26th, the town—of no military importance—was bombed and razed to the ground. Fires raged for three days, and around sixteen hundred men, women, and children were ruthlessly killed or injured.

France was growing increasingly concerned about the threat of a third fascist power on its borders. The people and government officials boasted about the Maginot Line, proud of the fortifications stretching from Switzerland to the Belgian border near Montmédy. Yet whispers of another war drifted through the air like autumn leaves, swirling with uncertainty. The older generation, haunted by memories of the past, seemed more concerned, while the younger ones dismissed the idea. But my soul whispered caution, and a sense of unease gnawed at me.

* * *

Autumn in Paris brought a vivid contrast of beauty and melancholy. The air turned crisp and earthy, while trees shed their leaves of amber, scarlet, and gold, preparing for winter’s embrace. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the aroma of hot, freshly baked bread and pastries from the local boulangerie and bistros.

I hated to think of the possibility of another war, and the thought of my brother Stanley, still serving with the navy, filled me with dread. ‘Do you think another war will happen?’ I asked Henri one evening.

He pursed his lips, considering my question as he poured himself another brandy. ‘Non, mon amour. It will never happen.’

His certainty surprised me, given all the signs to the contrary. ‘Really? But look at Hitler. The man’s completely mad and so unpredictable.’

‘Yes, Nannie,’ Henri mused, using the pet name he’d recently given me. ‘I have heard many things about Germany—the persecution of the Jews and others. But war? Non.’ He poured another brandy, this time for me.

I searched his eyes, unconvinced, and saw an unsettled look behind his calm facade. Was he trying to console me, or himself? France was divided on the issue, but one thing was certain. The people had every reason to be concerned.

Henri settled into the tan leather armchair by the fire. I only lit the fire when it was cold enough, as coal and wood ate into my budget, but since Henri was visiting, I made an exception. I loved seeing him there, relaxed and at ease. The logs crackled, warming my small studio apartment. It was good for him to see where and how I lived—no airs or graces. He understood why I worked, and he also knew I wasn’t the kind of woman who looked for a wealthy man to take care of her.

Recently, out of the blue, he had asked me to leave my job and move to Marseille. I laughed it off, though he seemed a bit miffed. ‘A girl can’t give up all she’s worked for on a whim, Henri. It’s madness!’ I had no intention of leaving my life behind, even though he grumbled about it.

‘I have missed you terribly, Nannie. Without you, I am lost.’

‘Rubbish.’ I laughed, enjoying the cheeky smile that played on his lips. ‘You’re full of it. We both know you can’t be lonely.’

His smile faltered, and he stared into his whisky glass as if searching for the right words. Well, he had no shortage of companions. A friend had spotted him with a tall, leggy brunette at Chez Michel just last week. Typical!

‘You know, Nannie, I’ve never met anyone quite like you. You are a remarkable woman.’

He flicked on the radio, fiddling with the dial until he found a station he liked. Then he took my hand and drew me close. As we swayed to the music, I nuzzled his neck, breathing in his scent.

‘You are most stubborn,’ he mused.

I couldn’t argue with that.

‘Come and live in Marseille. Then we can be together more often.’

‘Henri, I can’t work from Marseille.’

His hands slipped from my waist to rest on my hips, and before I could protest further, his mouth found mine. His kiss was soft at first, then firm, stealing my breath. He cradled my face in his hands. ‘Nannie, I’m in love with you. I promise to take care of you, always. Come to Marseille.’

His deep hazel eyes held a promise, one that I believed despite my reservations. But the doubts lingered. Thoughts of his other dinner dates pricked at my consciousness. I pushed those thoughts aside, an ache forming in my throat. ‘I’ll think about it, I promise.’

He kissed me again, his passion igniting something deep within me. ‘It is late,’ he murmured.

I stood, smoothing down my dress. ‘I’ll get your jacket.’

‘Non, mon amour.’ He pulled me close again, his intentions clear. ‘Must I leave?’

His kisses trailed down my neck, sending tingles down my spine. I hesitated for a moment, then nodded, leading him to the bedroom.

* * *

Henri left early the next morning. As I watched him go, a curious feeling blossomed within me—pleasant, exciting, and a little perplexing. I realised I was in love. I spent the morning at our regular café, where the banter was much the same. The latest reports detailed the bloody battle for control of Spain and the growing number of casualties. Marie sat across from me, nervously biting her fingernails, her eyes distant as she listened to the gruesome news. War was ruthless, inhumane, abhorrent.

‘Have you seen Picasso’s painting?’ Marie asked.

‘No, but I’ve heard about it. The Spanish Republicans commissioned him.’

‘It’s making the rounds. They took it to the Paris World Fair at the Spanish Pavilion, and now it’s on an international tour to raise awareness and funds for Spanish refugees.’

‘I can’t imagine being bombed, losing everything.’ I glanced at Marie, who nodded in agreement, her lips pursed. ‘What’s the painting like?’

She frowned, huffing out a breath as she tried to find the right words. ‘It’s typical Picasso—bold, chaotic, and powerful. They say it’s his response to Guernica. He was outraged, and it shows. It’s one hell of a statement.’

The world needed to know what was happening. The war was headline news, with Ernest Hemingway reporting from the front lines. Other well-known figures, like the French writer Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and George Orwell were involved, and even the poet W. H. Auden had spent time in Spain with the International Brigade. His experiences inspired his poem Spain, with proceeds going to the Spanish Medical Aid Committee. My heart ached for the Spanish civilians caught in this nightmare. Politics was a dirty business.

Why did nations have to be so complex, so divided? Couldn’t people live in harmony? Why was there so much hate, greed, and conflict in the world?