Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  Lily had emerged and tripped to the bar, collecting a round, mirrored tray, a bottle of champagne and as many glasses as she could carry. She stood back from the bar looking for a section of the crowd to assail. A voice at her shoulder arrested her search.

  ‘Good evening, Mademoiselle, my compliments on your show.’ Lily turned to see her suave businessman rescuer bowing slightly and beaming at her. He was dressed in a black evening suit, his blonde hair parted and his handsome face wearing a look of relaxed contentment. Lily was swept by a wave of pleasure that thrilled her and heightened her senses.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur,’ she exclaimed, ‘how delightful to see you here! Now I can repay you for rescuing me from that dreadful soldier. Will you have some champagne?’ The man assented with a gracious nod of his head and gestured towards Lily.

  ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle, and do please join me for a glass — if you are permitted, that is.’

  ‘But of course, my boss will think I am plying you with alcohol,’ she smiled coquettishly and winked, ‘so try to look as if you have been persuaded.’ They laughed together. ‘Are you here with friends, Monsieur ...,

  ‘Metzinger,’ he replied, ‘Bobby Metzinger,’ he paused at her look of bemusement. ‘My real name is Emil, but my friends call me Bobby.’

  ‘Lily Lestrange.’ They clinked glasses and sipped the chilled, heady elixir.

  ‘Yes, I am here with a party,’ Bobby told her, ‘they are sitting close to the stage on the left,’ he pointed to a raucous table of men on the other side of the theatre. ‘I see one of your friends is looking after them.’ Lily looked across to see the flame-haired Monique passing out bottles of champagne and cigars as the group roared its approval. ‘Bit noisy over there for me,’ mused Bobby, ‘I’m one for a cosy chat and a sip of bubbly. Cigarette?’

  ‘Ooh, thank you,’ Lily leaned slightly towards him as he lit her cigarette. She detected the merest hint of cologne before the more insistent fumes of the tobacco extinguished their fainter rival.

  ‘What is your line of business Monsieur ... Bobby?’ Lily abandoned her tray and any pretence of serving Le Prix’s patrons. Here was an opportunity not to be missed. She savoured the feel of Bobby’s name on her lips. That was a sensation she could happily become used to.

  ‘I’m an entrepreneur,’ he told her, ‘I work for a Swiss company which provides a range of goods for the German army and for French businesses.’

  ‘So you travel extensively?’

  ‘Yes, I live in Zurich and travel regularly to Germany and France. But I’m Swiss by birth if that’s what you’re wondering,’ he added, reading Lily’s face.

  ‘I thought you might have been German,’ confessed Lily, ‘particularly after the way that soldier looked at you that day at the checkpoint.’

  ‘I suspect the soldier thought I was a member of the secret police — driving a sinister black car certainly helps.’ Bobby laughed airily and Lily joined in, albeit with less gusto, recalling her own suspicion that had mirrored the soldier’s. Possession of a private car was a clear signal that its occupant held a particular position in the eyes of the regime.

  Bobby stayed for a second bottle of champagne before bowing courteously, kissing Lily’s hand and promising to return for another performance the following week. He sealed his promise with a soft press of her hand before melting through the smoky haze towards the foyer. Lily stood for a moment staring after him, her heart tripping happily only to be returned to reality by a husky voice that whispered conspiratorially as it passed.

  ‘Ver-ry nice, Lily-pilly, is he your new plaything?’ drawled Crecy, cigarette in one hand, portly, beaming patron in the other.

  ‘I hope so, dahling,’ crooned Lily, imitating Crecy’s drawl and wishing fervently that she could have held Bobby in one hand. She watched the curvaceous blonde singer as he worked his way through the thinning crowd, leading his genial patron along behind him. A lithe movement caught Lily’s eye as Sadie disappeared out the side door, off to meet her Jewish banker. Close behind her, Sabine chatted animatedly to a young blonde woman drifting away from the German officer to whom she was clearly meant to be attached. Sabine ran her fingers down the girl’s arm and they linked hands before slipping out the side door while the witless German remained deep in conversation with the other members of his party. Carin had spotted the now partnerless German officer and moved closer as if to fill the vacancy. Lily grinned to herself and shook her head over the antics of the showgirls. It was small wonder Monsieur Maurice contented himself with remaining studiously ignorant of their night lives.

  But for all their obvious indiscretions, many of the artistes were also soft-hearted. Not long after the surprise visit of the enormous black marketeer known simply as Napoleon, Madame Gloria had shared a glass of champagne with Crecy and spoken to him of the big man’s infatuation. Gloria had been a little nervous of raising the subject with Crecy whose sexuality was rampantly ambiguous and downright sinful to a woman of Gloria’s carefully Catholic background. But, beneath the voluminous chest and sashaying hips, she felt sure that there beat a good heart. And, she reminded herself, her Catholic upbringing told her that there would be far more rejoicing over the return of a sinner such as Crecy to the ranks of the good than over the continued faith of a colourless regular like Gloria herself. Thus it was that she found herself seated opposite the magnificent Crecy, his head a sea of platinum curlers under a rich red scarf and his enormous bosom tucked under a paisley housecoat as he described the tragic end to his latest love affair.

  ‘So, you see, Glory, he just wasn’t for me, far too young, far too dominated by his mother, and not enough appreciation of the needs of a girl.’ Crecy sipped delicately as Gloria nodded attentively. ‘In the end, that’s what I said to him, I did. “Romeo,” I told him, and in no uncertain terms, mind you, “it’s all self, self, self, with you, you just don’t know how good it could have been.”’ More frantic sips as Gloria murmured sympathetically and raised her own glass in unison.

  ‘Plenty more fish in the sea, dear,’ she counselled gently, wondering how to raise the subject of the love-struck Napoleon.

  ‘He was just too young, Glory,’ moaned Crecy, now dabbing daintily at a stray tear with a lacy handkerchief.

  ‘Perhaps you should consider a more mature gentleman next time,’ offered Gloria with a sudden ray of inspiration, ‘someone who would appreciate all your wonderful qualities and not just your ... er ... more obvious charms.’

  ‘Mmm, I know you’re right, dahling, but such gems are so hard to come by these days.’ The rollered head tilted to one side as Crecy sighed tragically.

  ‘Actually, dear ...’ began Gloria, still lost in the mire of tact and sensitivity, ‘there is someone I know who is a little more mature and who is quite ... er ... desperate to meet you ...’ Crecy’s eyes lit up and the handkerchief magically disappeared as he patted his platinum curlers absently.

  ‘Ooh Glory, you are a trick, who is he?’

  ‘Well, it’s a little difficult, dear, as he is married and I don’t think his wife would quite understand ...’

  ‘Ooh, how delicious, a clandestine affair!’ trilled Crecy. ‘I’m very good at keeping secrets, you know, and disguising myself on assignation,’ and he pulled out the lace handkerchief and draped it over the bright scarlet lips to resemble a veil, a look of mystery filling his eyes. Gloria laughed out loud, composing herself with difficulty as Crecy batted his false eyelashes furiously over the top of the lace veil.

  ‘Oh, no, dear, I don’t think he wants an affair, just a cosy chat every now and then,’ she hastened to add, alarmed at the trap that was being prepared for the unfortunate Napoleon. Crecy dropped the veil and sat back, still smiling coquettishly.

  ‘Shy type, is he Glory? Don’t you worry, my sweet, I can handle those bashful boys, you just leave it to me. Does he want to come to the club, or is that altogether too brazen for the poor lad?’

  ‘No, dear, he won’t come to the club, you see ...’ and Gl
oria pressed her finger to her lips and tiptoed to the door, opening it quickly to ensure that it hid no lurking listeners. She closed it quietly, testing it to ensure that it was securely latched and returned to the happily mystified Crecy.

  ‘He finds me things,’ she whispered, ‘things you can’t buy in shops ... do you know what I mean, dear?’

  ‘You mean ... from the black market?’ he hissed.

  ‘Sshhh, yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘Oh, Glory, that’s wonderful!’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m desperately short of a few essentials myself, you see. I just can’t find a lipstick to match my flaming red dress, the one I wear when I sing about the lonely soldier boy.’

  ‘Yes, dear, but I don’t know whether ...’ Gloria was not sure she wanted Napoleon to spend his time searching for Crecy’s lipsticks rather than finding meat and fresh vegetables for her tenants.

  ‘No matter, my love,’ Crecy dismissed Madame Gloria’s doubts with an elegant flutter of a red-nailed hand. ‘I’m still desperate to meet this fellow. He must be quite a devil to operate on the black market. Does he look terribly wicked ... face scarred ... dark hat pulled down over one side ... tattoos ... deep, masculine voice ...’ Gloria paused a moment as she considered. Napoleon really did not fit the mould of the archetypal black marketeer.

  ‘Best you see for yourself,’ she told him, patting the slender, bejewelled hand. ‘Next time he pops in, I’ll arrange for you to meet him here and you two can have a cosy chat.’ They downed the rest of the champagne and Gloria’s misgivings increased as she watched Crecy sashay happily out the door, checking saucily for eavesdroppers and tossing Gloria a conspiratorial wink as he closed the door and the clip-clops disappeared upstairs. She could not escape the feeling that she was preparing a veritable bear pit for Napoleon. She would have to counsel him carefully to resist Crecy’s charms at all costs.

  Sunday morning started slowly for Lily who shared a leisurely breakfast with Madame Gloria before returning to the sun-filled sitting area at the top of the stairs. There she found a bleary-eyed Poppy draped across a sofa nursing a half-empty bottle of cognac with which she clearly resolved to greet the day. Lily flopped next to her, melting in the warmth of the mid-morning sunlight and together they savoured their repose. Moments later, the staggering clip-clop of heels on the worn steps drew wry grins as the girls waited to see who would materialise from the shadows at the top of the staircase. The clip-clopping was erratic, the wearer of the heels obviously either still intoxicated or weary — or a heady combination of both. At last Sadie’s flossy blonde curls emerged as she reached the top of the stairs and heaved herself onto the landing. Her brown eyes alighted on the grinning duo who watched her and sparkled feverishly in return, their sparkle all the brighter for the tell-tale shadows of a late night. Sadie wore a dishevelled version of her previous night’s evening gown and greeted the girls with a sheepish grin as she fell onto the sofa in an attitude of sheer exhaustion.

  ‘Cognac!’ she slurred as her eyes fastened on the bottle on the table. ‘Just what I need, more cognac!’ Lily and Poppy giggled; Sadie was clearly still inebriated. Crecy, however, had emerged from his room just as Sadie staggered to the top of the stairs and now regarded the girl with mock horror.

  ‘You naughty girl!’ he rebuked her in outraged tones, ‘I swear you were wearing that dress when you went out last night.’

  ‘I was,’ giggled Sadie, ‘although I haven’t worn it much since.’ She laughed raucously, hiccupping as the cognac exerted its hold. She covered her mouth with both hands in coquettish modesty. ‘Oops, sorree girls ... where are my manners?’ The brown eyes sparkled again as she explained. ‘I can stay longer with Léon now ... he doesn’t have so much to do ‘cos the Germans said he couldn’t work in his bank.’ She stopped to absorb the quizzical looks of the girls. ‘He’s Jewish,’ she told them, ‘he’s not allowed to run a bank.’

  ‘Mon Dieu, Sadie, that’s awful ...’ began Lily.

  ‘Not really,’ continued Sadie absently, tossing her shoes off with an acrobatic flick of each foot, ‘cos he just made some god-fearing Christian the manager till the war’s over. It’s still his bank.’ She looked back at the girls who waited expectantly for further details. ‘And so now he can spend more time with me,’ she added brightly. Lily exchanged anxious glances with Poppy.

  ‘Do you think he’ll stay in Paris?’ Poppy asked tentatively.

  ‘Mmm, he says he will,’ came the answer, ‘and I told him to. As long as he’s here and not in the country with that good woman his wife, I’m happy.’ She grinned as if to reinforce the point while Lily and Poppy exchanged more concerned looks. Rumours of Jewish people being detained by the Germans were the talk of the ration queues and neither girl was willing to discount them at this stage.

  Ration queue gossip was just one outlet for the creeping fear that had begun to insinuate its way throughout the occupied city. The German census of October 1940 had focused the attention of every French man and woman in ZoneO on one priceless commodity: identity papers. In the early days of the occupation, the German masters of Paris had not been unduly concerned with the identities of their subjects, rather that they possessed a document of some description that would fulfil the German need for a bureaucratic solution to the question of identity. The October census, however, made it plain that records were being kept of nationalities, race, religion, occupation and place of residence. What use would be made of these records was not a question that could be answered with ease in the streets and cafés of Paris where most people simply attempted to subsist in relative peace. But the invader had already signalled that there would be little tolerance for those branded by the regime as alien or hostile. There were plenty of stories of the German secret police, known as the Gestapo, raiding the homes of those suspected of being hostile to the occupation and dragging them off to their sinister headquarters in the rue de Saussaies for lengthy interrogation. These people, so the rumours claimed, were tortured horribly and then either executed or deported to labour camps in Germany where they were worked to death. Needless to say, continued the terrified whispers, they were never seen again. Such rumours were sufficiently abhorrent to ensure that most ordinary Parisians vowed never to run the gauntlet of the feared Gestapo.

  For the dancers and artistes of Le Prix d’Amour, identity papers quickly became an overwhelming preoccupation. By now it was not simply a matter of possessing identity papers of some description, it now mattered a great deal to the Germans what sort of identity the papers proclaimed. Everyone wanted to be historically French and everyone wanted to be Catholic or Protestant. Rumours of the Nazi mistreatment of German and Austrian Jews became the whispered currency of the marketplaces and the bars, and Le Prix’s plush red bar was no exception. Monsieur Maurice had become particularly concerned that the members of his company were typically coy — some were downright secretive — on the vexed question of nationality and race. The German occupation had made this an issue that could no longer be avoided. While he had not policed the completion of the tiresome census documents and knew full well that most of his performers had not bothered to answer the pages of searching questions, the inevitable arrival of German soldiers demanding identity papers was another matter entirely.

  Thus it was that, spurred by rumours of an impending inspection, Monsieur Maurice walked purposefully into the practice room late one morning and spoke gravely to the nervous assembly.

  ‘You have no doubt heard that the Germans are making house calls all over Paris to check everyone’s identity papers. They will soon call on us and you will each need to provide your papers.’ He noted the shuffling of feet and sideways glances, the tacit signal that not all the members of his company were pleased with this development. Maurice felt a surge of anxiety.

  ‘You must all have valid identity papers,’ he told them severely, looking searchingly at the distressed faces, ‘or the Germans could make trouble for us.’
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  ‘Will Madame be safe?’ asked Monique, her green eyes wide with concern. For the dancers, Madame Claudette was a figure of reverence. Madame was Russian and anyone not possessed of a lengthy French pedigree was entitled to feel nervous as checkpoints now dotted the city manned by brusque German soldiers, most of whom spoke atrocious French and were inclined to detain their hapless victims on the least whim — as Lily had discovered.

  ‘Germany and Russia have a pact,’ replied Monsieur Maurice, ‘so we believe that Madame is safe for the present. But it would be unwise to allow the Germans any excuse to detain you, so please ensure that your papers are in order.’ Maurice had an underlying motive for his plea. As manager of Le Prix, he knew he would be held responsible for his performers and other staff. He had no intention of joining the steadily increasing numbers of Frenchmen deported to labour camps in Germany on the merest pretext.

  Lily was among the few who had foreseen the need for papers which would proclaim a French pedigree. After her first few weeks of dancing at Le Troc in Marseilles she had decided that she liked living in France, she liked the French people, their food and their consummate ability to party nonpareil. In fact, Lily decided that she would like to stay in France as long as the fancy took her. To that end she had cultivated a plump French official who could, or so he assured her, speed the process of having her naturalised and rid her of the need to renew her residency papers on a frustratingly regular basis. Lily’s official was as good as his word and, in return for a few evenings that featured copious quantities of champagne and rather less titillation than he had imagined, Lily found herself in possession of some irredeemably French papers that proclaimed her a naturalised French citizen of the Roman Catholic religion and resident in Marseilles. At that stage she had little idea how grateful she would be for her prescience as papers became the currency of choice under vastly different circumstances.