Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  ‘Been out on the town, have we?’

  ‘Oh yes, my sweet,’ replied Crecy, drawing heavily on his cigarette. He paused and offered her a sly, conspiratorial smile. ‘I have a new man,’ he announced in a gravelly whisper, his face lit with measured excitement. Lily grinned back.

  ‘You do? What’s he like, then?’

  ‘Mon Dieu, he’s sooo gorgeous!’ gasped Crecy, ‘he’s my height, muscular, arms like tree-trunks, tight little derriere, face like a Greek god ... looks just like me, only he’s dark-haired.’ Crecy drew on his cigarette before facing Lily with something akin to a revelation.

  ‘In fact, Lily-pilly, we match!’ he proclaimed triumphantly.

  ‘Like salt and pepper shakers?’ rejoined Lily wryly, her face wearing a cherubic smile. The triumphant visage fell a little.

  ‘Mmm ... not quite what I had in mind, you sarky little miss,’ replied Crecy, clearly miffed at this reduction of his vaunted love affair to a piece of kitchen-table mundanity. He paused before turning his attention to the scene that had greeted him. ‘And what are you doing sitting in the gutter like some trollop down on her luck? Well?’ Lily opened her mouth to offer another half-hearted explanation, but Crecy had noticed her bags, assessed the situation and now took charge.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, mam’selle,’ he told Lily as he collected her and her bags, frogmarching the errant showgirl back down the alleyway before depositing her in an untidy heap inside the front entrance of the apartment, bellowing to Madame Gloria as he propelled her through the door.

  ‘Look what I found on the doorstep! Got any bottles open Glory? Lily-pilly looks as if she could do with a drink and I could murder one myself.’

  Thus it was that Lily failed dismally in her attempt to flee Paris and the approaching Hun. But she was none too fretful, hours later as she staggered from Madame Gloria’s rooms up the stairs and back to her little world of softest chintz. After all, she had found a family.

  Chapter 6

  An iron resolve

  Lily’s ignoble return was accepted mutely by her surrogate family, many of whom were too anxious over their own fate to bother with the peculiarities of another. At the next rehearsal, Lily offered a quiet apology to Monsieur Maurice who nodded gently and touched her arm.

  ‘You came back, Lil,’ he murmured softly, ‘that’s all that matters. We are a family and we will meet this together.’ Maurice was glad to see her. That morning his accountant, Monsieur Six, devoutly Jewish and a stalwart of the local synagogue, had bade his manager a tearful farewell, apologising for leaving him at such an uncertain time, but pleading the necessity to take his family to safety in Portugal where he had relatives. Maurice had praised his wisdom and assured him that his position would be held for his return. He could do no less. Monsieur Six had been the accountant at Le Prix for as long as Monsieur Maurice had been manager, poached from a firm of chartered accountants to restore the ailing finances of the cabaret. Maurice shook his hand with a wan smile and promised his departing accountant that he and the gawky office boy, Roland, would manage until his return. Young Roland would simply have to grow up a little more rapidly than had been anticipated.

  The rehearsal proceeded with a strained Madame Claudette clicking her tongue and berating the girls in turn, while Monsieur Maurice catcalled his encouragement. But Madame’s former distress remained apparent as she chain-smoked cigarettes, struggling to light them with hands that shook. Her appearance had changed dramatically and Lily, peering from the back row, thought she looked as if she had aged ten years. Gone was the meticulous attention to dress; her hair was knotted in a ragged granny’s bun at the back and the usual strikingly chic turban was nowhere to be seen. Her clothes were somehow shabbier and almost dishevelled, although Lily knew these were the same beautiful garments that Madame always wore. It was as if the deterioration in Madame’s mind had affected every facet of her being. Suddenly her clothes had aged and were as distressed and frightened as their wearer. Madame was a quivering, nervous shade — the proud, exacting and dominant Madame Claudette had fled in the face of the German advance.

  Madame was not alone in her sorry transformation. There was an edge to the atmosphere in the company’s practice room which cut through the usual gaiety and produced a quivering tension that saw tempers fray and petty accusations shower spite the length of the room. Finally, Madame herself could bear it no more.

  ‘We are all lost,’ she wailed, ‘this threat to our beloved city will destroy us all! See?’ she turned to Maurice in despair, ‘the girls are too upset to perform and the show will be ruined!’ She burst into noisy tears and stormed off, followed by Mademoiselle Gris, the blanched little seamstress, who chased at a rapid trot, her own tears spilling noisily as she sobbed and stumbled through the door. Monsieur Maurice turned to his company with a strained smile and an air of forced serenity.

  ‘Ladies, you must forgive Madame, she takes this threat from the Germans to heart. I have had to change my plan to move her to Montpellier as she is too distressed to make the journey alone and I cannot leave Le Prix at this time of such uncertainty. I have told her that we will manage, that the Germans will not be interested in a theatre full of showgirls and a few performers ...’ he spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness which he evidently hoped would allay their fears. But it had the opposite effect.

  ‘We can still leave,’ murmured the buxom, flame-haired Monique, ‘there is still time, we could go to ... to ...’ she stood, lost, looking at her fellow showgirls for direction of some sort, any sort. But the other girls stood motionless, their faces reflecting her agony.

  ‘The trains are still running,’ offered the willowy Carin, ‘it wouldn’t matter where we went as long as we were away from Paris.’

  ‘But we would be refugees!’ There were frightened looks and head shakes at this dreadful prospect. They had all seen the baggage trains and desperate processions of woe. The prospect of joining this wretched existence was clearly appalling.

  ‘Better to be live refugees than dead citizens of Paris.’

  ‘The government is moving ... we could go with them. Isn’t one of the cabinet ministers a client of Coco’s?’

  ‘Could we all go with them?’

  The burgeoning hysteria was stopped short by one calm voice.

  ‘No, we should stay.’ It was Lily. She had exorcised her demons, made her decision and she was filled with an iron resolve. She stood calmly, defiantly eyeballing her fellows.

  ‘Won’t they kill us if we stay?’ asked Sabine.

  ‘Why would they? The Germans are soldiers — men who have been at war for over a year now. They’re away from their families, their homes, their loved ones. What do they want when they arrive in Paris? To loot, plunder and kill all the inhabitants and reduce the city to rubble?’ Sabine blanched and gulped. But Lily answered her own question.

  ‘I’ll tell you what they want,’ she told the frightened showgirls. ‘They want a bath, a bed and a good night’s sleep. Then they want to party. They want beer, wine and champagne, dancing girls, music — they want a good time!’ Her voice became animated and her face lit with the glow of emotion. ‘They want to forget the war — they want the gay Paree they’ve all heard about.’ She looked around her at the incredulous faces of her fellow troupers. ‘And that,’ she added dramatically, ‘is what we have to give them if we want to survive!’ Gradually the others digested her words. Little murmurings confirmed that there were many who saw the sense in what she said. Others were less receptive.

  ‘So you suggest we receive our conquerors with open arms?’ This from Chinon the closet communist who had been listening at the door. The little man’s voice was full of venom. ‘I may be a mere performer, a lowlife in the eyes of many, but I am a patriotic Frenchman! I will never play for those Boche bastards!’ Lily turned to him.

  ‘Admirable sentiments, Chinon,’ she told him evenly, ‘and there isn’t one of us who wouldn’t drive the Boche bastards from our country if
we had the means.’ Nods and low affirmations reinforced her assertion. ‘But,’ she continued, gesturing to the company as a whole, ‘look at us — what sort of army are we?’ she paused to reinforce her point. ‘We can’t stop them and we can’t run.’ She paused again, this time eyeing her fellow performers. ‘But we can survive and, maybe if we keep our heads down and just do what we do best, we’ll still be around when our British friends arrive to toss the Hun back over the border into the Fatherland.’

  ‘It’s a coward’s way,’ spat Chinon, glaring venomously at Lily.

  ‘Yes,’ retorted Lily hotly, ‘but it’s the only way. I’ll admit that I’m a coward — I have no intention of diving in front of one of Adolf’s tanks in some pointlessly heroic attempt to stem the invasion. But I might just get some of his officers drunk and hope they fall in the way of their own tanks and reduce the number of occupiers a few at a time. Maybe we can find some home-grown heroism if we look hard enough.’

  ‘Perhaps survival is heroism enough,’ Maurice spoke slowly and calmly, defusing the tension that had threatened to become explosive. ‘I think Lil’s right. I have said all along that I will stay, and I see now that we have little choice but to remain. But we do have a choice where our own survival is concerned. There is no doubt it will be difficult under the Boches, but we can do it if we are determined.’ He looked at his little troupe. ‘I will do my best to look after all who stay,’ he told them with quiet resolve.

  ‘I know we can survive,’ replied Lily immediately.

  The other members of the company had watched the exchange with varying degrees of anxiety, but now derived obvious comfort from the pronouncements of Maurice and Lily. They would stay too. Maurice patted Chinon on the shoulder.

  ‘I know you regard this as compromising your principles and I know how you hate to do that.’ He spoke gently as the other man looked pointedly at the floor. ‘But,’ Maurice continued, ‘you may find your heroics yet, you’ll see. And your survival means the survival of those precious principles, doesn’t it, eh?’ He looked back at the members of his company, his humour undiminished. ‘The Germans may decide they like Paris so much they will want to stay quite some time, perhaps years even. Let’s see if we can weather the storm together, shall we?’

  Lily grinned back at her diminutive, ginger-haired manager. Privately, she wished she had half his courage. She could not escape the foreboding that he would need every ounce of bravado as the tide of the German invasion broke over them.

  Chapter 7

  The bitter tide of invasion

  By late May, the colourful company at Le Prix had finished wondering whether they were to be invaded and had begun to wonder when. The inglorious British exit at Dunkirk appeared to seal their fate as the exhausted remnants of the French armies were pushed back towards Paris, fighting desperate rearguard actions as they fled.

  ‘British bastards!’ cursed Coco as she read of the debacle in the French daily Le Figaro, one fist striking the arm of her chair in barely restrained outrage.

  ‘Mmm, I’m a bit sorry about the British,’ responded Crecy, musing into his café au lait, ‘such gentlemen, always terribly well spoken and considerate to a gal.’

  ‘Well they’re no bloody good at fighting, are they?’ shot Coco venomously, ‘you might have to settle for a big Bavarian blonde who smells of bratwurst.’

  ‘Ooh,’ trilled Crecy, ‘I rather like big blondes, and I’m sure I’ll cope with a little sausage ...’ he winked at Coco who snorted in disgust.

  ‘They don’t like your type,’ she sneered savagely. Crecy batted his heavy eyelashes and returned her glare with a smoulder of his own.

  ‘There are always men who like my type,’ he rebuffed darkly.

  A commotion at the front of the apartment put an end to the barbed repartée as the morning loungers raced down the stairs to track the source of the affray. At the entrance they found Madame Gloria, Lily and Poppy with a small group of wounded French soldiers, their dirty bandages bloodied and bedraggled, their faces haggard and defeated.

  ‘Fetch Monsieur Maurice!’ called Lily as more faces appeared. Sadie raced across the courtyard to the neighbouring block where Monsieur Maurice, patriarch and trouble-shooter, resided.

  There were four soldiers in the group, all wounded and almost delirious with hunger and fatigue. The girls half-supported, half-carried them into Madame Gloria’s salon and arranged them as comfortably as possible on the floor, propped up by cushions and pillows. The men seemed careless about their immediate fate, happy only to have found a refuge from the road. Hot, sugared coffee was produced and wounds bathed and bandaged. Maurice’s doctor friend, Paul Reynard, was duly fetched and the men were left to rest, covered in blankets and soothed with reassurances. Outside the room, a whispered conference was held.

  ‘If our soldiers are returning, will the Germans be following them?’

  ‘Can we keep the soldiers here? What will the Germans do if they find them here?’

  ‘Will they shoot them?’

  ‘Will they shoot us?!’

  ‘Calm yourselves please ladies,’ called Maurice over the building crescendo as Crecy glowed with pleasure, having found himself included as a ‘lady’. ‘Yes, it is possible that the Germans will soon be here, but these are our soldiers, they are brave Frenchmen who risked their lives for us, we cannot simply turn them onto the street.’ The ladies shrank into silence, ashamed at the idea that they would have denied their own soldiers shelter and sustenance.

  ‘We will look after them as best we can and, yes, we will keep them here if that is what they want.’

  But the soldiers proved far less problematic than the frightened showgirls had imagined. One young man nursed what appeared to be a bad head wound and was despatched to the American Hospital in Neuilly under the protective care of Dr Paul. Two of the other men were determined to return to their families in the south of France and Maurice drove them to the railway station, waiting with them for four hours until they finally boarded a train.

  ‘Will this train take them to Marseilles?’ he quizzed the haggard stationmaster. The man shrugged.

  ‘This train will take them to Tours. From there, who knows? The lines have been bombed and the repairs take time. We do our best, mon ami.’ Maurice thanked the man and wished the soldiers ‘bon chance’, nursing his own apprehension as to their likely fate, particularly if overtaken by the approaching Germans. That left one soldier, a tall, emaciated man with deep lacerations to his arm. Dr Paul had dressed his wounds and Maurice offered to drive him to the American Hospital. But the young man refused.

  ‘There are so many far worse than me, it is better that the hospital staff focus on them. I will recover with your kindness and help. Then I will move on and you will be free of me.’ Crecy looked crestfallen.

  ‘No hurry,’ he soothed, ‘you must make sure you have plenty of rest.’ He beamed reassuringly at the young man, Alain, who smiled uncertainly in Crecy’s direction. Like most men, he was not quite sure what to make of this ostensibly feminine being. The world of the cabaret was a mystery to most, but deep down he sensed that something about this alluring blonde was not quite right ...

  In early June, the little company at Le Prix took its first trip to the basement as the air raid sirens shrieked and wailed. While this was not the only time the sirens had sounded their shrill warning, it was the first time that Monsieur Maurice had managed to persuade his company to take them seriously. His dire warnings would have been wasted on much of the rest of the Parisian population. While the outlying suburbs that housed the Citroen and Renault factories were peppered with bombs which left great gaping holes that smoked and smouldered, the aftermath of the raid assumed a festive atmosphere as people swarmed to the bombed-out factories to gaze at the jagged ruins. Maurice shook his head and wondered at the folly of his fellow citizens. The next day the newspaper Le Figaro thundered a warning to all Parisians in glaring banner headlines: ‘Parisians, don’t remain in the streets when y
ou hear anti-aircraft guns!’ It was, as Lily observed, a statement of the ‘bleeding obvious’, but a necessary statement, given that plenty of people had apparently stared at the aircraft from the windows of their apartments rather than seeking shelter in the safety of their basements. Even the perennially forgiving Madame Gloria clicked her tongue and wondered when her fellow Parisians would learn.

  As June entered its second week, the rumours of an imminent German approach increased in their intensity. The nervous city began to prepare to meet the invader, with steel girders criss-crossing the Champs-Élysées, the Place de la Concorde and the major roads into Paris in an attempt to prevent the landing of troop-carrying aircraft. The French government fled south to the spa resort of Vichy, leaving a city in the grip of invasion fever. By the night of the 10th of June, Paris had been handed over to the Police Prefect, Roger Langeron, whose onerous responsibility it would be to deal with the German invaders. Shops, banks, restaurants, cinemas and theatres, including Le Prix, were closed, and the city echoed hollowly to the sound of lone policemen on their solitary beat. Notices appeared declaring Paris an open city and urging the population to refrain from acts of hostility and greet the German invaders with composure and dignity. Chinon tore a notice from a wall in the Boulevard de Clichy and ripped it to shreds in his fury. Monsieur Maurice placed a gentle arm around his shoulders and led him to the bar where they shared a glass of vintage cognac, a quiet requiem for the City of Light.

  ‘They have saved the city,’ explained Maurice soothingly, ‘the Germans will not destroy Paris.’ But Chinon saw only defeat and desecration.

  ‘Better that they had,’ he wept, bitter tears coursing down his cheeks, ‘then we might have died proud Frenchmen instead of handing our capital to those German bastards on a platter!’ He laid his shaggy head on the bar and sobbed, Maurice patting the heaving shoulders. Alain, the wounded French soldier, moved across to offer a word, but Maurice waved him on.