‘Is she Jewish?’ she whispered.
‘No,’ he was definite this time, his face losing some of its joviality. Lily felt he deserved an explanation.
‘Bobby, I wouldn’t ask, but someone has accused us of hiding Jews.’
‘Are you?’
‘Of course not!’ Lily was horrified at the ease with which he asked the sort of question that could see them all tossed into a cell in the rue de Saussaies. ‘Well, at least I don’t think we are ... but we don’t know anything about Lena ..’
‘And you thought it might be her.’ Lily was beginning to feel ashamed.
‘Yes,’ she replied in a small voice. He studied her for a moment, his handsome face serious.
‘Lily, I would never expose you to that degree of risk,’ he told her earnestly. Lily felt relief wash over her. She had not realised how fast her heart had been beating. Bobby continued to study her carefully.
‘So who made this accusation?’
‘Oh, just some undesirable who is hanging around one of the girls.’ Lily gulped her champagne, trying to escape the feeling that she was being interrogated. ‘I think he was just trying to frighten me.’ Bobby placed his hand on hers in a gesture of reassurance.
‘If he threatens you again, you will tell me, won’t you?’ Lily nodded as he passed her a card. ‘This is my direct telephone number. And if you need to contact me quickly at night, Lena always knows where to find me.’ Lily smiled at him, her relief palpable. She was convinced she had just won herself a very powerful ally.
Chapter 23
Yellow stars fading
The arrival of the warmer weather brought the sensuality of summer and a lightening of the tensions that seemed to thicken with winter, casting a gloomy pall over the city. Rehearsals at Le Prix were once again lively and raucous, the girls bright, loudly effervescent and clearly revelling in the warmth of the new season. Their raucousness was tamed only by raps from Madame Claudette’s stick, newly acquired to assist her up the stairs and for which she had now discovered an additional use. Madame Claudette’s health had remained fragile throughout the winter months, and this had again been a merciless winter, its passing celebrated with genuine joy. Monsieur Maurice’s friend, Dr Paul Reynard, had kept a close eye on Madame’s health and the resourceful Napoleon assisted him by maintaining a supply of essential medicine. Maurice was not sure how long this tenuous arrangement would last, but was grateful for every week that passed without the severing of the crucial lifeline.
The show was likewise reinvigorated by the warmer weather, the performers exuding a light-heartedness that belied the darkness of the times. The glitzy, bespangled showgirls kicked and cartwheeled, frisked and frolicked, the glittering singers crooned and trilled in turn and Orlando and Coco infused their acts with increased verve and sassiness. Crecy wooed the homesick German audience with his husky ‘Lili Marlène’, reducing his listeners to a hushed silence as the last strains of the melody drifted away into the night before a roar of approval almost brought the house down. Le Prix’s patrons greeted each performance with pure elation, stamping and catcalling their delight and applauding more boisterously than usual, infected with the gaiety and joie de vivre of the dancers and artistes. The show at an end, the lissom, sequined showgirls mingled, silvery bottles perched on trays, as Madame Lucille enjoyed a roaring trade at the bar. Monsieur Maurice beamed happily. This evening bore all the hallmarks of heralding a bumper summer. Monsieur Le Prix’s Owner, living out the occupation with his mistress in Toulouse, would be pleased.
Maurice had heard nothing from the cabaret’s owner since he had fled Paris prior to the arrival of the Germans. This was no surprise to Maurice as the mail system between ZoneO and Zone NonO was almost non-existent. It never occurred to Maurice to do other than manage Le Prix as if its owner still lived in his expensive Parisian apartment a mere matter of a few blocks away. He was content to wait until this war was over and then greet Monsieur Le Prix’s Owner on his return with a healthy balance sheet and a large coterie of loyal patrons ... hopefully, this time impeccably French.
But, as the warmer weather lifted spirits and generally improved the Parisian mood, May 1942 tightened the noose on Paris’s Jewish population. The German authorities imposed an edict requiring all Jews over the age of six to wear a bright yellow star stamped with the word ‘Jew’. Identity checks now extended to compliance with this law — and serious consequences for those who did not comply or whose compliance was deemed unsatisfactory. The instructions for the wearing of the stars were extremely detailed: it had precise measurements and had to be worn prominently on the top left-hand side of the outermost garment. The stars were sold to Jews at the local police stations and cost one month’s clothing ration. Jews were now labelled for all to see.
Keen to make the most of the early summer sunshine, Lily and Poppy set out to visit Celine Caton, who managed the beauty salon that had supplied Le Prix with powders, creams and make-up prior to the occupation. With the onset of rationing, Celine had warned Le Prix’s performers to use their supplies sparingly, conscious that her traditional sources could disappear. They had heeded that advice and only now, in the early summer of 1942, were stocks beginning to run low. But a message to Celine had produced the promise of a resupply through sources in Switzerland, and Poppy and Lily had been despatched by Monsieur Maurice to visit Celine, a lengthy list in hand.
Celine Caton’s salon lay in a side street off the busy Boulevard Garibaldi in the 15th arrondissement, across the city from Le Prix. Lily and Poppy set out on a balmy Monday morning, aware that the excursion would take them most of the day, and delighted with the excuse to venture away from the suffocating safety of the little world of Le Prix. They knew le métro would harbour its quota of German soldiers, most in transit, others assiduously checking papers. Also plentiful were paid informers ready to report the smallest irregularity in manner or dress, or the slightest slip of speech. The girls were happy to exchange the risks for a sunny stroll among the eclectic cafés and restaurants of the 15th which they had rarely visited since the occupation unfolded.
Le métro was predictably busy as, according to its current timetable, it closed every day between 11.00 am and 3.00 pm and most Parisians were eager to complete their journey without the inconvenience of being stranded as they waited for the trains to shunt back into life. Framed photos of the grandfatherly Marshal Pétain bedecked the walls of the station and women of all shapes and sizes filled the platform, many of the younger girls dressed in faded summer dresses that had been given an extended life by the savage rationing of fabric since the outbreak of war. The showgirls were surprised to see the profusion of yellow stars, realising with a shock just how many Parisians had been affected by this edict. They shifted their gaze with difficulty, studying instead the various ways other young women had overcome the dire shortages of fabric and other feminine essentials. Stockings, for one, were now a rarity and many of Paris’s ladies, including the showgirls, dyed their legs, staining them with walnut juice, and then drawing a stripe to resemble the seam of a stocking at the back. It was a good match and, to the untrained eye, the women appeared to be sporting the sheerest of silken stockings. Others, particularly the younger girls, simply wore ankle socks, allowing their legs to tan in the sun. The older women were less fussy and many appeared in darker clothing, skirts or dresses, matched with the wooden-soled shoes that had become a fashion statement among Parisians for whom leather was a distant memory.
Lily and Poppy mingled with the jostling crowd, noting with regret the absence of young, able-bodied men. The few men in sight were either elderly, shuffling uncertainly through the milling throng, or young boys accompanying their mothers who held them fast lest they lose them in the crowd. The first class carriages reserved for the Germans were orderly and evenly filled, while the second and third class carriages, the province of the French, were crammed to overflowing, sweaty and noisy. The showgirls slipped into a third class carriage, managing to squeeze onto a seat occupied b
y a thin woman in a faded blue shirtdress who smelt of garlic. A moustachioed man in a striped suit stood in the aisle, leaning over them as the train gathered pace, and belching loudly. Lily, who was seated on the outside, grimaced and moved closer to Poppy who giggled at her friend’s discomfort. It was with much relief that they disembarked several stops later, emerging into the fresh air and breathing gratefully. Their relief was short-lived as they were greeted by the familiar grey-green uniforms and the cry of ‘Paperz pliz!’ Poppy turned to her friend and aped the sing-song refrain with a mischievous grin. Lily stifled her giggles lest they draw unwelcome attention. She was sure Monsieur Maurice was not keen to see his showgirls detained for showing insufficient respect to a German soldier. The soldier, impossibly young, his snowy skin freckled by the sun and his eyes the palest blue, examined their papers, looking the girls up and down. It was a common reaction to their stated occupation of ‘showgirl’. The girls smiled in turn, a small price to pay to retain their precious freedom. The young German smiled shyly in response and handed back their papers. Another day of fragile freedom beckoned.
The lissom pair walked the last two blocks to Celine’s salon, grateful for the clean air and summer warmth. They drank in the sights of the pretty cafés and restaurants filled with uniformed patrons who spilled onto the street, arrayed on chairs around tables with gaily striped umbrellas. The German patrons clearly enjoyed the sight of the leggy showgirls and tossed compliments and suggestions as they passed. The girls laughed and continued on their way. They were keen to complete their mission and return to Le Prix before le métro closed and left them facing a long walk home.
They crossed the Boulevard Garibaldi and slipped down the side street where Celine’s salon lay, only to stop short as a snatch of conversation drifted towards them. Poppy pulled Lily behind a delivery van parked at the kerb and they watched Celine Caton farewell a gentleman friend at the door of her salon. He was tall and angular and held her close, one hand caressing her buttocks. Celine, a good head shorter, slender, mid-thirties with a head of wavy copper strands ready for a set, giggled and kissed him eagerly. He pulled away and she waved her farewells, her eyes following him as he strode purposefully down the street.
‘Did you see who that was?’ hissed Poppy as the man strode past and they emerged from behind the van.
‘Yes, the rat!’ spat Lily furiously, ‘it’s that rotter Colbert. He’s been playing up on Monique.’
The girls strolled to meet Celine who loitered outside her salon, looking longingly after Colbert’s retreating footsteps.
‘That your new man?’ asked Poppy saucily, flashing a winning smile. Celine responded in kind.
‘Oh yes,’ she replied dreamily, ‘he’s so thrilling, so mysterious.’ She pulled the girls into her salon and closed the door. ‘He’s a resister!’ she told them dramatically. The girls gasped on cue. Lily began to wonder whether everyone in Paris secretly worked for the resistance. It must be a vast organisation.
‘Really?!’ they expostulated. Celine nodded vigorously.
‘He also works for British intelligence,’ she added, ‘sooo brave, he has to be very careful who he tells — he can trust no-one ... except me, of course . and,’ as an afterthought, ‘you won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Nooo!’ exploded the girls in unison as Lily mentally compiled a list of those she would immediately tell. With some luck, Colbert’s day of reckoning would rapidly arrive.
Monsieur Maurice strolled to the front of Madame Gloria’s apartment to find the door open and the lady herself dispensing advice to Crecy over a glass of last season’s mulberry wine.
‘He doesn’t deserve you, dear,’ she told the voluptuous blonde who sat listening intently, his head on one side, a cigarette smouldering in a bejewelled holder.
‘I know, Glory, I know, he’s an absolute bastard!’ replied Crecy, spitting the word vehemently and ignoring Gloria’s shocked reaction. ‘But I’ll tell you something for nothing, dahling, I can’t help myself, I go for the bastards every time!’ He drew dramatically on his cigarette, pausing to allow the words to sink in. Monsieur Maurice, unsure whether to beat a quiet but hasty retreat or mount a rescue operation for the sensitivities of Madame Gloria, hovered uncertainly in the doorway. It was Gloria who noticed him first and her face offered more than the slightest suggestion of relief.
‘Ah, Monsieur Maurice!’ she exclaimed, ‘please come in, we were just having a cosy chat.’
‘I do beg your pardon, ladies, please forgive my clumsy intrusion, perhaps I should come back later?’
‘Non, non, Monsieur,’ cried the older lady immediately, ‘we were almost finished, weren’t we dear?’ she patted Crecy’s ringed talon comfortingly.
‘Well, I do need to touch up my set,’ offered Crecy, mildly hurt at the interruption but mollified by being referred to as a ‘lady’. He had hoped to entertain Gloria with the spiciest details of the end of this latest affair, but clearly that would have to wait. Monsieur Maurice simply would not understand.
‘I’ll drop over later, Glory,’ he added in a low, conspiratorial voice, ‘I do find the advice of an older, more experienced woman sooo reassuring.’ He patted Gloria’s hand and smiled amiably at Maurice. ‘Till then, dahling,’ he tossed, tripping out the door and up the stairs. Gloria turned to Maurice with an expression of considerable relief as the clip-clopping faded and died.
‘Do try some of this mulberry wine,’ offered Madame Gloria, ‘it’s the last of the season and definitely the best.’
‘No, Madame, thank you,’ parried Maurice, raising a hand in muted protest, ‘it is perhaps a little early for me.’
‘Of course, Monsieur,’ replied Gloria, pouring herself a little extra and settling in for a chat with the ginger-haired manager. ‘How is Madame Claudette?’
‘Oh, we are managing quite well with the help of Dr Paul and, of course, the wonderful Napoleon who is truly magnificent. But I have come once again to enlist your assistance in my hour of need.’ Madame Gloria smiled her most obliging smile. She was very fond of Monsieur Maurice who had been so kind since she lost her poor dear Hubert.
‘But of course, Monsieur, how can I help?’
‘Forgive me for being presumptuous, Madame, but I assume you can sew?’
‘Yes indeed, Monsieur, but ...’ Madame Gloria was a little taken aback by this unexpected question. ‘Yes,’ she replied more definitely, ‘I have a little sewing machine that I use from time to time to make and repair my clothes . so necessary since the war, you know.’
‘Ah, of course, Madame. I only ask because we have just lost our seamstress, Mademoiselle Gris ... you remember her?’ Gloria shook her head slowly, trying to locate an image of Mademoiselle Gris, but failing miserably. Maurice was not surprised. No-one noticed the shy little seamstress, who seemed destined to live her life in the shadows.
‘No matter, our Mademoiselle Gris has had to travel to Chartres to care for her mother who has been taken ill. She thinks she may be away from Paris for some weeks and we will be left with just her few assistants to repair costumes. My girls are the most skilful dancers in all of France, but sew?’ He shrugged his shoulders helplessly, ‘they cannot so much as thread a needle! So, Madame, I would be very much obliged if you could see your way ...’
‘But Monsieur, of course!’ exclaimed Madame Gloria, delighted to think she could do something the glamorous showgirls could not. ‘I would be very happy to help at any time. You need only send the clothes for mending with one of the girls and I will make the repairs at night as I sit in my salon.’ Maurice clasped her hand.
‘Thank you, Madame,’ he told her, ‘you have truly saved us!’
In the early hours of the morning, Lily climbed the stairs, thankful that the night was over and desperate to fall into bed next to Guy. She reached the top of the landing and was surprised to find Sadie lounging on the sofa, drawing thoughtfully on a cigarette that parted her crimson lips.
‘Sadie!’ she exclaimed, ‘I thou
ght you would be with Léon.’ Sadie exhaled slowly before she replied.
‘So did I. But he seems to have disappeared. I haven’t heard from him for a week now and when I sent an errand boy to his house, he came back later and told me it was all boarded up.’ Lily looked at her in surprise.
‘Do you think he’s gone to the country?’ Sadie gave her a pointed look.
‘I think he’s gone back to that good woman his wife,’ she replied acidly, drawing on her cigarette, ‘although there’s one thing that bothers me.’ She allowed the curls of cigarette smoke to drift slowly from her lips. ‘He was having such a good time with me that he had started to talk about us having some sort of future ... you know, after the war.’ Lily felt her heart flutter.
‘He’s Jewish, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ replied Sadie, ‘and that meant he couldn’t work, he couldn’t come to Le Prix and he had to wear that ridiculous star, all of which he did. But he wasn’t doing anyone any harm, so I can’t believe he’s been arrested.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Unless it’s suddenly become a crime to have a showgirl mistress, in which case half the Germans will have to arrest themselves.’ They laughed together, a brief, jarring laugh that failed to entirely dissipate the tension that had begun to insinuate its way into the conversation. Lily looked at Sadie with apprehension.
‘Bobby Metzinger told me that Jews in Germany weren’t even allowed to walk on the footpath with everyone else ... they were treated as if they were vermin ... like rats. Maybe there’s been some sort of mass arrest. Maybe just being Jewish is enough reason to be arrested these days.’ Sadie stubbed her cigarette, sighed and looked at Lily.
‘No, I think he’s found someone to forge him some papers and an Ausweis, crossed into Zone NonO and gone back to her,’ she said with some resignation. ‘And if he doesn’t send me some sort of message by the end of next week, I’ll just have to start looking around!’
Secrets and Showgirls Page 22