According to the new book Sleeping With the Enemy: Coco Chanel’s Secret War, fashion designer Coco Chanel was purportedly a Nazi intelligence operative. Biographer Hal Vaughan claims Chanel was recruited by then-boyfriend Hans Günther von Dincklage, who himself was a master spy.
From Vaughan’s website:
The book pieces together how Coco Chanel became a German intelligence operative; how and why she was enlisted in a number of spy missions; how she escaped arrest in France after the war, despite her activities being known to the Gaullist intelligence network; how she fled to Switzerland for a nine-year exile with her lover Dincklage. And how, despite the French court’s opening a case concerning Chanel’s espionage activities during the war, she was able to return to Paris at age seventy and triumphantly resurrect and reinvent herself—and rebuild what has become the iconic House of Chanel.
The story sounds harebrained—and hopefully it is—but, horrifyingly, Vaughan’s proposed timeline matches Coco Chanel’s Wikipedia page exactly. In fact, the one kernel of “news” here is that Chanel was a spy, as opposed to a mere sympathizer.
I swear to God, if someone manages to connect Fendi and Mussolini, I am finished with purses forever.
And she implores Chanel’s marketing department (through Twitter!) to hook a sister up with some high-class Chanel stickers so she can decorate her SCRAM bracelet. Stickers. Really. So classy, Linds. So, unbelievably classy.
First of all, how would you even want to go out clubbing wearing that damned thing? Embarrassing much? I mean, you know, shit happens and people all over the fucking world get in trouble for drug and alcohol-related infractions and a lot have to own up to their bad decisions, but most who take themselves seriously don’t laugh in the face of imminent doom and public demise.
It’s just a blatant mockery of the system. Going out and hitting up the clubs, even though you’re “not drinking,” is like spitting in the face of justice. You don’t see Joe Schmoe from down the block heading to the nearest pub while he’s rocking the SCRAM. Or maybe you do, and that’s why it’s supposed to be all levels of acceptable, but it’s kind of sad, actually.
So, yeah, Chanel. Here’s a photo of your girl’s SCRAM bracelet. Check it out, see what you can do, bedazzle it with some crazy high-class fucking adhesive paper. Placate the drug-addled alkie and send her some stickers. It’s the least you could do for such an icon, such a public and prominent face of our times.