Ethel Merman, Mother Teresa...and Me. Tony Cointreau
Читать онлайн книгу.
it was like to escape from Europe in wartime with baby Richard and his nurse, Lucy, was eloquently expressed by my mother herself in letters that she took time to write to her mother and Ashie during her drive across war-torn Europe. Here are excerpts from her letters.
In her first letter, dated June 13, 1940, Mother wrote:
Really, darlings, I never could attempt writing you all the doings, emotions and activity of my present life—it’s bedlam. Amongst everything have dashed to Prefecture with necessary papers filled out so I can get permit for Lucy and myself to leave country. Today must go to police station for permit of circulation so I can be allowed on the roads to Bordeaux. You can never imagine all the red tape we have to go through—I want everything in order so that when we can leave nothing will delay us.
The trip will be hard, very hard, I’m not kidding myself. Traffic in main streets here is like traffic in N.Y. side streets at theater time. Files and files of cars all covered with mattresses, arriving from Paris and suburbs and going Lord knows where. Here in Angers we are already jam packed—so they have to go on and on and sleep under the stars.
Barrages of soldiers stopping everyone to examine our papers. It’s real war now—but everyone stays calm—the French spirit is admirable—Jacques is always a wonder of optimism and courage.
On June 16th she wrote:
Since my last letter everything has changed in my life. Friday night the 14th at 10 p.m. we heard the bridges on the Loire would shortly be blown up so we had to leave as soon as humanly possible. That night I got about three hours of sleep. Next morning—wild dash to Prefecture to get my necessary papers which we were awaiting. At 3:30 p.m. we had to go back to Prefecture with suitcases strapped on top and in car. At 3:45 p.m. we were off.
Over the years, I heard one of my father’s first cousins, Pierre, who was a teenager when Mother left Angers, speak in awe about seeing my mother come down the stairs of her home that day. He said it was an impression that would last a lifetime—she was impeccably groomed, not a hair out of place, and wore spotless white gloves. She looked as though she were on her way to a tea party rather than setting out on a perilous journey.
For the first time in years, Mother was forced to travel with just a few suitcases instead of wardrobe trunks, but she wrote, “My fur coats are on my LIST.” However, being of a practical nature, Mother also made sure that she had a hundred liters of gasoline in the car since it would be next to impossible to find any on the roads.
Her letter continues:
I shan’t go into details now of feelings I had leaving Jacques behind me, and my beautiful home with everything I own left just as it was, which I never hope to find again. I can’t let myself go. I need every bit of strength and courage I have to carry off our trip. Our little darling is a grave responsibility.
Mother’s first stop would be in Cognac, where André Renaud, an old friend of the family and the owner of Remy Martin Cognac, lived.
Leaving Angers was longest as there were only single files of cars allowed to cross bridges in one direction at a time. After that I drove as I had never driven before in my life—between 80 and 110 kilometers an hour. Maybe it doesn’t sound much to you but you have no idea how the roads were crowded, just files and files of columns of refugees.
At 9:15 exactly we were in Cognac and I had found André Renaud and his family. It was such a relief—no words to describe it even—finding Renaud and not having to sleep somewhere in the car as thousands of others had to.
Mr. Renaud gave her the different currencies from his safe that he knew she would need to successfully complete her journey through Spain and Portugal.
It’s lucky Ashie has album of baby and pictures of our interior of home, as I couldn’t save anything. At least we will have tangible souvenir—but I don’t give a d---about that. It’s funny how little possessions count—only hope Jacques keeps safe.
All the Cointreaus have gone different directions— sauve qui peut! [Every man for himself!] Will keep you informed when I know my plans.
On June 22, Mother wrote from San Sebastian, Spain:
Just one week ago today since I left Jacques and our lovely home. One week which seems like a hundred years—Since then all communications were cut off from that part of country and I have no news of Jacques or anyone.
The Germans occupied Angers on Tuesday [only four days after her departure]. I wish we hadn’t left so much good champagne in our cellar for them. I had to leave everything just as it was—didn’t have time to take with me any of my silver or linens. I guess everything we had is gone for good.
I know Jacques was preparing to move back with the rest of Quartermasters Corps, but as all that part of country has been taken, they may all be prisoners now—it’s too awful to even think about.
You can’t imagine how lonesome it feels being so far from everyone—cut off from all communications, and all the time the worry over Jacques.
Wherever she went through war-torn Europe, the struggle for visas was intense, as people attempted to escape before the German army could reach them. Mother was almost crushed and her clothes were torn by the mobs outside the Spanish Consulate. But through it all she fought like a tigress and no matter what, made sure she looked her best at all times—ammunition she knew she might need to charm officials along the way.
Bridges and borders closed immediately behind her:
We got to Hendaye and joined the files of cars waiting their turn to cross frontier, one mile long from bridge. More military papers to be gotten—special permit to take car out of country—inspection of baggage. Anyway by 5:00 p.m. we were on bridge. French gates closed behind us!
Altogether it took nine days for Mother, Richard, and Lucy to make the trip from Angers to Lisbon, where they finally boarded a packed ship with the relatively few fortunate souls able to book passage to America. Once they were safely on board my mother realized that the nausea she had been experiencing had not been due to the smell of fish in the port city of Lisbon but to the fact that she was pregnant with me. With everything else she had to contend with at the time, this was not an event that Mother welcomed. According to Lucy, Mother vented her frustration by breaking a hairbrush over Lucy’s head. Naturally, it was Lucy’s hairbrush, not Mother’s own.
After Mother arrived in New York and had made peace with the fact that she was expecting a second child, she placed herself under the care of the top obstetrician in the city. She decided that I would be born at Doctors Hospital, which in those days was set up to feel more like an expensive hotel than a regular hospital. I have been told that on any given evening, you could find a cocktail party on your floor.
As the expected date of my birth drew near, Mother informed the doctor that she didn’t want to be leaving for the hospital alone in the middle of the night, and therefore she would be entering Doctors Hospital on February 6, 1941. On the morning of February 7, she would do her hair and makeup, after which she was to be put to sleep while he delivered her child.
On the morning of February 7th, Ashie and a family friend were at the hospital waiting for my mother to come out of the delivery room. As they wheeled a half-conscious Dotie down the hall, Ashie anxiously asked how she felt, and was mortified when Mother replied in front of everyone, “I feel as drunk as you do every night of your life,” which was probably not far from the truth.
In her room, after it was all over, Mother was lying in bed fixing her hair and makeup when a nurse showed up in the doorway with a baby—me—in her arms. Mother, whose maternal instincts only went as far as life or death situations, waved to the nurse in the doorway, said, “Hello, little baby,” and went back to fixing her hair.