Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  The end of the summer weather saw the gathering of the last crop of vegetables as the tenants celebrated their own version of harvest day. The girls snipped and picked, Alain, Guy and Orlando dug and carted, while Hiram and André carefully packed as all the produce was transferred to its winter quarters inside the building. Cupboards, cellars, nooks and crannies throughout the apartment now held their own little stores of edibles. Madame Gloria clapped her hands with delight and opened bottles of hoarded champagne to celebrate the gathering of the harvest. She clinked glasses with Alain and Guy as the head gardeners toasted the success of the season and offered a silent prayer for their survival over the winter months. Napoleon made a brief but dramatic appearance sporting a pig’s head he had exchanged for several rabbit pelts. The black market continued to thrive and Madame Gloria felt almost foolishly optimistic that she and her tenants could weather the coming storm.

  Madame Claudette and Monsieur Maurice had also joined the harvest celebration, toasting the success of Madame Gloria’s enterprise with tiny glasses of champagne. Maurice was delighted at the way his company was working together despite the artistic egos that he knew lay barely suppressed beneath the jovial smiles. Having clinked glasses with Madame Gloria, Guy, Alain and Orlando several times, Maurice made a beeline for Napoleon. He drew the big man aside, out of earshot of the festivities.

  ‘Monsieur Napoleon,’ he whispered, ‘can you obtain medicines for me?’ Napoleon knitted his brows thoughtfully.

  ‘It is difficult,’ he replied, rubbing his bristly chin, ‘but it can be done. It will be expensive, know what I mean?’ Maurice nodded.

  ‘Of course, Monsieur, I do know what you mean. I have no need at present, but my wife’s health suffers in the winter and there are some medicines that the doctor cannot find for me.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ assured his hirsute companion amiably, ‘for the right price, there is little I cannot do.’ He winked and returned to the gathering as Monsieur Maurice regarded him with a sad smile. He had long since realised that his natural honesty had no place in the strictured lifestyle of the occupation. Instead it had been replaced by resourcefulness and opportunism and Maurice only hoped that the eventual return to normality would not prove too great a challenge.

  The winter of 1941 began badly with lashing rain and fierce storms. The stockpiled coal made its appearance in early November, disappointing Maurice who had hoped to hold out for another month. Now he could only pray that this bitter winter would be mercifully short. Only then could he make his meagre rations last. The Governor had been generous, but Le Prix’s antiquated heating system seemed to chew through coal at an alarming rate. Monsieur Maurice instructed the girls to wear extra clothing and resisted the urge to turn up the heating. He watched Madame Claudette carefully for signs of the debilitating cough that had plagued her last winter and prayed that this time her reserves of strength would hold out.

  At the end of another rehearsal in which Madame Claudette had barked at her dancers from a cushioned chair, swathed in rugs and assisted at every turn by Mademoiselle Gris, Maurice had sent his exhausted wife off for an afternoon nap while he prepared to join Madame Lucille and Alain at the bar for a discussion of the alcoholic requirements of the New Year’s festivities. Maurice, like many a patriotic Frenchman, was quietly dismayed to find his country still occupied at the end of another year, but he planned to celebrate in any case, hopeful that he would be heralding the eventual return to French sovereignty rather than another year under the heel of the conqueror.

  As Maurice turned towards the front of the theatre, a small figure emerged from the shadows. It was Cabot, the wizened janitor whose duties also extended to manning the front door while Le Prix was closed, and receiving any visitors who appeared in the plush foyer. The little janitor motioned Maurice to follow him.

  ‘Monsieur, you have a visitor.’

  ‘Who is it, Cabot?’ The janitor shook his head.

  ‘He did not say.’ Maurice felt a cold chill grip his heart — was this the Gestapo calling to arrest him or a member of his company for some misdemeanour?

  ‘Is he ... German?’

  ‘I know not, Monsieur, but he was not wearing uniform and he did not seem ... Germanic.’ Maurice recognised this as Cabot’s method of commenting on the visitor’s manners. Clearly he had been less brusque with the janitor than was the custom of members of the occupying forces. This was a good sign: the Gestapo was the last word in brusqueness.

  They neared the foyer and the janitor melted into the shadows leaving Maurice to make his way towards the unknown visitor. He stepped into the late afternoon gloominess and saw immediately that the man was well dressed and vaguely familiar. Maurice realised with a flash of recognition that he was one of Le Prix’s regulars who chatted happily to the girls and drank champagne well into the night. He noted also that the man was not alone and that a slight figure hung back as if to remain obscured by the other. Maurice approached the man with his hand extended.

  ‘Monsieur Metzinger, is it not?’ Bobby Metzinger took the proffered hand and shook it firmly, a smile lighting the boyish face.

  ‘Monsieur Maurice, please forgive this intrusion. I wonder if I might take a few minutes of your time?’

  ‘But of course, Monsieur.’

  Maurice guided Metzinger towards the bar and the younger man motioned to his shadow to follow. The wraith-like figure took a few steps towards them, the face shadowed and the eyes remaining firmly downcast. They sat around a table while Lucille brought a bottle of wine and glasses. Metzinger’s eyes followed her as she retreated and Maurice understood.

  ‘Lucille, please check on Madame for me, if you would be so kind.’ Lucille nodded and withdrew, leaving the little party to its discussion.

  ‘Monsieur Maurice,’ began Metzinger, ‘may I present Mademoiselle Lena Varigny.’ Maurice turned towards the slight form hunched over a glass of wine as if to physically absorb its contents. He realised immediately that the figure he had initially taken to be a young man was a thin, pale girl wrapped in an enormous woollen coat that almost completely enshrouded her face. Maurice bowed slightly.

  ‘Mademoiselle, I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’

  He turned back to Metzinger waiting expectantly for an explanation and wondering whether this young woman was a dancer who needed a position, perhaps a relative — more likely his mistress — who had lost her job in another cabaret and had sought the assistance of her lover in securing her livelihood. If that was the case, Maurice steeled himself to refuse her. He was already bowed under the weight of responsibility for those he employed and another mouth to feed was hardly an enticing prospect. He studied the huddled figure before him. She was painfully thin — too thin to be a dancer, or to have danced recently. Her face was completely dominated by large, brown, dewy eyes and a full red mouth. Her long hair hung loose in dark brown strands and she bore the appearance of an abandoned waif, coughed up by the cheerless city and ready to be taken in by whichever charity would cast her a line. Bobby Metzinger followed his eyes.

  ‘Mademoiselle Varigny is an artist’s model. She is in need of lodgings and someone to look after her. I thought perhaps that you might be able to help. You would be compensated, of course.’

  ‘An artist’s model?’ Maurice had not expected this. ‘But why ...’

  ‘Mademoiselle Varigny is the favoured model of a number of renowned artists whose work is important to the government. I am sure you have heard of Aristide Maillol, Henri Matisse ... Pierre Bonnard ... ?’ Maurice nodded courteously, interrogating his mind which obstinately refused to acknowledge any of the obviously famous artists Metzinger had mentioned.

  ‘Er ... yes, of course, Monsieur.’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ continued the businessman, absently fingering the cuff of his starched white shirt, ‘with the shortages of coal and fuel throughout the winter, artists are, alas, no longer hiring nude models and are, instead, painting bowls of fruit.’ He shrugged his shoulders in
incomprehension that Mademoiselle Varigny’s waif-like form should have been replaced by the sinuous curves of apples and pears. ‘It has also been difficult for Mademoiselle since she was liberated from Fresnes —’ Maurice started at the name of the infamous French prison.

  ‘Fresnes, Monsieur?’ That explained the girl’s emaciated appearance and deathly pallor. But ‘liberated’? Metzinger smiled slightly.

  ‘Forgive me, Monsieur, I should have explained. Mademoiselle was detained at Fresnes for some ... political indiscretions.’ His smile was calm, reassuring, as if most of the population of Paris spent periods in Fresnes at some time or another. Maurice marvelled at the younger man’s diplomacy.

  ‘So, you see, Mademoiselle Varigny has been unable to continue her work as an artist’s model, at least until the warmer weather returns, and so she will be performing some ... secretarial tasks ... for me.’ He paused to sip his wine, as if to slow the pace of the conversation and endow it with some normality.

  ‘As a consequence, I am looking for somewhere for Mademoiselle to live ... a place where she will be looked after, where she can enjoy the company of other young ladies and where she can recover her health. Her wellbeing is very important to the artistic community whose work is essential to the maintenance of the morale of the population.’

  Maurice was confused. He could not decide whether Lena Varigny was an informer who was being foisted on him so as to trap him dealing with the black market or a hapless innocent who was being lodged with him so that he would feel duty bound to keep an eye on her. He wondered at the precise nature of her ‘political indiscretions’. He had heard of people being arrested for deliberately coughing loudly throughout newsreels of Hitler’s speeches — was this a political indiscretion? Would he be expected to report Mademoiselle Varigny should she cough inappropriately? Monsieur Maurice smoothed back his hair as his mind whirled. He could not escape the feeling that what Bobby Metzinger had delivered with a soft smile and impeccable courtesy was an order rather than a request. He had never been able to work out where Metzinger sat in the occupation hierarchy. Apparently he was a Swiss businessman who worked with the Germans — or did he work for the Germans? Surely it was the Propaganda Staffel that had put him up to this — or was it the Gestapo? Maurice felt the weight of the silence grow. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say something — anything — in response.

  ‘Monsieur,’ Metzinger had clearly noticed his discomfort. ‘May I assure you that there is nothing that should alarm you about this request.’ The smile had disappeared and had been replaced by a look of deep earnestness. Maurice began to feel more reassured. Perhaps Lena Varigny was his mistress after all.

  ‘Mademoiselle is simply in need of looking after and I thought that perhaps your estimable landlady Madame Gloria might be prevailed upon to assist. Have I perhaps been a little presumptuous?’

  ‘Oh no, Monsieur,’ replied Maurice hastily, ‘I am sure you can count on Madame to help Mademoiselle Varigny.’ Metzinger’s smile returned and his handsome face relaxed.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ he beamed, ‘and, in return, I will ensure that your supplies of coal, wine and perhaps a few other necessities continue to meet your needs.’ Maurice now beamed too. Suddenly he felt as if the mysterious waif had in fact solved some of his more pressing problems rather than added to his burden. Nonetheless, he resolved to quietly warn Madame Gloria and some of the girls to exercise caution in what they said around the new resident ... just in case.

  The decision made and Lena Varigny’s fate assured, Bobby Metzinger rose to take his leave. Maurice escorted him towards the foyer exchanging pleasantries, the gaunt artist’s model trailing in his wake. A gaggle of showgirls overtook them as they made their way to the front doors of the cabaret, chattering and giggling as they headed out to a show at the picture theatre. They greeted Monsieur Maurice with cheery helloes and chirruped at Bobby Metzinger, a regular at Le Prix, with similar warmth. Lily was last through the door and saw Lena Varigny take Metzinger’s arm and whisper her farewells. Lily paused. No wonder she had made no headway in her romance with Bobby Metzinger. Obviously this girl was his current lover. He smiled and waved at Lily. She waved back gaily and ploughed on after the other girls, wondering idly when Bobby would have thought to tell her about his mistress. Now, of course, she could not have cared less. She had Guy.

  Monsieur Maurice’s anxiety over the mysterious Mademoiselle Varigny soon dissipated. She left the house early while its occupants were still asleep and usually returned in the evening after they had left for the theatre. The only person she encountered on a regular basis was Madame Gloria who made it her business to become acquainted with every one of her tenants as a matter of course. She was keen to discuss the new resident with Monsieur Maurice, but it was some weeks before she finally found an opportunity. Maurice had left Madame Claudette drilling the girls from her cosy chair with rather less than her usual sharpness and had strolled over to Madame Gloria’s kitchen to see how she was coping. While he never doubted her ability to manage, he was conscious of the fact that she was widowed and could still be feeling a little lost in the absence of her husband, the redoubtable Hubert. Maurice knocked lightly and stepped inside, responding to the landlady’s soft call. Gloria was pleased to see him and offered him a glass of the colossally potent mulberry wine a neighbour’s lad had swapped for some German cigarettes and which Madame Gloria had vowed to brew for her tenants, having almost exhausted her hoard of champagne. A few sips later, rosy and fortified, she was ready to broach the subject of the artist’s model.

  ‘Mademoiselle Varigny is settling well, I think,’ she began lightly. Maurice slapped his hand to his forehead. Madame Gloria was the one person to whom he had forgotten to mention his doubts over the allegiances of Lena Varigny.

  ‘Ah, forgive me Madame, I meant to speak to you of Mademoiselle Varigny ... is she ... that is ...’ Maurice trailed off in confusion as Madame Gloria motioned him to silence and crept to the door to check whether anyone was within earshot. Satisfied that the passageway was deserted, she latched the door and crept back to the mystified Maurice. She sat opposite him with a steely glint in her eye and lowered her voice conspiratorially.

  ‘Did you know she is a resister?’ she hissed. Maurice was thunderstruck.

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Oh yes, Monsieur,’ she whispered adamantly as she reached for a white lace handkerchief, ‘poor child, how she has suffered!’ She stopped to dab a few tears that threatened to spill over. Maurice was intrigued but cautious. Resistance links would explain Lena Varigny’s stay in Fresnes, but not her delivery to Maurice’s door by a man he considered a collaborator of the first order.

  ‘She told me,’ continued Madame Gloria in between tiny sobs, ‘that she used to guide Jewish refugees across the Pyrenees into Spain where they would be safe from the Germans.’ There was much that Maurice was prepared to believe in wartime Paris, but the image of the fragile Lena tramping over the craggy slopes of the Pyrenees herding groups of frightened refugees simply would not sit comfortably.

  ‘And then she was caught ... someone informed of course ... and they took her to Fresnes where they treated her terribly.’ Madame Gloria stopped to take a fortifying gulp of the mulberry wine and sniff delicately into her lace handkerchief.

  ‘She was there for six months, Monsieur, can you imagine that? Six months!’ And Madame Gloria’s sobs increased in strength while Monsieur Maurice patted her hand as he struggled to make sense of her tale. As she recovered her composure, he spoke gently, patting her hand again as he murmured reassuringly.

  ‘My dear Madame, she must be made of stern stuff — as you see she has survived, more or less intact.’ Gloria nodded, returning to her wine, alternately sipping and dabbing with her overworked handkerchief.

  ‘How dreadful that she was betrayed,’ she murmured sadly, ‘what have we come to that we should betray one another to a common enemy?’

  What indeed, wondered Maurice as he t
urned the story over in his mind. Nonetheless, there was plenty about this tale that simply did not ring true. And this did not solve the mystery of precisely where Mademoiselle Varigny disappeared to each day, particularly as Maurice was certain that resisters were less likely to be active during the hours of daylight. No, there was far more to this young woman than either she or Bobby Metzinger had been prepared to divulge. Maurice sighed heavily and raised his eyes to the Almighty. He did not need another mysterious charge to add to his brood, particularly as a large portion of the occupying army shuffled through his doors several nights a week.

  Chapter 22

  A powerful ally

  It had been a sparkling night. The grey November chill that had settled so quickly over the occupied city had prompted Maurice to redesign the program, adding two seductive numbers that drew selected members of the audience onto the stage where they joined the girls in a titillating dance. The delighted audience had roared with laughter, the uniformed men and their besuited fellows stamping their feet, hooting, catcalling and clapping hard. Maurice was elated. He dared not add another cancan or any other routine that was similarly exhausting as he was conscious that his girls were enjoying a diet that was less than ideal for such strenuous activity. Now he felt that he had bought some time and moved among his patrons with his customary graciousness, shaking a hand here, pouring a glass of cognac there, and playing the doting host with consummate skill. His company had survived its first year of occupation and was now well into its second and Maurice was determined that Le Prix would continue to weather the German storm.