Songbird Under a German Moon

by Tricia Goyer

  “Fascinating. What did your father say…”

  “Ladies, ladies, enough of your chatter. We have work to do.” Mickey clapped his hands as he approached Betty and Irene. “Oskar has work to do too. That new set must be ready by tomorrow night.”

  Betty excused herself, thinking she needed to pick up their conversation where they’d left off. Then she hurried to where the others were circled. She stood next to Kat. In her hands, Kat held the black and white dress that Irene had mentioned.

  “First of all”—Mickey turned to Kat—“I have an idea for your last number. We’re going to send you away big, see. Imagine the room goes dark. You move onto the stage, quiet-like, and then you start—just one note—clear, strong. Pretty soon, a single spotlight shines on the stage, lighting your face, and then the orchestra kicks in. It’s going to take their breath away. I can see it now.”

  “What song, Mickey? What’s Kat going to sing?” Irene leaned closer.

  “I was thinking of ‘America the Beautiful’—something to really get them feeling all those emotions of patriotism and home.”

  Kat didn’t look impressed.

  “But what about ‘Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy’?” Kat softly stamped her foot. “I’ve been practicing that for weeks.”

  “No problem, kid. That will be in the show. I just wanted something strong for the end.”

  “Okay, that’ll work, I suppose. But I wish you would have told me sooner, Mick; I need time to prepare. In fact, I’ll need some practice time on stage this afternoon. I’d hate to make you look bad by blowing the last big number.”

  “Whatever you need, Kat, let me know.” Mickey walked over and placed an arm around her shoulders. “Maybe you should get some rest too—you’re looking a little pale.”

  Kat glanced at Betty and then back at Mickey. “I’m feeling a little under the weather, that’s all.” She stepped out of his one-armed hug. “Thanks for telling me how horrible I look, Mick. I’ll make sure I put extra makeup on tomorrow night so I don’t look like the walking dead.”

  Kat turned to Betty. “Here you go. Irene’s right, this will look great on you.” She placed the dress in Betty’s hands. Then she turned and stomped to the dressing room.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Mickey scanned the faces. “Did I, Dolly?”

  Dolly twirled a strand of red hair around her finger. “I don’t think so, Mickey. You know how Kat is. I think she’s tired, that’s all.”

  “I don’t think that’s it.” Irene took the dress from Betty’s hand and held it up in front of Betty, nodding her approval. “When Kat planned on leaving, she figured she’d leave a big hole. She didn’t think anyone could step in and take her place. But now we have Betty here—and Kat sees that the show’s going on without her. I think that’s what’s bothering her.”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe it’s something else entirely.” Betty took the dress and held it behind her back. All eyes turned her direction, and she felt heat rising to her cheeks, suddenly embarrassed to be pushed into the center of this conversation. “I know I just got here, and I know I’ve only known Kat one day but—” She glanced around. “Maybe Kat’s a little sad about leaving and she doesn’t want to show it. I mean if she gets all of you mad at her before she goes, then there’ll be no emotional good-byes.”

  “Who do you think you are, kid, Sigmund Freud?” Mickey’s voice was sharp, and Betty flinched. But then as she watched, his scowl turned into a smile. “Actually, I like the idea, even if you don’t know what you’re talking about. I like that idea that we’ll be missed—even by someone as famous as Kat. There’s only one Mickey, right? Kat’s gonna miss me when she’s gone. She’s gonna appreciate me when she gets around those Hollywood-types. You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Frank opened the window and sucked in a breath of cool, fall air. It smelled like rain, and he had no doubt that by this afternoon—or maybe tonight—showers would fall on the town.

  At least I have a warm place to lay my head, he thought, pushing out the realization that hundreds of others around the town didn’t.

  If there was one benefit to being transferred to Bayreuth, it had to be the house he shared in the nice residential area across from a pretty, walled park. Frank knew the residents who used to live here had vacated their homes for the army’s use, but every time he started feeling bad, all he had to do was think of the friends he’d lost, including the crew of the Klassy Lassie. It was war. People died. People were injured. Others were left with memories—and some had to sleep out in the cold for a while.

  Frank had already been to breakfast and then to headquarters, only to find the officer he had to report to was out for the day and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Maybe I should head back to the opera house—to make plans for tomorrow’s shoot. The sound of footsteps coming down the hall to his shared room interrupted his thoughts.

  “How do you like our digs?” Art entered their room carrying two mugs. He handed one to Frank. Frank took in a whiff and realized there was coffee in those mugs. Honest-to-goodness coffee, not the ersatz stuff that most of the rest of the continent choked down. Frank didn’t have to ask to know Art most likely got it off the black market.

  “This place isn’t bad. Better than the freezing tent back in England.”

  Art sat down and patted his mattress. “It’s warmer and softer—and I’m not just talking about the beds. The German girls have been purdy friendly with the guys. Not me, of course, nonfraternization and all.” Art chuckled. “I set my sights high—like Magdalena—isn’t she a peach? And a girl like that isn’t one to lower herself to becoming someone’s girlfriend for a can of Spam.”

  “Well, at least you have your standards.” Frank glanced out the window at a woman pushing a baby carriage and a small girl walking by her side. There wasn’t a baby in the carriage, though. Instead, it held bedding and a few books. He wondered if that was all they owned in the world. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Again, he thought of the guys—his best friends who lost their lives. It helped to ease his conscience. He grabbed his shoulder holster from his bed and put it on. Then slid his pistol inside. As a soldier, he was ordered to wear a weapon at all times, and now that he was on the ground, the pistol had become his weapon of choice. Not that he wanted to use it, but it was good to have, just in case. They were living in enemy territory after all. And who knew what his true assignment was about? He hoped he would soon find out.

  Art took a sip of his coffee. “The way I see it, it serves the Germans right. First we take their country, then we take their girls. And then—then they’ll think twice about trying to pull a stunt like that again. Of course, like I said, you’re not going to see me with a German girlfriend anytime soon.”

  Frank cocked an eyebrow.

  Art cleared his throat. “Magdalena’s Czech, remember? I’m not sure I’d trust the Germans. I guarantee most of them were in the Nazi Youth. Not that they’d admit it. Now that the U.S. soldiers are here, involved with the local population, you’d think there wasn’t a Nazi in Germany. The people blame the Nazis for their problems, their defeat. Maybe those soldiers were just ghosts, you know. Since they didn’t come from these parts. Since no one around here supported them or liked them much—or so they say.”

  Frank nodded. “Yeah? Well, I, for one refuse to swallow that line.” He sipped his coffee, feeling the warmth carry down his throat and fill him. Through his time under cover, he’d learned there were few people you could take at their word. Everyone had something he or she was trying to hide. Some of the secrets were small. Others affected many, many lives. The hard part wasn’t being fooled by the enemy. The hard part was remembering you could trust your friends.

  Art chuckled as he put down his mug and began to pack his camera equipment. “Of course, you don’t need to worry about whether or not to get a German girl, you get to spend your time with those beautiful American singers. You should have heard the guys coming back from the concert last night.
They went on and on about the show, especially about that new singer—what’s her name?”

  “Mickey, the stage manager, just calls her Songbird.”

  “Yes, well, from what I hear she’s a looker—and she sings great too. One guy said he thought his heart was gonna jump out of his chest.”

  Frank’s heart did a double beat recalling Betty up on the stage, yet he tried not to show it. Since pursuing a relationship wasn’t in his immediate plans, it shouldn’t bother him—but it did.

  The thing was, even if he did decide to risk his heart, she most likely wouldn’t feel the same way. Also, from what he could tell, Betty seemed far less enthralled by him than he was by her. To her, he was probably just another Joe. Another reason not to let the spark of feelings run away with him.

  “Yes, the show was something all right. All the girls were great,” he said, steering the conversation away from Betty. “I hear they have a show tomorrow night. You should go.”

  “I will.” Art swung his camera bag over his shoulder. “Only if you promise you’ll introduce me to Songbird.”

  Frank eyed his friend. “I know you—too well. You’ll want more than an introduction.”

  Art’s eyes sparkled, and Frank could tell his friend was teasing him. “Yeah, well, if she’s as pretty as everyone says she is, I might ask her out on a date. Do you think she’d say yes?”

  “Doubt it. What does a lousy cuss like you have to offer? Besides, how would I know? I don’t know the singers that well. Our relationship is limited to the lens of a camera. I’m sure Bet—Songbird is already in a relationship or something.”

  “Wait a minute—” Art punched Frank’s shoulder, causing some of his coffee to splash over the mug’s rim. “You’re sweet on her.” A grin spread across Art’s face. “Out of all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you sweet on a girl. She must be as wonderful as everyone says.”

  “I don’t know why you’d think that.”

  “Is she beautiful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she sing well?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is she kind—nice to talk to?”

  “We talked for quite a while—”

  “Then what’s not to like?”

  “You’re right, what’s not to like?” Frank’s mind scrambled for an excuse. He’d come up with many of them over the years—he had a girl back home. He was recovering from a broken heart. He’d sworn to his dear mother not to marry until after the war…. But none of those would work now. He was sure that Art could see through him. For the first time, he told the truth—or at least half of the truth.

  “The question is, do I have anything to offer in return,” Frank said with a sigh. “Shoot, all I know how to do is take photos. It’s not as if I’ve won a Pulitzer—and there’s no chance for that now, especially with this new assignment—taking shots of singing girls. Not exactly important subject matter. I don’t even have my high-school diploma. What type of job can I get back home? I also have to think what my parents would say—”

  “Man, you think too much.” Art strode to the door. He placed his hand on the knob. “You’d be a fool to get this great assignment and not take advantage of it. Especially when there’s a girl like that around. In fact, I don’t know what you’re doing standing here talking to me.” Art ran a hand down his face. “I’m not nearly as pretty.”

  Frank finished his coffee and set his mug down. He scanned the roadway outside the window that was starting to fill with more people, and he felt a grin curling his lips upward. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should head over to the opera house and check things out—you know, scope out the place to make sure I get the best shots tomorrow night.”

  “You have all the dumb luck, that’s for sure.” Art opened the door. “Here I am taking photos of destruction and reconstruction. You get to take photos of pretty girls with pipes, and I get to take photos of—”

  “Sewer pipes?” Frank hid his grin.

  “Exactly. How did you know?”

  “I saw some of your prints drying in that darkroom you’ve got set up.”

  “Jealous, aren’t you? Bet you’ve never photographed a sewer.” Art smirked, and then he slapped his leg. “Hey, I got an idea. I’ll make extra copies of my photos and trade them for extra copies of yours—”

  “What are you trying to do, get me sent home?” Frank began packing his own camera equipment. “You know we can’t make extra copies for other people. These photos are property of the US military—although I have a feeling if I considered breaking that rule, it would be to keep photos of these girls, not give them away. Or at least one in particular.”

  “That’s my friend. Man, I thought you’d never loosen up.” Art slapped Frank’s back. “Welcome to the real army.”

  Everything seemed different in the daylight. As he walked along the road to the opera house, Frank snapped shots of the rolling hills and fields that bordered the buildings and park. The opera house itself was one of a complex of buildings—workshops, rehearsal areas, storage facilities—that had all been constructed behind the theater. He took photos of it all, noticing there was also a painting studio and two rickety refreshment halls.

  Frank walked around to the front door of the opera house and was surprised to find it open. Inside it smelled of wood and cold. Paintings of composers hung on the walls. He could hear music coming from the auditorium, American jazz, and it struck him how out of place it sounded bouncing off the composers’ smiles.

  He focused his camera on the large painting of Wagner and took a shot. He couldn’t help but think about Art’s words last night about the “culture” of the Americans on stage. The difference was probably most clear to those who’d seen how things used to be. Of course, the German citizens hadn’t been allowed to attend the new shows, and most of the Nazi high-ranking officers were now in prison in Nuremberg, awaiting trial for their crimes. Who was gonna speak up and complain that the Americans were replacing important German culture with jazz? No one, that’s who.

  Movement caught his eye, and Frank turned to see who was there. The door to the auditorium swung slightly as a fleeting shadow passed by, but when he stepped forward, he didn’t see anyone. Frank rubbed his eyes.

  “Hello,” he called. He walked into the auditorium, and the only person he saw was Kat on the stage, warming up. He walked down the aisles and scanned the rows of wooden seats. They, too, were empty.

  Frank walked back to the lobby, wondering how someone had slipped by him. From where he stood, it would have been impossible. He finally looked around one more time and decided to check on the singers in the back. A chilling sensation ran up his arms. Someone had been watching Kat. For the briefest second he was sure he saw a figure in a long, black cloak. And whoever it was either didn’t exist—or didn’t want to be seen.

  Dierk tightened his fists, wishing today were the day when it all would end. When Wagner could be reborn. He didn’t know how he could face the humiliation any longer. He was glad the great master had not lived to see this day.

  Soon—

  It had been disgraceful enough to know that the local commander of the American troops had moved into Richard Wagner’s son Siegfried’s house. And who knew what the Americans had pilfered when they snooped thorough Winifred’s abandoned study?

  Even worse was listening to the Americans play jazz—music that had so exasperated Siegfried. Thankfully, Wagner had died before hearing such “music.” How it pained Dierk to hear such noise being played on Wagner’s sacred pianos. This should never be so.

  For a time, Dierk had regretted what he must do to ensure that Wagner’s work, his stage, and his instruments were remembered in their purest form, but now he knew it was his sacrifice. He must destroy what was worth the most in the world to him, a sacrifice to ensure that all Richard Wagner loved would not continue under such disgrace.

  His head pounded. His chest ached, and he needed freedom from the music that vexed his soul. With hurried step
s, he left the lower quarters of the Festspielhaus and made his way, heart thumping, to the old set-painting workshop nearby.

  Dierk stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and smiled. He felt most comfortable here, among boxes filled with things he’d managed to hide from the Americans—letters written in an old German gothic script, busts of long-dead composers, and an old painting of Hitler and a menacing. Alsatian dog. They weren’t things he treasured, but if he had them they were a few less things for the Americans to pilfer.

  He did have one treasure amongst the piles—the plaster model of what seemed to be the Festspielhaus transformed. The grandiose design, produced at the Fuehrer’s wish, appeared like the Parthenon in miniature. He knew Hitler’s plan was to rebuild the opera house to this new design as soon as Nazi Germany had won the war, but fate did not allow it. If all worked as Dierk planned, a second Festspielhaus would arise—but without Hitler’s name attached. Even though Dierk couldn’t imagine such a thing—how something new could be even greater than the old, his dreams told him it would happen. But first, he had to play his part. The part designed for him. One that would make his name greater than that of any musician or singer who’d performed within these walls.

  With his mind once again focused on his task, Dierk stepped from the building and peered down at the valley below. Each time he walked into town, he discovered more people had arrived: soldiers and other conscripts, freed political prisoners, prisoners of war, disabled men discharged from the military hospitals, and evacuees.

  A growing audience for the show.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They practiced all day and even worked through lunch. Betty was pleased that she knew most of the songs, and she worked especially hard on an Andrews Sisters number with Dolly and Irene.