We begin by crossing the Atlantic from New York to England
in 1939, as expectant mother Danielle Bretancourt von
Hoffman journeys towards her family in Europe, desperate
for their safety after the invasion of Poland. Danielle is
from a family of perfumiers and French; her husband Max is
German however.
SCENT OF TRIUMPH highlights the difficulties for business
families at this turbulent time. Danielle's mother is
Jewish and when she married Max, an aristocratic German,
there was no difficulty. But now they have a young son at
home in Poland and times have changed. However bad things
are on land, the sea is about to provide their worst
enemy;
the sleek grey U-boat.
Sofia von Hoffman is not a well woman, but she's
determinedly preparing to evacuate from Poland, with Max's
son Nicky, her grandson, to Paris. When she looks for aid
however, everyone else has either become a refugee or
joined the Nazis. She's desperate. And then bombs start to
fall.
I enjoy particularly the perfume lore at the start of each
chapter. We're told about nutmegs, lilies, bergamot and
orange blossom. Messages can be passed by attaching a
meaning to each kind of flower; this was dreamed up by
Turkish concubines. Chemical research added new notes,
called aldehydes, but genuine flowers and vanilla seed
pods
were still required. Danielle's mother continues to
prepare
perfumes in Paris while her father continues banking
with... well, some prospering companies in the new era,
causing resentment. Danielle's brother Jean-Claude has
been
secretly working with Jewish people fleeing the growing
Nazi powers. Maybe it's time they all fled... or picked up
weapons.
Another part of the book moves to Los Angeles, where we
are
reminded that a simple flower, the poppy, is the producer
of opium that can be a harmful addictive narcotic.
Perfume however is a highly desirable commodity. Travel
percolates this story as much as scents, crossing
continents and seas, as the drama and despair of being
parted in wartime affects the world. SCENT OF TRIUMPH by
its nature can't be an entirely happy romance, but
romantic
it is and Jan Moran has packed in plenty of detail of the
times. Lovers of historical fiction and strong women will
find SCENT OF TRIUMPH a wonderful read.
When French perfumer Danielle Bretancourt steps aboard a
luxury ocean liner, leaving her son behind in Poland with
his grandmother, she has no idea that her life is about
to
change forever. The year is 1939, and the declaration of
war
on the European continent soon threatens her beloved
family,
scattered across many countries. Traveling through London
and Paris into occupied Poland, Danielle searches
desperately for her the remains of her family, relying on
the strength and support of Jonathan Newell-Grey, a young
captain. Finally, she is forced to gather the fragments
of
her impoverished family and flee to America. There she
vows
to begin life anew, in 1940s Los Angeles.
There, through determination and talent, she rises high
from
meager jobs in her quest for success as a perfumer and
fashion designer to Hollywood elite. Set between
privileged
lifestyles and gritty realities, Scent of Triumph
is one
woman’s story of courage, spirit, and resilience.
Excerpt
3 September, 1939
Atlantic Ocean
Danielle Bretancourt von Hoffman braced herself against
the mahogany-paneled stateroom wall, striving for balance
as she flung open a brass porthole, seeking a moment of
respite she knew would never be. A damp, kelp-scented
wind—a harbinger of the storm ahead—whistled through the
cabin, assaulting her nose with its raw intensity, but
the sting of salty spray did little to assuage the fear
she had for her little boy.
Nicky was only six years old. Why, oh why did I agree to
leave him behind? She had wanted to bring him, but her
husband had disagreed, saying he was far too young for
such an arduous journey. As a trained scientist, his
arguments were always so logical, so sensible. Against
her instinct, she had given in to Max. It was settled; in
their absence her mother-in-law, Sofia, would care for
Nicky on their old family estate in Poland.
Danielle kept her eyes focused on the horizon as the
Newell-Grey Explorer slanted upward, slicing through the
peak of a cresting wave. The ocean liner creaked and
pitched as it heaved through the turbulent gray waters of
the Atlantic on its voyage from New York to England.
Silently, Danielle urged it onward, anxious to return
home.
Her usually sturdy stomach churned in rhythm with the
sea. Was it morning sickness, anxiety, or the ravaging
motion of the sea? Probably all three, she decided. Just
last week she’d been so wretchedly ill that she’d seen a
doctor, who confirmed her pregnancy. The timing couldn’t
be worse.
She blinked against the stiff breeze, her mind reeling.
When they’d heard reports of the new agreement between
Germany and Russia, they’d cut their business short to
hurry home. Had it been just two days since they’d
learned the devastating news that Nazi forces had invaded
Poland?
Someone knocked sharply on the door. Gingerly crossing
the room, Danielle opened the door to Jonathan Newell-
Grey, heir apparent to the British shipping line that
bore his family name. His tie hung from his collar and
his sleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms
taut from years of sailing. A rumpled wool jacket hung
over one shoulder.
Danielle and Max had met Jon on their outbound voyage to
New York several weeks ago. They had become good friends,
dining together regularly on the ship, and later in the
city. Well-traveled and physically fit, Jon loved to
explore and dine on fine food, and insisted on taking
them to the best restaurants in New York, as well as
little-known nooks that served authentic French and
German fare, assuring Max and Danielle of a salve for
their homesickness after their relocation. During their
time in New York, Max worked tirelessly, tending to
details for their pending cross-Atlantic move, so they
both appreciated having a knowledgeable friend to call on
for help.
With his gregarious yet gracious manner, Jon had helped
them find a good neighborhood for their family,
introduced them to his banker, and even explained some of
the odd American colloquialisms they couldn’t understand,
as they all laughed together over well-aged bottles of
his favorite Bordeaux. They had all climbed the Empire
State Building together, and one night they saw a play on
Broadway, and even danced to Benny Goodman’s big band
into the late evening hours. Jon also went to the World’s
Fair with them, where their crystal perfume bottles were
featured in a potential business partner’s display.
Danielle and Max were both glad they’d met Jon, a man who
embraced life with spirit and joie de vivre, and they
looked forward to their new life in America far from the
threat of Hitler’s forces.
But now, with news of the invasion, Max and Danielle’s
guarded optimism for their future had turned to distress
over their family’s safety.
“Bonjour,” she said, glad to see Jon. “Any news yet?”
“None.” He pushed a hand through his unruly chestnut
hair, droplets of water spray glistening on his tanned
face. “The captain has called a meeting at fifteen
hundred hours for all passengers traveling on Polish and
German passports.”
“But I still hold a French passport.”
“You’ll need to attend, Danielle.” His hoarse voice held
the wind of the sea.
“Of course, but—” As another sharp pitch jerked through
the ship, Jon caught her by the shoulders and kept her
from falling. He moved intuitively with the ship’s
motion, a testament to his years at sea.
“Steady now, lass,” Jon said, a small smile playing on
his lips. He stared past her out the porthole, his dark
eyes riveted on the ocean’s whitecapped expanse.
Blackened, heavily laden clouds crossed the sun, casting
angled shadows across his face.
Embarrassed, Danielle touched the wall for support. She
recalled the strange sense of foreboding she’d had upon
waking. She was blessed—or cursed—with an unusually keen
prescience. Frowning, she asked, “Can the ship withstand
this storm?”
“Sure, she’s a fine, seaworthy vessel, one of the finest
in the world. This weather’s no match for her.” He turned
back to her, his jaw set. His usual jovial nature had
turned solemn. “Might even be rougher seas ahead, but
we’ll make England by morning.”
Danielle nodded, but still, she knew. Anxiety coursed
through her; something seemed terribly wrong. Her
intuition came in quiet flashes of pure knowledge. She
couldn’t force it, couldn’t direct it, and knew better
than to discuss it with anyone, especially her husband.
She was only twenty-six; Max was older, wiser, and told
her that her insights were rubbish. Max wasn’t really
insulting her; he had studied science at the university
in Germany, and he simply didn’t believe anything that
couldn’t be scientifically proven.
Jon touched her arm in a small, sympathetic movement.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Not unless you perform miracles.” Jon’s rough fingers
were warm against her skin, and an ill-timed memory from
a few days ago shot through her mind. Danielle loved to
dance, and with Max’s encouragement, she and Jon had
shared a dance while Max spoke to the captain at length
after dinner. Danielle remembered Jon’s soft breath, his
musky skin, his hair curling just above his collar. He’d
been interested in all she had to say, from her little
boy to her work at Parfums Bretancourt, her family’s
perfumery in the south of France. But when she’d rested
her head against his chest, it was his skin, his natural
scent, which was utterly unique and intriguingly virile,
that mesmerized her.
A third-generation perfumer, Danielle had an acute sense
of smell. Her olfactory skills were paramount in the
laboratory, but at times this acuity proved socially
awkward. Jon’s scent still tingled in her nose, taunting
her dreams, its musky animal appeal relentless in the
recesses of her mind. His memory crept into her mind more
than she knew it should. After all, she told herself
firmly, I am a happily married woman.
Danielle forced the scene from her mind, took a step back
out of modesty. She caught sight of herself in the
mirror, her thick auburn hair in disarray, her lip rouge
smeared. She smoothed her celadon green silk day dress—
one of her own designs her dressmaker had made—and drew
her fingers across her pale skin. “I’ve been apprehensive
about this trip from the beginning.”
“Have you heard anything else from your mother-in-law?”
“Not since we spoke in New York. And my mother’s last
cable said they haven’t arrived.” When she and Max had
heard the news, they called Max’s mother, Sofia, and told
her to leave immediately with Nicky for Paris, where
Danielle’s parents had a spacious apartment in the
sixteenth arrondissement, a fine neighborhood in the
heart of Paris. Sofia’s voice had sounded dreadful; they
hadn’t realized she was so sick. What if she isn’t well
enough to travel? Wincing with remorse, Danielle fought
the panic that rose in her throat, fearful for her
mother-in-law.
“They have to get out of Poland.” Jon touched her cheek.
Reflexively, she turned into the comfort of his hand,
inhaling, her heart aching, his scent—at once both
calming and unsettling—edged with the smell of the sea
and a spiced wood blend she normally could have
recognized in an instant. But now, Nicky was ever present
in her mind. Danielle pressed her eyes closed and stifled
a sob.
“Max is resourceful,” Jon said, trailing his hand along
her face. “He’ll manage.”
But can he? she wondered. Max had planned everything,
from organizing their move to New York, to returning to
Poland to close their home. He’d arranged their
immigration to the United States, and he was also trying
to bring their most valued employees with them for the
business. He’d made everything sound so sensible.
Max was German, born in Berlin to an aristocratic family.
When Max was young, his mother had inherited her family’s
estate and crystal and glass factory in Poland. Sofia and
her husband, Karl, along with Karl’s orphaned nephew,
Heinrich, moved into the castle, which had originally
been built as a wedding gift in 1820 for Sofia’s
ancestors. While the men set about rebuilding the factory
and the business, Sofia tended to the home, a masterpiece
of romantic English neo-Gothic style. After Max and
Danielle married, Danielle had thrown her considerable
energy into helping Sofia restore the grand salons and
chambers, the arboretum, the gardens and ponds. And yet,
Danielle missed her craft, retreating whenever she could
to the perfumery organ—a curved workbench with rows that
held essential oils and other perfumery materials—she had
installed in their quarters, to conjure her aromatic
artistry in solitude. Perfumery fed her soul; her urge to
create could not be repressed.
The ship pitched again, sending the porthole door banging
against the paneled wall. Shifting easily with the
vessel’s sharp motions, Jon caught it, secured the latch.
He moved toward her, and she could almost sense the
adrenaline surging through his muscular frame. Leaning
closer, he lifted a strand of hair limp with sea mist
from her forehead. “If I don’t see Max, you’ll tell him
about the captain’s meeting?”
“We’ll be there.” She caught another whiff of his sea
air–tinged skin, and this time a vivid sensory image
flashed across her mind. A leather accord, patchouli, a
heart of rose melding with the natural scent of his skin,
warm, intriguing...then she recognized it—Spanish
Leather. An English composition. Trumper. But the way he
wore it was incredible; the parfum blended with his own
natural aroma in such a fascinating manner. She was drawn
in, aching to be swept farther into his scent, but she
quickly retreated half a step. This is not the time.
His expression softened and he let her hair fall from his
fingers as he studied her, his dark-browed, hazel-flecked
eyes taking in every feature of her face.
Danielle stepped back, and Jon’s gaze trailed back to the
sea, his eyes narrowed against the sun’s thinning rays,
scanning the surface.
She matched his dark gaze. “Something unusual out there?”
“Might be German U-boats. Unterseeboots. The most
treacherous of submarines. Bloody hell, they are. But
don’t worry, Danielle, the Newell-Greys always look after
their passengers.” He left, closing the door behind him.
U-boats? So it was possible. She touched a trembling
finger to her lips. But that wasn’t the only thought that
made her uncomfortable. Jon’s friendly, casual way with
her increasingly struck a chord within her. Fortunately,
Max was too much the aristocrat to make a fuss over
nothing. And it is nothing, she thought. She loved her
husband. But that scent...her mind whirred. Fresh, spicy,
woodsy...I can re-create sea freshness, blend it with
patchouli….
Abruptly, the ship lurched. Cutlery clattered across a
rimmed burl wood table, her books tumbled against a wall.
She braced herself through the crashing swell, one hand
on the doorjamb, another shielding her womb. There were
so many urgent matters at hand. Our son, our family, our
home. She pulled her mind back to the present.
When the ship leveled, she spied on the floor a navy blue
cap she’d knitted for Nicky. He’d dropped it at the train
station, and she’d forgotten to give it to Sofia. She
cradled it in her hand and stroked it, missing him and
the sound of his voice, then pressed the cap to her nose,
drinking in his little boy smell that still clung to the
woolen fibers. Redolent of milk and grass and straw and
chocolates, it also called to mind sweet perspiration
droplets glistening on his flushed cheeks. They often
played tag in the estate’s lush, sprawling gardens,
laughing and frolicking, feeding the migratory ducks that
visited their ponds, or strolling beneath the protective
leafy boughs of ancient, towering trees. She brushed away
tears that spilled onto her cheeks.
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.
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