Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  ‘A bottle of our best cognac for the officers, please Lucille,’ he called to her as he turned back to his guests.

  The cognac proved to be a master stroke. The German officers quickly relaxed and chatted gaily about their favourite Berlin cabarets and the singers they loved. Finally, the senior officer cleared his throat, his angular face broadened with a smile and he turned to Maurice; clearly the moment to discuss business had arrived.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he began, ‘we would like to see your cabaret reopen for business.’ Maurice’s heart resumed its trilling. He waited for the German to finish.

  ‘It is very important for our men to have somewhere to relax, to forget the war ... we are all friends now, oui? Non, thought Maurice, but he simply beamed and topped up the officers’ glasses as he waited for the conditions that he felt sure the Germans would impose.

  ‘And so the Governor proposes to issue you a permit that will allow you to open ... shall we say three nights a week to begin?’ He angled his head in Maurice’s direction to gauge the little man’s reaction.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur, that is extraordinarily generous of the Governor,’ Maurice could hardly believe his luck. ‘Please convey my profound gratitude to His Excellency. He will find in Le Prix a place of entertainment unparalleled in Paris. Here your men will be able to enjoy themselves and forget their cares while our girls attend to their every need.’

  ‘Excellent, Monsieur,’ replied the German officer, ‘I can see that we have come to the right place. Of course,’ he added, ‘this cabaret will be open to the officers only as there are plenty of dance halls to serve the soldiers. And,’ he added significantly, ‘the Propaganda Staffel will contact you to check that the songs of your performers comply with the regulations — this is simply an administrative necessity, you understand.’

  ‘Of course,’ rejoined Maurice, certain that he could sanitise the songs of his performers for the Propaganda Staffel, whose members he hoped would not attend the actual performance or they might be in for a rude shock given the ribald lyrics enjoyed by Crecy, Coco, Chinon ... He swallowed hard and turned his mind to the needs of his cabaret, conscious that the Germans had now satisfied their own requirements.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he began tentatively, ‘if I could beg your indulgence ... you understand that, as a cabaret, Le Prix has always opened late into the night. Now that there is a curfew ...’ he trailed off, unsure how to ask the Governor’s representative for permission to break the curfew on a regular basis.

  ‘Ah, the curfew,’ replied the officer dismissively, gesturing airily with his hand, ‘you need not concern yourself with the curfew, your business will be exempt. But,’ now his tone changed and he drew closer to Maurice, ‘only your business will be exempt, you understand? Only your business. If your performers are found on the streets after curfew in other parts of Paris, they will be punished.’ He nodded sadly as if this were a matter of personal regret for him too. Maurice hastened to reassure him.

  ‘Non, non, Monsieur, my performers are very law abiding people — I can vouch for each and every one of them,’ he added, suppressing his doubts about certain members of his troupe. He collected himself for another salvo.

  ‘Monsieur,’ again he dropped his tone deferentially, ‘I have just one other concern ... if I could test your patience further.’ The German officer nodded, demonstrating his cognac-fuelled patience. Encouraged, Maurice ploughed on.

  ‘I fear that, for Le Prix to offer the high quality service suitable for your officers, we will need to be assured that our supplies will continue despite the ...’ he searched frantically for a term that would mollify the German, ‘necessary regulations of the new order.’ The German smiled amiably, his narrow jaw now consumed with goodwill, and Maurice breathed easier. ‘As Monsieur will no doubt understand,’ he explained with slightly renewed vigour, ‘we will seek to serve your men the best champagne, wines, cognac ... I would not like them to suffer from any of the shortages that might afflict the city.’ His German guest smiled politely and nodded.

  ‘I assure you, Monsieur Hernand, that the morale of the men is paramount in the mind of the Governor. He will personally ensure that you do not lack the supplies of which you speak. Indeed, should you find yourself in difficulty, please do not hesitate to attend the Governor yourself and inform him of your situation. He will look after you.’ Maurice bowed politely, smiling deferentially while his inner spirit whooped with joy. The German officer nodded in finality. The interview was approaching its end.

  ‘Shall we say,’ the officer told Maurice as he signalled to his colleagues to finish their cognac, ‘Thursday next week you will reopen for business?’ Maurice broadened his beam and continued to nod.

  ‘Oui, Monsieur, as you wish. Shall I expect to greet the Governor on opening night?’

  ‘Ah,’ exclaimed the officer with obvious delight, ‘I will extend an invitation on your behalf.’

  The two men shook hands and the coterie filed out with much clicking of heels and bowing, Maurice showering his guests with as many grateful smiles as he could muster. He rushed into the bar where the nervous Lucille was clearing the glasses.

  ‘Lucille, cherie,’ he cried, ‘we are saved! Le Prix is to reopen next week!’

  ‘For the Germans, Maurice? We reopen to serve the Germans?’ Lucille was less than euphoric.

  ‘Does it matter who is in the audience? Can you not see that without Le Prix we were lost ... all of us?’ Lucille’s eyes opened wide as she began to share the vision that had been haunting Maurice. Yes, they would survive. But now they would have to pay the price of that survival.

  Chapter 9

  Playing with the enemy

  With Le Prix’s opening night approaching fast, Monsieur Maurice, conscious of the gravity of his situation, assembled his little company for a last plea for their survival.

  ‘My friends,’ he told them, ‘I must ask you the most pressing question of all.’ He paused and swept them with a searching look. Their anxious eyes met his.

  ‘Can you perform for the Germans? Will you bury your hatred of the conqueror and think only of our future? Only you can ensure our survival,’ he beseeched, ‘whatever else happens, if they like us, they will look after us. Can you see that? Do you understand this?’

  ‘Well I can,’ murmured Crecy in husky tones. ‘I can’t stand the idea of being packed off to some sort of dreadful camp.’ He studied his long, red-lacquered fingernails as if their fate, too, depended on the goodwill of the invader.

  ‘Monsieur Maurice, we can do this for you,’ asserted Poppy, ‘if this is what we must do to survive, then we will do it.’ The showgirls murmured their assent, their voices soft, subdued.

  ‘Oui,’ nodded Coco, her flame-red lips set, her eyes hard. Hiram spoke for his orchestra.

  ‘Yes, Maurice,’ he said steadily, ‘we’re with you. It’s the only way.’ André the violinist and the other members of the orchestra nodded slightly, their faces even paler than usual. Mademoiselle Gris stood at the head of her team of assistants and wrung her hands. Like André, she nodded slightly and looked as if she would dissolve into a flood of tears. One by one the others acquiesced, the last to agree the reluctant Chinon.

  ‘Chinon, my friend, can you do this?’ Chinon looked up at his manager and nodded slowly and sadly. His shoulders were bowed and his eyes liquid pools of sadness. His voice fell to a whisper as if the evaporation of hope had taken his power of speech in the process.

  ‘Oui, Maurice, I fear I have little choice,’ he breathed as his tears welled. Orlando reached down to pat his shoulder in mute sympathy. ‘I feel as if I am betraying my country and the cause,’ he muttered hoarsely as the patriotic tears began to spill. The giant hand on his shoulder steadied him as Orlando murmured his support.

  ‘I feel as you do, amigo,’ he growled, ‘but you are no good to your country dead, eh?’ He patted the dwarf with comradely strength that threatened to flatten the diminutive ringmaster and looked across at Maurice. ‘We wil
l do our best,’ he told his manager, ‘you can depend on us.’ Maurice smiled softly, a tentative beam of gratitude that enfolded his friends as they greeted this most distasteful of duties.

  ‘Thank you all,’ he told them, ‘we will live to fight for France in our own way when the time comes, of that you may be sure.’

  The company dissolved as Maurice made his way to the bar for a fortifying sip of cognac. He felt exhausted, drained of his usual formidable reserves of energy. He was unsure of the strength of his company’s commitment, uncertain whether any would bow to temptation and produce a burst of patriotism that would see them all banished to camps on foreign soil. But, at the same time, he felt strong within himself, ready to face whatever the occupation might throw at him. He could only hope that his company stood united and that, together, they would survive.

  The pace of rehearsal escalated and the finishing touches were made as Thursday evening approached. The Germans had imposed Berlin time on occupied France and rehearsals, opening and closing times were all adjusted with voluminous complaints that turned eventually to grudging acceptance. The tense build-up over, opening night finally arrived and Monsieur Maurice dressed with care, his black tuxedo brushed and smoothed, his luxurious ginger moustache shaped, primped and preened. He walked briskly from his apartment down the side alleyway and onto the Boulevard de Clichy which ran past the front doors of the cabaret. He wanted to see Le Prix as his German clientele would. Never had an opening night been so crucial to the survival of his company. He thought of Monsieur Le Prix’s Owner, nestled in the bosom of his mistress in Toulouse. He wondered what had happened to Madame the owner’s wife. Perhaps she had remained in Paris, unwilling to leave her beautiful house and glittering society. Wherever she was, he smiled in the certainty that she would not be sharing the mistress’s house in Toulouse.

  Maurice stopped outside the glass doors of Le Prix and surveyed his cabaret. The intricate iron lacework of the edifice had been delicately repainted, the neon sign with its coloured bulbs cleaned and manicured and the front of the cabaret scrubbed to within an inch of its life, painted and retouched. Now the building fairly shone with gleaming, brassy beauty. Inside, the gilded doors had likewise been given a fresh coat of golden paint and glowed with latent sumptuousness. The plushness of the foyer had been revived and its giant billboards of simpering showgirls beckoned him. Crecy pouted coquettishly beneath mountains of platinum curls while the blackrimmed eyes of Coco smouldered. Yes, thought Maurice, we are ready to show the Germans a good time, to play the game their way — for now. He wandered through the foyer doors and into the theatre where Madame Lucille and the bar staff were polishing glasses and arranging bottles of champagne and shining vessels of liqueur. They were expecting a busy night. Madame Lucille poured a nip of cognac for the little manager. He motioned for her to pour herself a glass and they toasted the night to come.

  ‘Santé!’

  ‘Santé! And let the show begin!’

  Any doubts that the Germans would enjoy the show were quickly dispelled. They poured in with Prussian punctuality at seven o’clock sharp, resplendent in their dress uniforms and attended by a host of suited French officials and a bevy of female companions, flashing opulent jewellery and arrayed in exotic furs. Maurice noted that these women seemed to have adapted to the new regime with spectacular efficiency. The audience milled around the theatre, drinking and chatting, their excitement mounting as they waited for the show to begin. Maurice mingled with them, playing mein host and marvelling at the smartness of his new patrons. When, at last, he invited his guests to take their seats, their exuberance filled the glitzy, buzzing theatre with an air of gaiety and expectation. Maurice knew then that the future of Le Prix was almost assured. Much would rest on the shoulders of his performers.

  The orchestra burst into life, the curtains opened and the acrobatic Chinon bounced onto the stage, landing effortlessly upright, his top hat sitting perfectly in place, to announce in ringing tones that the show would begin. Maurice held his breath. If any of his performers was likely to destroy the delicate skein of harmony he had woven, it would be Chinon, the fiercely communist French patriot. Chinon paused momentarily, regarding his mostly German audience with eyes of steel, sharp blue points in an otherwise stony face. Maurice’s heart began to sink. The seconds ticked by and Maurice stiffened, ready to move if salvation did not arrive soon. But suddenly Chinon flashed an enormous grin, regaled his audience with a highly risqué joke that produced a burst of laughter that rocked the theatre and launched into a titillating song with which he introduced the feathery, sequined showgirls. Maurice exhaled and felt his sinking heart rebound and his colour return. This was the Chinon of old, a favourite of French audiences these last five years. Now he had conquered the conquerors.

  The night progressed with the garish brilliance that Monsieur Maurice had come to expect from his performers. The showgirls wowed their enraptured patrons, their spectacular costumes, high kicks and cancans exciting exclamations of delight as their audience was drawn into a world of shimmering gaiety. Crecy wooed and seduced his unsuspecting admirers for whom the ravishing creature with the almond eyes, cascading curls and voluptuous figure was the epitome of male fantasy. Orlando smouldered, winning over the ladies in the audience and creating an air of mystery and fascination with his mesmerising illusions. Coco strutted the stage in her sweeping black leather which she removed in a burlesque routine to reveal dainty satin lingerie teamed with the leather accoutrements that immediately spelled her role as a dominatrice. The theatre was spellbound and she held them in her thrall. Hiram the dusky Brazilian trumpeter set feet tapping with his jazz numbers and André the wraith-like violinist played rustic airs and folk dances that produced rhythmic clapping and thunderous applause. Again and again the performers changed and mingled so that the mood of the audience swung like a pendulum, carefully manipulated by the artistes. Watching from the bar, Monsieur Maurice was amazed and moved: never had he seen his little troupe play so passionately. By the end of the show, as the German officers and their French companions gathered to congratulate him, he knew that his company had answered his rallying call: they had given him the performance of their lives. Again he was consumed with the belief that Le Prix would survive.

  Maurice was right — the Germans loved the performance and they loved Le Prix. The compliments rained and the champagne flowed. The showgirls appeared clad in the softly clinging sequined evening dresses which were their hostess gowns and wove their way sinuously through the admiring crowd offering bottles of golden liqueur or frothing champagne. Crecy draped himself languidly across the bar and was immediately assailed by men eager to buy him a drink. Maurice stifled a smile. Coco appeared clad in a black leather evening shift teamed with black bands studded with silver spikes. Again, she was instantly surrounded by adoring fans. Orlando occupied a corner of the bar, flexing his muscles to a knot of mesmerised ladies who dripped diamonds. Everywhere the showgirls insinuated themselves into the happy throng. Only Chinon was missing and Maurice felt a small knot of anxiety unravel. One less fierce patriot to watch could only be good news. Hiram and the orchestra struck a soft background swing to lull the drinkers and deepen the atmosphere of intimacy and romance. Madame Lucille’s bar was the hub of a thriving trade. Monsieur Maurice allowed himself a smug smile and moved towards the Military Governor’s table where the party had settled back to enjoy several bottles of cognac. The Governor rose to greet him, clicking his heels and bowing courteously, heaping effusive praise on the little manager. Maurice bowed and smiled, noting heavily bejewelled women, doyennes of French society who had obviously shifted allegiance with impressive rapidity. He sighed internally. Society was not so different to show business, he decided, and certainly the show must go on.

  Late the next morning, as he basked in the success of the opening night and his performers nursed prodigious hangovers, Monsieur Maurice was called to the wine cellar by Cabot, despatched by Madame Lucille who requested the manager’
s presence as a matter of urgency. Maurice raced to the cellar to find Madame Lucille sitting in the middle of Le Prix’s stocks nursing a grief-stricken Chinon and flanked by a cohort of empty brandy bottles. Clearly it had all been too much for the ardently patriotic Chinon, the arrival of the invader producing an exquisite agony. In truth, as the German threat had escalated and the French forces capitulated, Chinon had harboured the belief that the communist brotherhood would band together to form some sort of resistance and deliver the country from its occupier. Now, a mere matter of weeks after the Germans had poured into the defeated capital, Chinon’s hopes had been well and truly shattered.

  ‘Chinon, my friend,’ murmured Maurice gently as he squatted next to the sobbing form, ‘you must not take it so. We will survive this calamity. Our cabaret is a success and we have shown that we can perform for the Germans.’ Chinon lifted his shaggy head from Madame Lucille’s lap, his noisy sobs abating. He pulled a dirty newspaper from the floor behind him and waved it at the diminutive manager. Maurice recognised the signature headline of the banned communist broadsheet L’Humanité.

  ‘Read this!’ cried Chinon, thrusting the newspaper at Maurice and stabbing a section on the front page with his stubby finger. ‘This is what the Party is telling us!’ He dissolved into voluble sobs once more as Maurice read aloud: ‘It is particularly comforting in these sad times to see many Parisian workers chatting in a friendly way with German soldiers, either in the streets or in the corner bistro. Well done, comrades, keep it up, even if it does not meet with the approval of certain bourgeois who are every bit as stupid as they are harmful ...’ Maurice trailed off in disbelief.

  ‘This,’ spluttered Chinon in righteous indignation, ‘this is how the Party wants us to greet the invader!’