The Perfumer

Chapter 1-2

She picked up her purse to put his cap inside, and then paused to look at the photograph of Nicky she carried. His eyes crinkled with laughter, he’d posed with his favorite stuffed toy, a red-striped monkey with black button eyes she’d sewn for him. Nicky was an adorable bundle of blond-headed energy. A streak of fear sliced through her. She stuffed the cap into her purse and snapped it shut.

The door opened and Max strode into the stateroom, his proud face ashen, his lean, angular body rigid with what Danielle knew was stress.

“Jon just left,” she said. “There’s a meeting—”

“I know, he is behind me,” Max said, clipping the words in his formal, German-accented English. He smacked his onyx pipe against his hand, releasing the sweet smoky scent of his favorite vanilla tobacco.

Jon appeared at the door. “Shall we go?”

The muscles in Max’s jaw tightened. He slipped his pipe into the pocket of his tailored wool jacket. “I need a drink first. You, Jon?”

“Not now, mate.”

Max moved past Danielle to the liquor cabinet, staggering slightly as the ship pitched. He brushed against her vanity and sent her red leather traveling case crashing to the floor.

Danielle gasped. Bottles smashed against one another inside as the case tumbled. The lid burst open, and scents of jasmine, rose, orange blossom, bergamot, berries, vanilla, cedar, and sandalwood exploded like brilliant fireworks.

“Oh, Max, my perfumes.” She gathered the hem of her silk dress and sank to her knees, heartsick. These were all the perfumes she had with her; she could hardly remember a day when she hadn’t worn one of her parfum creations. She knew Max hadn’t meant to destroy her precious potions, but now there was nothing she could do but gather the pieces. With two fingers, she fished a crystal shard and a carnelian cap from the jagged mess. “Max, would you hand me the wastebasket?”

“I, I didn’t mean to…” Looking worried, Max turned away and reached for the vodka, sighing in resignation. “Just leave it, Danielle. The cabin boy will see to it.”

Jon knelt beside her. “Did you make all these?”

“Yes, I did. And the case was Max’s wedding gift to me.”

“These are beautiful works of art, Danielle. Max told me you were once regarded as the child prodigy of perfumery.” He took a sharp piece from her. “Don’t hurt yourself, I’ll send someone to clean this up while you’re gone.”

She caught his eye and mouthed a silent thank-you, then rose and opened the porthole. A gust caught her long hair and slapped it across her face, stinging her flushed cheeks. Staring at the ocean, a quiet intuitive knowledge crept into her consciousness. It’s true, she thought, and spun around. “Jon said there might be U-boats out there.”

She watched Max pour a shot, then pause with his glass in midair, his intellectual mind whirring, weighing the probabilities. She knew her husband well; she saw his eyes flash with a moment of intensity, then clear into twin pools of lucid blue as he decided the odds were against it. “Impossible,” he said.

“Anything is possible.” Jon brushed broken crystal into the wastebasket and straightened.

Danielle thoughts reeled back over the morning. “Is that why we’ve been zigzagging?”

Jon shot a look at Max. “Smart one, your wife. Not just an artist, I see.” One side of his mouth tugged to a reassuring grin, shifting the deep cleft in his chin. “I’ll grant you that, Danielle, but it’s just a safety measure. U-boats aren’t a threat to passenger liners.”

Pressure built in her head. “Like the Lusitania?”

“A disaster like that couldn’t happen today,” Jon said, rubbing the indentation in his chin. “Every captain checks Lloyd’s Register. It’s clear that we’re a passenger ship. Even so, there are rules of war; an initial shot across the bow must be fired in warning. And England is not at war.”

“Not yet.” Max tossed the vodka down his throat and gave a wry, thin-lipped grin. “So is that why you have been holding court in the stern, Jon?”

“I confess, you’re on to me, old boy. But seriously, we’d have time to signal to a vessel that we’re not armed. Even a submarine must abide by these rules of war. Even the Nazis.”

Nazis. The word filled Danielle with dread. What the Nazis were doing to Jews in Germany was unconscionable. New laws required that yellow stars for identification be sewn onto clothing. Imagine. Jewish businesses were being destroyed, entire families beaten or killed. These were German citizens, many of whom had lived in Germany for generations. It didn’t matter how educated they were, whether they were young or old, wealthy or poor. A chill crept along her spine. “We’ve taken too long, Max. We have to get Nicky and your mother out now.”

“The Polish army is not yet defeated, my dear,” Max said quietly, pouring another shot. “Try to have patience.”

“How can you be so calm?” Her voice hitched in despair. Her father was from an old French family, long recognized in French society. Danielle’s mother was Jewish, so by German law Nicky was one-quarter Jewish. “You know what could happen to Nicky.”

“We’ve been over this. Nicky is just a child.” Max looked weary, the prominent veins in his high forehead throbbing as he spoke. “You were raised in your father’s faith, you are Catholic. Nicky was also baptized. How would the Nazis find out anything different?”

But she knew they had ways. She pressed her hand to her mouth, consumed with worry and guilt. Why did I agree to leave Nicky?

Max gulped his drink, and then glanced at Jon. “We should go now.” Max walked to the door. Without turning he paused, his voice thick. “I am sorry for your perfumes, Danielle. I am sorry for everything.”

Danielle sucked in her breath. Max only drank when he was frustrated, when he had no clear answers. And he seldom offers an apology. To him, it was a sign of defeat, a sign that his scientific mind, or measured actions, had betrayed him. Max took pride in providing financially for his family, their well-being was his constant concern, especially that of Nicky, his beloved son. Danielle was the heart of their marriage, and she always felt safe with him. Except today, she thought, fear gripping her body like a vine. Today is different.

Jon opened the door, held it for them. She snatched her purse and followed Max.

Passengers jostled past in the crowded corridor and Danielle could feel anxiety rising in the air like a heat wave, smell the sour perspiration—like coddled milk left in the sun—emanating from panicked, angry passengers. Ordinary perspiration smelled different when tainted with fear. “Rotten Krauts,” they heard people say. She saw Max stiffen against the verbal assaults.

When they came to the open-air promenade deck, Danielle glanced out over the sea, but she could see little in the gathering mist.

Jon followed her gaze. “We’ve got a heavy fog rolling in.”

The air held the ozone-scented promise of rain. “It’s so dim,” she said. “Jon, why aren’t the running lights on?”

“We’re blacked out for security.”

There’s more to it, she thought, her neck tightening with trepidation.

They arrived at the first-class lounge, where tense passengers crowded shoulder to shoulder. Jon excused himself to take his place near the front as the owner representative. A hush spread when the grim-faced captain approached the podium.

“Thank you for your attention,” the captain began. “Two days ago, Hitler’s Nazi Germany violated a European peace agreement. Now, on the wireless we have a reply from the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.”

He nodded to a crew member. The loudspeakers crackled to life and a nervous murmur rippled across the room.

England was on the airwaves.

The radio announcer was speaking about Poland. “Blitzkrieg,” he called the German attack on the country.

“Lightning war,” Max translated, shaking his head. He flexed his jaw, and Danielle could see veins bulging from his temples as he sought to control unfamiliar emotions.

“Oh, no.” Danielle turned her face against Max’s chest, the tentacles of terror slithering into her brain. It has begun, she thought, and so horribly. She trembled. My poor Nicky, dear Sofia. Mon Dieu, what’s happening to them? How frightened they must be.

Max slid a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his, wiping tears from her eyes with an awkward gesture. “It’s my fault, I should have already relocated our family. I didn’t realize this would happen so quickly.”

The tortured guilt in his expression tore at her soul. He has failed. All his plans, all his actions, were to protect our family. She averted her eyes from his pain, trying to calm her breathing as people wailed around her.

The radio crackled again. “And now, Prime Minister Chamberlain.”

“This morning the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that, unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.”

Chamberlain’s voice sounded burdened, yet resolute. “I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently, this country is at war with Germany.”

A collective gasp filled the room, and Danielle sank against Max for support. He wrapped his arms around her, murmuring in her ear. “We’ll find them, they’ll soon be safe.” But is he reassuring me or himself?

At the end of the broadcast, the captain stepped aside, and Jon strode to the podium. Jon’s baritone voice boomed over the murmuring tide. “Tomorrow, when we arrive, Newell-Grey agents will be available to assist and accommodate you. We shall keep you informed as we receive additional information.”

Danielle pressed a hand to her mouth. Who knew it would come to this? A sudden clamminess overtook her, and her nausea returned with unbridled force. Tearing herself from Max, she bolted through the crowd, bumping against other passengers as she raced to the outer deck. She reached the railing, leaned over, gulped for air. Her stomach convulsed in a dry heave as the wind whipped the celadon scarf from her neck.

“Danielle,” Max called, following her. Jon rushed after them.

I can’t stand this, she thought, anguish ripping through her as images of Nicky and Sofia filled her mind. Max and Jon reached her side, and the three of them stood gazing through the shifting fog into the bleak waters below as Danielle clung to the railing, one arm clutching her abdomen, pressing her fevered cheek against the cold metal railing for relief

Max draped an arm across her shoulders, rubbing her back, and looked across at Jon. “Her morning sickness is much worse with this pregnancy.”

But Jon’s eyes were fixed on the ocean. His face froze.

A sleek, narrow wake rippled the broken surface.

“What the—” began Max.

“Good God, get down,” Jon bellowed. He leapt across Max and Danielle, his powerful body crashing them to the deck.

Danielle hit the wooden boards with such force that her shoulder cracked, and her eyes blurred. My baby, she thought frantically, curling instinctively around her midsection, wrapping her arms around her torso and drawing up her knees to shield her unborn child.

In the next instant, a violent impact shot them across the deck. An explosion ripped into the bowels of the great ship. Screams pierced the haze, and the ship’s massive framework buckled with a roar.

“Torpedoes,” Jon shouted. He crushed his hand over Danielle’s head and cursed under his breath. “Stay down.”

An icy burst enveloped them like a sheet and soaked them to the flesh. Danielle gasped in terror. Mon Dieu! She could hear Max scrambling behind her, sliding on the slippery deck. Protect us, she prayed, keeping her head down and pressing her chin against her chest.