Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  The discussion ended as Madame Fresange resolved to hunt down Napoleon and engage his services to procure coffee, sugar, milk and many of the other items that had simply disappeared from the shops of Paris. Bread and meat could still be purchased with ration tickets, but in quantities so paltry that Madame Gloria was hard pressed to feed her tenants for three days, let alone the week the rations were supposed to last. The plump little landlady heaved an enormous sigh. She felt so alone without her beloved Hubert, so helpless and lost. She suppressed a feeling of indignation that he had been sufficiently careless to have himself killed. What was he thinking? Had he not realised how lost she would be without him? She sighed again and chided herself for such unworthy thoughts. Of course Hubert had not intended to be killed. He had thought only to do his duty for his country and then return to do his duty for his wife. Duty. Duty! Such an overrated virtue, she thought, and so futile in the face of the onslaught of the German army. For all poor Hubert’s misguided devotion to duty, the Germans had still invaded and enslaved his country. He might as well have stayed at home. She sniffed into a pretty pink lace handkerchief and heaved a final sigh before castigating herself for her weakness. All this ruminating and hand-wringing would not put food on the table. She scribbled a message to her daughter, Bertrille, in the countryside asking for fruit and vegetables and any other foodstuffs that could be sent into ZoneO and reached for her scarf. She would walk the two blocks to her friend Madame Lotbinière and ask if her son would cycle to her daughter with the message. At this early stage of the occupation it was still possible for children on bicycles to cross between the two zones with relative ease and Madame Gloria knew her daughter would help. There would also be some vegetables for young Jules Lotbinière if he completed his mission and she smiled as she imagined her friend’s pleasure at the sight of a tomato, a potato or onion. Yes, even the humble onion was elevated to the status of one of Atlanta’s golden apples by the crushing food shortage in Paris.

  Madame Fresange’s Napoleon proved a boon for the two landladies. His prices were steep, but he was also prepared to barter bottles from Le Prix’s generously stocked bar and some of the country produce that arrived from Madame Gloria’s daughter Bertrille. Occasionally there were surprising additions to the pantry. A sack of flour appeared on the kitchen table and three potatoes somehow found their way into Madame Gloria’s salon. Madame herself accepted such anonymous gifts with silent thanks and no questions as to their origins lest she frighten the anonymous benefactor and cause the heavenly gifts to disappear.

  Madame Gloria had never met Napoleon and, given her warm but timorous nature, had never ventured to seek him out. All her transactions took place through Madame Fresange who, as Madame Gloria quickly realised, skimmed off a little commission for each delivery. Swallowing her irritation, Madame Gloria decided that the arrangement worked so well that she would allow her go-between to keep her little commission. After all, Gloria herself had not been forced to deal with unsavoury characters or run the gauntlet of the police or the Germans. And that was the way she planned to keep it.

  Late one afternoon, however, this cosy situation changed as an enormous, hairy man, unshaven and swarthy, stamped his way through her front door lugging a battered suitcase, a sweaty odour clinging to him and insinuating its way into Madame Gloria’s spotless and fragrant kitchen. The landlady was immediately terrified and clutched nervously at the folds of her apron as if the man would leap at her and throttle her.

  ‘Evening,’ he roared, grasping the beret from his head and opening his enormous mouth in a gaping grin as he slammed the case on the table. ‘Thought you might be interested in something — know what I mean?’ His grin broadening further, he unlocked the case to reveal a piglet carcase, its mournful eyes locking with Gloria’s in a brief moment of mute, pointless appeal.

  ‘I ... well ...’ Gloria was flustered. Clearly this was the mysterious Napoleon who she had never thought she would meet, let alone be assailed by in her own kitchen with a contraband pig and without the hawkish Madame Fresange to insist on her commission. But visions of roasted piglet quickly prompted a recovery of her senses.

  ‘Monsieur, I would love some!’ she replied, her look of terror reshaping itself into something that approximated a beam. The man’s enormous grin never left his face.

  ‘I thought you and me might share it,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘poor old Gaston’s missis can be a bit tough, know what I mean?’ He winked at her and she nodded, her face relaxing and her smile broadening visibly. ‘Reckon poor old Gaston might have been nagged to an early grave, know what I mean?’ Madame Gloria laughed out loud.

  ‘I know precisely what you mean,’ she replied with a wink of her own. ‘Now,’ she eyed him with what she hoped was a steely look and adopted her version of a businesslike tone, ‘what can I give you in exchange for a portion of this? A bottle of brandy ... some cigarettes ... perhaps some fabric for your wife?’ Napoleon eyed the piglet.

  ‘Ah oui, Madame, brandy and cigarettes would be most welcome, but there is something else ...’ he stopped and blushed, his grin now an embarrassed schoolboy smirk on his oversized face. Madame Gloria reached and patted his giant paw before walking over to check that there were no eavesdroppers lurking in the hallway and that the door was firmly latched.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she asked, smiling softly. He looked across at her shyly.

  ‘There is someone I would like to meet.’ Madame Gloria breathed a small sigh of relief. Brandy and cigarettes she could secure from Monsieur Maurice without too much difficulty, but meeting one of the showgirls and artistes was all too easy. Again she patted the giant paw.

  ‘Of course, Monsieur, I can arrange this for you.’ The big face looked into hers with the joy of schoolboy hope. ‘Who is it you would like to meet?’

  ‘The blonde lady with the beautiful golden hair and the soft voice who sings at the cabaret.’ Gloria was stunned into momentary silence. The faces of her dancers and performers tripped through her mind until one stuck and refused to budge: Crecy.

  ‘Mademoiselle Crecy Duplessis?’ she whispered, half hoping that she had guessed incorrectly. But the big man nodded.

  ‘Yes, that is her ... I just want to meet her,’ he added hastily, ‘I am a married man and would never ...’ he blushed again, the red rash enveloping his huge face. ‘But I have long worshipped Mademoiselle Crecy — she is the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on.’ And his eyes shone as he described the candle he held for Crecy. Madame Gloria was at once horrified and relieved. If the price of the piglet involved a meeting with Crecy, then it was one she could easily pay. But she hoped that the ardent admirer had spoken truly when he told her he was interested in a meeting only. Otherwise he would be in for something of a shock ...

  As Madame Gloria stood in her kitchen administering advice to the love-stricken Napoleon, she had little idea that someone else had entered her apartment unseen, slipping through the door in the wake of the enormous black marketeer. This man was tall and thin and his angular face provided a sallow backdrop to a prominent, beak-like nose, a thin, pencil-line moustache and a pair of piercing blue eyes. Paul Colbert was a fellow racketeer, but possessed nothing of Napoleon’s roguish sense of honour and loyalty to his customers. Colbert was hungry for the spoils of good living: money, a lavish lifestyle and pretty girls. He had loitered in the red velvet foyer and gazed on the glitzy posters with their tantalising promise and had surmised correctly that Madame Gloria’s apartment boarding house was home to a number of the showgirls from Le Prix. He had seen Napoleon’s truck pull up and had seized this opportunity to meet them.

  Colbert was in luck. Rehearsals had finished for the day, and the girls were enjoying an evening off. Several of the dancers who resided in the apartment were sprawled languidly in the first floor sitting area sharing a bottle of cognac, the gift of a German admirer. They lounged half-in, half-out of the comfortable sofas and soft chairs, some draped over others and all wearing an air o
f relaxed contentment. Their show was a success and they were enjoying the considerable spoils of that success, most notably that they were frequently showered with the sort of gifts that even the black market could not provide without a king’s ransom in exchange. They chatted gaily, laughing at the showtime antics of Chinon who managed to disguise his insults to the German audience so adeptly that even Monsieur Maurice, who was alert to his tricks, failed to notice. They tittered at the number of high-ranking German officers who bought drinks for Crecy and whispered pretty compliments without realising what lay behind that seductive faςade. They marvelled at how smoothly Coco had adapted to the new regime, adding German officers to her clientele without skipping a beat. Only Sabine, for whom handsome young men provided no temptation whatsoever, felt any measure of discontent. Bored with the constant reference to the charms of the male patrons and determined to seek solace in the soft, white arms of her latest love, she rose gracefully and sauntered to her room to add a splash of lipstick and venture out.

  The door had barely closed behind Sabine’s retreating form when her seat was suddenly occupied by an unfamiliar figure who had crept noiselessly up the stairs without alerting the girls to his presence.

  ‘Allo ladies!’ greeted the raffish Colbert as he slumped into the armchair, his hat firmly in place and his attitude immediately that of careless familiarity. His shocked audience regarded him with eyes wide. Colbert smiled a narrow, crooked smile that bent his lips without adding warmth to his face. He studied the girls appreciatively for a brief moment as they took in his dark pinstriped suit, bright red tie and matching pocket handkerchief before he reached happily for the bottle of cognac that took centre place on the table, pouring himself a generous dash in Sabine’s glass. This was enough to wrench the girls from their stupor.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Leave our cognac alone!’

  ‘Who invited you to have a drink?’ Colbert was spectacularly unmoved by the chorus of protests and, without a word, moved to drink the tumbler of golden liquid. This was too much for Lily who rose to her feet and relieved him of the glass in one fluid movement.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he responded with mock disappointment, ‘now that wasn’t very friendly. What a shame when I’ve come to tell you girls what I can do for you. Dear, dear me, we ’ave got off on the wrong foot, ’aven’t we now?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ responded Lily, mimicking his tone with a sardonic look, ‘what a shame ... ’specially since there is something you can do for us.’ The cocky racketeer was bemused but hid it successfully.

  ‘And what would that be, sweetheart?’

  ‘You can get the hell out of here before I call the police. And I’m not your sweetheart!’

  ‘Temper, temper,’ he chided, still firmly ensconced in the armchair, ‘you won’t be so keen to be rid of me when you hear what I can do for you.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it!’ now Poppy was on her feet as well, the precious bottle of cognac in her hand, as she stood defiantly in front of Colbert. Chloe was also out of her chair and moving towards the top of the stairs.

  ‘I’ll fetch the police,’ she told him, ‘or the Germans if I happen to see them first.’

  ‘No problem, love,’ called Colbert airily, ‘I work just as well with either.’

  ‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself!’ shot Lily acidly, ‘What sort of man are you?’ By now Colbert had sensed that his mission was lost. He rose to his feet and faced his hostile audience, his crooked smile turning slightly more angular with the hint of a sneer.

  ‘You girls are going to be very sorry you weren’t a bit friendlier,’ he told them in his nasal tones, ‘very sorry indeed. Life can be very hard for them that don’t know the right sort of people, you mark my words.’ He tapped his nose and shook his head sadly.

  ‘You’re definitely not the right sort,’ retorted Lily sharply, ‘now scram!’ Colbert flung them one last look of disappointment and loped down the stairs, banging the door behind him, drawing a startled exclamation from Madame Gloria who had poked her head out of the kitchen door to check on the disturbance.

  The girls returned to their sofas and lounges and the cognac was replaced, but their previous air of contentment had been dispelled.

  ‘What an odious man,’ shivered Chloe as if Colbert’s very presence had lowered the temperature of the room several degrees. ‘He didn’t even take off his hat,’ she muttered indignantly at this added affront.

  ‘He looked like one of those vile black market types — I hope he isn’t pushing Madame Gloria around,’ muttered Poppy.

  ‘He wasn’t local,’ mused Lily, ‘his accent was awful.’

  ‘Maybe he’s from Corsica — they murder the language dreadfully.’

  ‘Or he could be a Breton — I knew one who was almost unintelligible.’

  But Lily was unconvinced. Something stirred in the depths of her memory. Something about the way the man spoke had sounded a chord deep in her subconscious. She concentrated hard for a few minutes before shaking her tousled head in frustration. Never mind, it would come.

  Come, it did. Days later, as Lily waited in the wings at Le Prix for the showgirls’ cue to dance onto the stage, she listened to Chinon’s latest repertoire of vulgar jokes.

  ‘Where does he get these?’ she asked Poppy, shaking her head as the crowd roared its approval. Poppy shrugged.

  ‘Beats me,’ she replied, ‘although I know for a fact that he has a mate in vaudeville in London who used to swap jokes with him. I suppose that’s all stopped now ...’ she trailed off as she watched Lily’s face change. ‘Lil? What’s up?’ Lily was staring at her, her face a picture of revelation. Vaudeville ... jokes ... Frank ... Frank Hall ... Frank Hall ... that was it. Lily gasped as she realised. The man with the atrocious French accent who had burst in on them sounded just like Frank Hall when he had tried his hand at a French joke. But Frank Hall was a London cockney who had worked with Lily in Marseilles ... Lily’s head was still spinning as she tumbled onto the stage in a flurry of sequined skirts and the thunderous applause that greeted the cancan to the exuberant strains of Offenbach’s La Vie Parisienne.

  Chapter 12

  The delicate question of identity

  By October 1940 autumn leaves carpeted the pavements of the city and the last of the late summer warmth had been unceremoniously dispelled by the knife-edged wind that howled and tore at the corners of the buildings. The German sentries in their pillboxes in the centre of the city pulled their coats closer and stamped their feet as if to ward off the encroaching winter. Inside the requisitioned hotels and grand buildings they guarded, the lives of the French in the Occupied Zone were being reshaped. Along with the chill wind and its portent of the savage winter to come, a decree was issued which required the taking of a census of all the inhabitants of ZoneO which would describe their race and religion. For the Jews of Paris, it was the beginning of a nightmare.

  For Le Prix, the census meant that Monsieur Maurice had to ask for personal particulars from each of the members of his little company. Monsieur Maurice was a man imbued with tact and sensitivity and he found this duty particularly offensive and difficult to discharge. He agonised for days, aware that the forms were to be returned to the German collector within one week. In the end he passed the census forms to his performers and asked merely that they complete and return the little questionnaires to him, advising them that these would eventually end up in the hands of the Germans and their French bureaucratic collaborators. What the Germans would do with the information he could only guess. By the end of the week as the deadline approached, Maurice had received only a handful of forms. He shrugged as he set off to deliver them as requested. After all, the bureaucrats had no idea how many staff Maurice employed and he was not prepared to assist the process of their collaboration.

  Lily was troubled by the return of her lost memory with its compelling argument that the odious visitor of the previous week was an Englishman. She knew there were plenty of British
soldiers in France, most the remnants of the army that had fought alongside the French to stem the German invasion only to be tossed into the sea at Dunkirk. Ever since, little groups of British soldiers and the occasional lone individual had made their way south through a series of safe houses in a desperate attempt to outwit the Germans and find a way home. Their ranks had been swelled by downed British pilots from the RAF who fought airborne duels high above the French countryside, the luckier losers falling to earth under blossoming canopies. But Lily was convinced that the unpleasant visitor was no lost soldier, no heroic downed airman. To her he resembled a quasi-underworld figure — a racketeer or a petty criminal. His lack of the most rudimentary manners and his smug cockiness sealed her conviction. But this conviction only raised more questions in Lily’s mind. Why had the Germans not detained him, since he was so obviously not French? Was he, in fact, working for the occupiers? This horrific realisation hardened Lily’s resolve to be very wary of any further visits from this loathsome man.

  Disturbed as she was by any thought of the unwelcome visitor, Lily found she had little time to dwell on the mystery man. The success of Le Prix had seen the Military Governor grant Monsieur Maurice an additional opening night per week. The cabaret now opened its doors four nights a week — from Wednesday through to the early hours of Sunday when the performers sank gratefully into their beds and slept late into the day. Lily was distracted also by the appearance of the handsome businessman who had rescued her from the German checkpoint as she returned from a trip into the city to buy fish. The businessman had appeared two weeks later, just as Lily had begun to despair of seeing him again. It was Saturday night and the last show of the week had ended as it always did with a dazzling showgirl tableau and a spectacular diving entry from Chinon who cartwheeled his way onto the stage, doffed his top hat and invited the audience to stay and ‘drink the night away’. The plush, red velvet curtains had fallen and the showgirls slipped away to change into their shimmering hostess gowns while Chinon trudged off to drink himself into oblivion and indulge in a drunken patriotic lament.