Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  ‘You have done more than the rest of us,’ he told Alain, ‘leave him to work out his grief.’

  Four days later, in the glorious summer sunlight of the 14th of June 1940, the Germans finally marched into Paris to claim their prize. Their arrival was announced by the rumble of tanks and the drumbeat of stamping feet, a vast parade that marched through the Arc de Triomphe in the ultimate act of desecration. Monsieur Maurice heard of this later, relieved that his patriotic Master of Ceremonies had taken to his bed, nursing a monumental hangover after a four-day binge. As the grey-green uniformed troops made their way through the city, Parisians peered through the slits in shuttered windows and cracks in battened doors to view their invaders first hand. They saw not the evil, leering demon of the French propaganda posters, but tall, handsome men with piercing blue eyes and the blondest of hair. The officers strolled through the deserted streets in immaculately cut uniforms beaming up at the cloistered Parisians. Inside the glass-fronted foyer of the theatre, the girls and Crecy manned every vantage point hoping for a glimpse of the city’s new landlords. They were not disappointed and Crecy immediately declared himself torn between patriotism and lust while Coco tapped her whip fiercely at her side. Life under the Germans was suddenly full of tantalising possibilities.

  The German Military Governor wasted no time imposing his presence on the captured city, ordering Parisians to remain indoors for the next forty-eight hours. The draconian order soon assumed the guise of a balm to French pride as the first week of the German occupation saw victory parades held almost daily to the strains of martial German music which reverberated dully, bouncing from the blind faςades of the muted buildings. Giant swastikas floated from the Eiffel Tower and other prominent structures reminding Parisians of the new order. The German High Command moved into the best hotels and commandeered the motor cars of the wealthy, complete with chauffeurs. A curfew was imposed and roadblocks were established along all the major thoroughfares, while military patrols became a part of daily life. When, at last, anxious Parisians were permitted to venture outdoors to meet the invader, they found the Germans eager to restore the gaiety of the Paris of international renown. Cabarets and theatres, restaurants and shops were soon permitted to open and German soldiers patronised these with obvious relish, cheerfully paying the inflated prices of the Parisian vendors. The occupation was off to a promising start.

  Chapter 8

  Patriotism duly shelved

  As Lily had predicted, the Germans, having completed several victory laps of Paris over the first few days of the occupation, turned their energy to the search for wine, women and song. One by one, Paris’s famed cabarets were permitted to open and now filled with German officers ready to spend, carouse and seek solace from the war. Gradually the shocked city began to return to life as shops and businesses reopened and Parisians sought to adjust to their new situation.

  Monsieur Maurice and his little company also prepared to reopen — this time with a vastly different audience in mind. Madame’s fragile mind rallied and she seemed to regain her strength, gathering her dancers as Maurice and Chinon discussed the changes necessary to adapt Le Prix’s show to its new clientele. Maurice knew they had to tread a fine line and he was keen to avoid drawing attention to his cabaret for the wrong reasons. But he was equally keen not to be seen to be pandering to the invader. He was, first and foremost, a patriot. He sat with Chinon as the dancers limbered up, Madame clapping her hands and barking orders, and the faded seamstress, Mademoiselle Gris, fluttering in the background. The martial flavour that had dominated the dance routines in the last days of freedom seemed a good place to start as both men agreed that the Germans loved anything that smacked of the military. Hiram, the Brazilian trumpeter and leader of the little orchestra, joined the two men as they discussed Le Prix’s response to the invasion.

  Several hours later, a collection of empty bottles, the dregs of half-finished coffee and a wafting fog of cigarette smoke marked the completion of Le Prix’s first council of war. The cabaret would reopen as soon as the occupiers granted permission, and would boast a brand new program modelled to suit the city’s German landlords. Maurice was exhausted but triumphant. His colleagues were less euphoric. Chinon was peeved; he felt he had been forced to offer concessions and that Le Prix would look far too sympathetic. Hiram was merely despondent. For the first time since he had made France his home he felt as if he had lost the freedom to decide his own fate. As a Brazilian citizen he knew he could leave at any time and take his family with him. But that would mean leaving his wife’s family and his home at Le Prix. He was also well aware that his native Brazil boasted a large population of talented trumpeters and that he was unlikely to find a situation as comfortable as his current position at Le Prix. Poverty beckoned and he could not subject his pretty wife, Lisette, to a life of privation at the nether end of Brazilian society. No, he had thrown in his lot with the French and now he and his orchestra would simply have to adapt.

  Orlando the Spaniard and André the pallid Hungarian violinist kept their own counsel. Neither was keen to leave what had become their home, each hopeful that his nationality would protect him from the scrutiny of the Germans. Both also felt secure in the belief that Monsieur Maurice would look after them should the notoriously capricious invader turn his attention their way. Likewise, a new ‘protector’ had been appointed for France. The aged and decrepit Marshal Phillipe Pétain, the much-loved hero of the 1916 Battle of Verdun, had been invited by French President Albert Lebrun to form a new government. An armistice was promptly declared and what would become known as the Vichy government now added its directives and ordinances to those of the invader.

  If Monsieur Maurice had thought he would have to battle to persuade Madame Claudette to adapt her costumes and choreography to suit the new clientele, he was very much mistaken. Madame Claudette’s brief rally was over and she had lapsed into a profound sadness which deepened with every glimpse of a German uniform. Now she merely acquiesced to Maurice’s gentle suggestions. He was troubled by this change in her, as if her soul had somehow been robbed of its life by the German invasion. Troubling as they were, he shelved his concerns for the present, vowing to attend to them once his cabaret was back in business. The survival of his company was far more pressing and consumed his very being. Maurice had long since determined that, for the members of his troupe, adaptation was the only means of survival.

  The diverse performers who populated Le Prix knew also that in their cabaret lay their personal salvation. Most were torn between their horror at the invasion of their country and their own desperate need to survive. Could they play to a German audience when the last time the doors opened it was to the very soldiers defeated by these Germans? The occupants of Madame Gloria’s apartment boarding house gathered one night over a bottle of brandy to decide once and for all where their loyalties lay. Madame Gloria herself was busy knitting socks for the newly formed prisoner-of-war benevolent society, a collection of housewives whose professed aim was to ensure that French soldiers in camps in Germany were never short of socks. For Madame Gloria it was a welcome distraction from grieving for her lost Hubert and for her son, Didier, who languished in a camp in southern Germany.

  Poppy and Lily had already decided. Entertaining the Germans — while unpatriotic and undignified — would ensure their survival until someone came to the rescue of their beleaguered nation. Precisely who this rescuer would be was unclear at this stage. The British had been sent packing and were now sulking across the English Channel as Hitler’s forces packed their bags for the trip to London. The Americans? The Americans did not seem remotely interested in the plight of the French and appeared just as likely to do a deal with the Germans to avoid a wholesale slaughter of young Americans à la World War I. Crecy tossed his lacquered curls emphatically. Yes, he had met some charming Americans and he could assure them all that American men were absolutely worth saving. This pretty piece of typically Crecy irrelevance sent the girls back to the brand
y bottle as their options appeared to be retreating in the same fashion as their erstwhile allies. Coco, not normally given to voicing her opinion, now decided that this was a fine time to add her perspective. She announced that, since men were responsible for this war and that all men were bastards anyway, she would continue to perform in the hope of beating up a few men of a different nationality. This pronouncement drew wry smiles but held few surprises for Coco’s fellow performers who knew her proclivities only too well.

  For the other girls, for Monique, Chloe and Sabine, for Sadie, Margot, Rose, Carin and the rest of the dancers, the options were limited and the choice had effectively been made.

  ‘I don’t know if I can dance for the Germans,’ murmured Monique plaintively, ‘not after the stories I’ve heard about the bad things they have done.’

  ‘Monique, you have to forget all that,’ responded Poppy persuasively. ‘Don’t think of them as Germans, just ignore the uniform and concentrate on the man.’

  ‘But we will have to serve them drinks after the show ...’

  ‘And so? They are simply customers of a different kind — but customers nonetheless.’

  ‘What if they want more?’

  ‘As always,’ retorted Lily tartly, ‘that will be your decision. I, for one, could never sleep with a German.’

  ‘Lily-pilly, I think we’re being a little hasty now,’ interjected Crecy with a pointed raise of an eyebrow, ‘those poor little German soldiers didn’t want a war, did they? It’s that nasty old Hitler and his generals who’re to blame for this pretty pickle. I feel so sorry for the little soldiers. Some of them are sooo far from home, from their mothers and their loved ones. They might be in need of a little company.’

  ‘Fascist bastards —’ Coco was ready to pursue her favourite theme. But Lily cut her off.

  ‘Like I said, it’s up to you. Just be careful. Remember, these are conquering soldiers and they may feel entitled to the spoils of victory, if you get my meaning.’ Eyes widened and more brandy was poured. Lily had a point.

  ‘I think we should try hard, not just for ourselves, but for Monsieur Maurice and Madame Claudette,’ announced Poppy. Nods of agreement.

  ‘Poppy is right,’ confirmed Lily, ‘in fact,’ she continued as she took her turn reaching for the brandy bottle, ‘if we offend the Germans it will be Monsieur Maurice who will be arrested. This is his cabaret — he is responsible for us.’ The grim realisation dawned and the company’s resolution hardened. They would perform for the Germans. They would do this for Monsieur Maurice.

  ‘Our time will come,’ murmured Lily, fortified by a generous swig of brandy, ‘France’s time will come. Then we can revive all that patriotic fervour and fling the Germans back into the cesspit that bred them.’

  Their patriotic fervour duly shelved, under Maurice’s careful guidance the company set to work to reshape, to reinvent itself for its Germanic patrons and the inevitable coterie of French sympathisers. The military themes of the pre-war days were revived, the costumes adapted to resemble the cut of the German uniform, although that was where the resemblance ended. Tiny embellishments modelled on the French army uniform and trimmed in red, white and blue struck a patriotic note, albeit discreetly. Monsieur Maurice was not ready to sacrifice business for patriotism just yet. The songs and dance numbers were likewise remodelled and Maurice approached each artiste to urge a subtle yet visible adaptation. Patriotic soldiers and their pining families were certain ingredients for success — precisely whose soldiers these were was a question that need not be answered. Yearning for snow-capped mountains and the call of the countryside was likewise a happy theme. These snow-capped mountains need not be German — did France not boast its own magnificent countryside? Ambiguity quickly became Monsieur Maurice’s byword: all was possible as long as no-one could pin it precisely on one nationality or another. Yet, for all that he recognised the importance of playing to the patriotism of the German soldier, Maurice knew that Le Prix’s age-old theme of romance remained the key to the cabaret’s success. Let Crecy sing his songs of love, coquettish and brassy, sultry and sensual. Let Coco parade her leathers and whips and tease her male patrons. Let Chinon and Orlando tell their ribald jokes and perform their tricks, titillating and shocking in turn. Then there were the showgirls with their glamour, sassiness and sheer sparkling glitz. No, Maurice knew now that he need look no further than the character of his cabaret to find the ingredients for their survival.

  The company did not disappoint its diminutive manager — nor its now absentee owner. Monsieur Le Prix’s Owner had long since fled to the house of his mistress in Toulouse, but continued to fund the cabaret through an agreement with his bank. Monsieur Maurice had initially sought permission from his employer for the changes to the cabaret’s repertoire, but quickly discovered that the postal system no longer functioned between the zone occupied by the Germans and the rest of France which was administered by the Vichy government under Marshal Pétain, apart from a portion in the south now ceded to Italy. The two zones were known colloquially as ZoneO and Zone NonO. Indeed, Zone NonO was known to most Parisians as Zone Non-Non, a reminder of the difficulty of crossing from the Occupied Zone to the Unoccupied Zone. Maurice smiled to himself and drew on his cigar with more than a little satisfaction. Now, at last, he had complete autonomy. For the time being at least, the cabaret was his. He watched as his beloved Madame Claudette summoned the energy to add a touch of militarism to her choreography. While the place of the eternally French cancan was assured, other routines now featured high kicks that could be construed as resembling the ‘goose-stepping’ march of the occupier — or not, depending on the perspective of the observer. The artistes adjusted too. Coco took to dressing in the long black leather coat favoured by many of the German officers while underneath she hid satin and lace dainties in rich black, white and red, the colours of the banners that now dotted the city and swathed its most prominent landmarks. Crecy draped himself artfully in shimmering chiffons and satins while singing wistfully about lovers across the mountains who had answered the call of duty. Whose lovers and whose mountains remained, like Crecy, cloaked in ambiguity.

  Two weeks after the Germans marched down the Champs-Élysées, Monsieur Maurice received a delegation from the German Military Governor of Paris. A line of black Mercedes and Citroën staff cars purred down the Boulevard de Clichy before pulling up outside the gleaming glass doors of Le Prix. So many cars had been requisitioned by the German occupiers that private vehicles had become an increasing rarity in Paris and the arrival of a sleek line of automobiles could mean only that the Germans had come to call.

  Maurice was in the theatre with Madame Lucille, the busty, auburn-haired ex-showgirl who managed the bar, deep in discussion over the drinking habits of the city’s new German masters. He was startled by the appearance of Cabot, the gnome-like janitor, who darted into the theatre at a madcap pace of which his manager had never considered him capable.

  ‘Monsieur!’ he gasped as his breath came in great laboured gasps, ‘the Boches! They are here! They have come!’ Cabot collapsed panting to the floor as Madame Lucille grabbed a bottle of brandy and sailed over as if to administer an alcoholic version of the last rites to the little man. Maurice paled slightly, straightened his jacket, patted his hair and adjusted his tie, preparing to sally forth to welcome the invader wearing his most managerial look.

  ‘Bon,’ he murmured, ‘I have been expecting a visit. Now,’ he winked back at Madame Lucille who glanced nervously at him as she poured brandy into the little janitor, ‘we shall truly know where we stand.’

  Maurice donned his most charming expression and walked steadily across the theatre of his cabaret with the air of a businessman about to meet his most valued client. The stakes were high. The Germans could close his cabaret summarily and send his girls to German factories to make munitions. The company’s male members presented more of a problem. Orlando could be pressed into service of some sort, but what could usefully be expected of Chi
non or Crecy? Of the frail, wafer-thin André and the other less than impressive members of Hiram’s little orchestra? Maurice had a sudden vision of his artistes and performers spending the rest of the war polishing German boots or stirring enormous vats of sauerkraut.

  As he entered the foyer he spied a coterie of German officers, their grey-green uniforms smartly appointed and finished with gleaming black boots. Yes, these were the boots he could see Crecy and Chinon polishing madly day after day as the war ground on relentlessly. The Germans were studying the gilt-framed portraits of Le Prix’s showgirls and artistes who smiled coquettishly at them in a promise of secret pleasures. The officers grinned and pointed, teasing one another and commenting on the obvious attributes of the girls. This was a good sign, Maurice decided as he walked towards them, hands extended wide in a gesture of welcome.

  ‘Good afternoon gentlemen,’ he proclaimed, beaming broadly, ‘welcome to Le Prix d’Amour! I am the manager of this cabaret — Maurice Hernand at your service.’ The German officers clicked their heels and bowed courteously before the tallest officer, a man with what Maurice regarded as an impossibly narrow face, approached.

  ‘Good afternoon Monsieur Hernand,’ replied the narrow-faced officer in heavily accented French, ‘we come from the office of the Military Governor to discuss with you the opening of your cabaret.’ Maurice’s heart trilled.

  ‘Bon, bon, gentlemen, will you join me for a glass of cognac in our little theatre?’ The narrow-faced German smiled and nodded and signalled to his party to follow as he accompanied Maurice through the gilded foyer doors and into the theatre proper. Maurice guided them to a table close to the bar, noting with some relief that Madame Lucille had managed to resurrect the gnome Cabot who had disappeared to return to his janitoring duties, or hide in fright as the case may be. Now Madame Lucille stood behind the bar, all pouting décolletage and fixed smile as she calmly polished glasses.