‘Send your men away,’ she commanded and, turning to her fellow residents, hissed at them, ‘Go!’ her flashing eyes adding vehemence. The motley parade needed no further urging, the residents falling over one another to escape as quickly as possible, Poppy pulling the sobbing Sadie into the safety of her room.
Suddenly Dirty Dietrich came to life. He barked a command at his men who thundered down the stairs as violently as they had arrived. Coco roared at the little man, beating him with the end of her whip and herding him towards her room at the far end of the passage. Lily stood motionless in the empty landing, her mouth open in amazement. The door to Coco’s room slammed and the shouting subsided to a dull, enclosed roar. A minute later, Sabine poked her head out, her white face meeting Lily’s.
‘Got a cigarette?’ gasped Lily, ‘I need serious reviving.’ Sabine disappeared briefly before reappearing clutching two wafting cigarettes, scanning the area for men in leather coats and emerging gingerly into the corridor.
‘What was all that about?’ Lily drew heavily and the colour returned slowly to her face, her scarlet lipstick stark against the pallor of her shocked visage.
‘I think,’ she replied with mock authority, ‘that Coco counts some Gestapo notables among her more celebrated customers.’ Sabine snorted and giggled.
‘Lucky for us she does,’ exhaled Lily, ‘lucky, lucky.’
It was an uncomfortable conversation. The Gestapo had clearly been looking for Alain and Guy and they had known exactly where to look. Monsieur Maurice contemplated the two young men, of whom he had grown very fond, and transferred his gaze to Lily and Poppy, his two most sensible showgirls. He wondered what they should do. It was Guy who was speaking now.
‘Monsieur Maurice, we are endangering the lives of you all, we must leave here at once.’ Alain nodded in agreement while Lily looked distressed.
‘A noble thought, Guy,’ responded Maurice gently, ‘but where will you go?’
‘We both have legitimate papers, we can simply apply for an Ausweis on some pretext and escape to Zone NonO. From there we can make our way to Switzerland ... or to Marseilles and jump on a ship to Africa.’
‘Non, mon ami,’ answered Maurice, shaking his head as he spoke, ‘an Ausweis will take weeks to come through and I think we had best act immediately.’
‘Perhaps we could ask Napoleon,’ offered Lily, ‘he may know someone who could help.’
‘I think you need somewhere to hide now,’ ventured Poppy, ‘the Gestapo could return at any time — once Dirty Dietrich has recovered from Coco’s beating, of course,’ she added, attempting to inject a more light-hearted note into the conversation. Her friends smiled thinly.
‘We could construct a hiding place under the stage,’ suggested Alain, ‘there’s plenty of room and we could slip in and out almost unnoticed.’ Guy nodded in agreement.
‘Ah, Alain, that is a clever idea,’ responded Maurice with more than a little relief. ‘Let us work to prepare this place with as much haste as possible while I speak to the Governor. I’m sure he will not be happy to hear that the Gestapo is threatening the staff of his favourite cabaret.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I wish I thought the Governor had more control over the Gestapo. I can’t help thinking that he is just as afraid of them as the rest of us.’
What disturbed Lily and Poppy the most was the inescapable feeling that someone had informed. Someone had told the Gestapo precisely where to look for Guy. The soldiers had been looking for people and had left the rooms themselves intact. The girls had heard plenty of stories of German soldiers destroying furniture and stealing possessions, ransacking Jewish homes in particular as they arrested the occupants. No, this time they had been targeted in their search, clearly with someone specific in mind. And Lily was convinced that the someone had been Guy. Now they faced the grim realisation that there was an informer in their midst. Or was it someone who had a close friendship with a member of the company? A name surfaced in her fevered brain: Paul Colbert. It could only be him. Monique must have told him about Guy. Lily set her lips in determination. She would have a hard conversation with Bobby on the subject of Colbert, emphasising not the threat he posed to Guy, of whose presence she hoped the Swiss businessman remained blissfully unaware, but to someone who was far more important to Bobby — Lena Varigny.
But, frustratingly, Lily’s conversation with Bobby was to be delayed. For two weeks she looked for the handsome entrepreneur, only to find him uncharacteristically absent from his habitual Thursday night table. Lily felt her anxiety mounting. Finally, in the midst of her sheer desperation, she recalled Bobby’s words. If ever she needed to contact him urgently, she could telephone him direct. She toyed with the idea of telephoning him, but decided instead to ambush the elusive Lena Varigny as she set off for her day’s mystery activity. The next morning, at the impossibly early time of six o’clock, Lily waited in the dimly lit corridor outside her quarry’s room, concealing herself in the shadows cast by a large hallstand. It was something of a gamble: she had no idea whether Lena was actually inside.
Ten minutes later, just as Lily was beginning to wonder whether the proverbial bird had flown, the door of Lena’s room opened slowly and silently and the slight figure emerged. Lena still wore a haunted look, her long, dark hair hanging in flat, sheet-like tresses under a black beret which served only to magnify the pallor of her face. Her large, soulful eyes flickered constantly around her as if seeking some hidden enemy or perhaps checking for an exit in case the phantom enemy materialised suddenly. Lily felt immediately sorry for her. She had obviously experienced a profound and shocking trauma that lingered in her subconscious and which she would probably take to the grave. The Germans had robbed this girl of her joie de vivre.
‘Lena,’ called Lily, softly as if to a startled deer. Lena immediately shrank back, ready to retreat to the safe blackness of her room.
‘Please don’t be frightened,’ Lily whispered hastily lest she lose Lena to the enshrouding gloom, ‘I’m Lily, I’m one of the showgirls.’ Lena looked dubious. ‘I’m also a friend of Monsieur Metzinger.’ Now she relaxed slightly.
‘I have an important message for Monsieur — could you give it to him please?’ Lena glanced around her, looking uncertain.
‘Please Lena, it’s terribly important. It’s just a name ... could you just give him a name?’ Lena shrugged almost imperceptibly, but it was enough for Lily.
‘Thank you ... just tell him Paul Colbert. Can you remember that name? Paul Colbert. He is a man who frightened me and,’ she added in a bid to ensure that Lena treated the message with suitable urgency, ‘I would not want him to frighten you.’ The remark hit home and Lena’s eyes became impossibly wide. ‘He is not a nice man, Lena, but Monsieur Metzinger will know what to do.’ Lena nodded.
‘Paul Colbert,’ she repeated in a husky whisper, ‘I will tell him.’ Lily smiled and clasped the other girl’s hand, surprised at how cold it was.
‘Thank you, Lena,’ she told her warmly, and stepped away to allow the wraith-like figure to pass into the pale morning light which Lily decided she clearly needed. She felt immensely sorry for this girl — no more than a child, really — and was overwhelmed with gratitude for Bobby’s rescue of her. She also swallowed a snort at Madame Gloria’s story that this pallid, insipid creature had ever worked for the resistance. No, that was just as likely as Lily taking up residence in the Palace of Versailles.
Chapter 25
A mercy dash with a difference
In the chill early morning of All Souls’ Day, better known to the many godless souls of Le Prix as the second day of November, a shadowy figure crept through Lily’s door as she lay sleeping. A soft touch on her face was enough to wake her: it was a touch she knew well.
‘Guy!’
‘Sshh, darling, I’ve come to say goodbye,’ he whispered. Lily sat up with a start.
‘Goodbye?’ she hissed, ‘where are you going? Who with?’ He placed a finger on her lips to silence the barrage of questions.<
br />
‘Best you don’t know. All I can say is that we’ve been collected.’
‘You and Alain?’ He nodded before enfolding her in his arms. She clung to him tightly. ‘Darling, I’ll come back and find you, I promise,’ he told her softly, earnestly, ‘once this war is over, I’ll be back.’ Lily nodded, not trusting herself to speak lest the tears flow. He kissed her tenderly. ‘I love you, Lily.’
‘Oh Guy, I love you too.’ This time she found her voice. ‘Keep safe, please, for my sake.’ He smiled ruefully.
‘And mine,’ he responded wryly, ‘I’m rather fond of life.’ He kissed her again. ‘And you must keep safe too, my love, be very careful who you trust.’
And then he was gone and Lily allowed the floodgates to open, sobbing and railing against the Germans and the war which had taken the only man she had ever really loved. Why couldn’t they have been born American? Or Eskimos? African goatherders? Anywhere else they would have been safe to live and love as they chose. She stopped her railing and prayed a simple prayer: Mother of God, keep him safe. She realised with a pang that it had been years since she had prayed. Perhaps her present predicament had something to do with that neglect. Had she been a little more devout, she might well have been born an African goatherder. Still, it was better late than never and, rather than dwell on what might have been, she decided that she would concentrate on being grateful that Guy and Alain had finally been spirited away to safety. Now the Gestapo would never find them ... hopefully.
The departure of Alain and Guy left Monsieur Maurice feeling strangely bereft as if he had lost his sons. He was intensely relieved that the two men had escaped to safety — their timing had been impeccable as, only days later, the Germans invaded Zone NonO, sealing off the passage to the south so beloved of escapers. Despite himself, Maurice also nursed a degree of relief that there was now less reason for the little company to find itself in the cells at the rue de Saussaies or at the grim camp that had overtaken the half-finished housing estate in the outer Paris suburb of Drancy. There were terrible stories of those who had been arrested and taken to Drancy. Parents had been separated from children, there was little food and no water throughout what had been a long, hot summer and the conditions were reputedly squalid. Maurice shivered. He was desperate to protect his employees from such a fate and was relieved that the young British officer and French soldier of whom he was so fond would not be their undoing. Now he could return to his other anxieties, most notably his deepest held fears over Madame Claudette’s health.
Monsieur Maurice’s concerns over his wife’s delicate health proved well-founded. As the biting winter cold intensified and the bitter wind howled demonically through the alleyway beside Le Prix, Madame’s barking cough returned and this time she took to her bed, lacking even the strength to direct rehearsals from her cushioned chair. Dr Paul was in constant attendance. Her temperature soared and the cough deepened in intensity until every hacking bout threatened to break a rib. Dr Paul became increasingly troubled and, in late November, drew Monsieur Maurice aside for a sombre conference over the state of the patient.
‘Maurice,’ Dr Paul began gravely, ‘Claudette is very ill. I believe she may have pneumonia.’ Maurice’s heart sank.
‘Can you do anything for her?’
‘She should be in hospital where they have powerful medicines and can care for her every hour of the day.’ Maurice shook his head vigorously.
‘She cannot go to hospital,’ he replied emphatically.
‘But mon ami, I do not have the right medicines — even those you procure from the black market are no longer powerful enough. I cannot stay with her to care for her throughout the day and night ... I have other patients who are also seriously ill. Please let me take her to a hospital . the American Hospital at Neuilly is perhaps the best in Paris ... she need only stay a few days while the doctors there treat her with the most effective drugs. A few days, my friend, they may only need a few days.’ But Maurice continued to shake his head. Dr Paul was puzzled and exasperated. He had never seen his old friend behave so irrationally.
‘Maurice, this is madness — you cannot understand the gravity of her situation. Do you want to see her die?!’ Maurice shook his head again, this time burying his face in his hands before heaving a deep sigh and facing Dr Paul once more.
‘She cannot go to hospital,’ he said thickly, ‘because they will ask for her papers.’
‘But . she is Russian ... the Germans are not bothered with Russians unless they are Jewish.’ He broke off and stared hard at his friend. ‘Claudette is not Jewish, is she?’ Maurice shook his head again and paused, as if turning the words over in his mind. He regarded his friend gravely before speaking in a low voice.
‘Yes, she is Russian ... but she was born in Poland and her papers show her place of birth. The Germans are sending more and more foreigners — particularly the Slavs — to Drancy.’ Paul hissed as he drew a sharp intake of breath.
‘Non!’ he whispered. ‘In that case, she cannot go to hospital — even the American Hospital is searched by the Germans from time to time. The risk is too great.’
‘Could you treat her here with the right medicines?’ Paul thought for a long moment, his face clouded with concern.
‘I can try. But we will have to buy medicines from the American Hospital and we will have to do it quickly. I have a former colleague there who will not ask too many questions.’
‘Then that is what we must do. We will go to the hospital when you are ready.’
But the trip to the hospital had no sooner been planned and scheduled than Dr Paul was called to the bedside of a dying man. He handed Monsieur Maurice a note with the name of his former colleague and a list of medicines and apologised profusely for abandoning his friend in his hour of need. Maurice shook his hand and thanked him for all he had done and prepared to make the trip alone. He dropped past Madame Claudette’s bedside to reassure her that he would return soon with some medicine, only to find that her condition had deteriorated. Her breathing was laboured and came in short, jarring rasps. She turned her head as he entered the room and gave a soft moan. Maurice was beside himself. Lily and Poppy, appearing in the doorway with a bowl of Madame Gloria’s rutabaga soup, found a barely coherent Madame Claudette and a distraught Monsieur Maurice.
‘Ladies,’ he whispered hoarsely, his face haggard and grey, ‘I need to go to the American Hospital in Neuilly immediately to buy medicines for Madame. Could you stay with her please until I return?’
‘But Monsieur,’ protested Lily gently, alarmed at the fraught state of her manager, ‘you don’t look well enough to make the journey. Couldn’t you rest tonight and go tomorrow?’ He shook his head vigorously, close to tears.
‘If I delay, she may die. She must have the medicines tonight,’ he gasped with an agonising look. Poppy placed a reassuring hand on his arm.
‘We will go, Monsieur,’ she told him calmly and firmly. ‘You stay with her and we will return as soon as we can.’ Maurice was caught between relief and concern and looked wildly from one to the other.
‘You could do this?’ he asked incredulously. The girls nodded, thin smiles now mingling with looks of determination.
‘Of course,’ Lily replied as Poppy nodded emphatically, ‘we will leave immediately.’ The distressed manager breathed heavily and nodded slowly, the deep lines of anxiety that carved great crevasses into his brow softening a little as his look of direst concern now dissolved into intense gratitude.
‘Merci,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘merci!’
Maurice gave the girls a note that bore the name of the doctor and a list of medicines. A thick packet of money accompanied the list, a small fortune that nonetheless could never hope to approximate the value of Madame Claudette’s life.
‘Please hurry,’ he pleaded as the girls smiled reassuringly. They left the room with dire forebodings over Madame Claudette’s chances of recovery which seemed slim at best. As they closed the door, Madame Gloria arrived, a ba
g of home remedies in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other. The girls breathed a small sigh of relief — Madame Gloria’s cheery presence was precisely what was needed. She smiled at the girls as she passed.
‘Let us see if we can’t cheer Monsieur and perhaps help Madame rally just a little.’ Lily hoped fervently that she would pour at least half the brandy down Monsieur Maurice’s throat. Poor man looked as if he had not slept in days.
The showgirls wrapped themselves tightly against the bitter, seeping cold that threatened to freeze their blood and drain the last vestiges of warmth from their bodies. They headed for le métro, diving into a third class carriage which, as always, was crowded with the miserable inhabitants of an occupied city. They surrendered their papers dutifully to the tubercular youth in German uniform who coughed and scanned them peremptorily before handing them back with barely a glance at the girls. Lily thought he looked ill and was clearly fed up to the teeth with the role of conquering hero. The train bumped and ground its way to Neuilly and the girls disembarked to trudge the last block to the American Hospital.
The hospital sat behind an imposing red brick faςade outlined in antique white with rectangular windows capped by flat, linear brows that lent it a pointedly neutral look. The double entry doors gave way to a polished linoleum reception area with waiting rooms on either side. The pungent smell of carbolic soap and something that resembled vinegar assailed the girls as they wandered tentatively through the doors. Nurses in brilliant white aprons over dark blue uniforms marched their way purposefully along spotless corridors that appeared endless, disappearing over a hospital horizon as far as the eye could see. Poppy found the receptionist and asked for Dr Marcel Gidon, the name on the note that Monsieur Maurice had given her. The receptionist looked her up and down and coolly told her to wait while she sent a message to Dr Gidon. He would come when he was free. Poppy hoped this would be soon, recalling all too vividly her promise to Monsieur Maurice to secure the medicines and return as quickly as was humanly possible.
Secrets and Showgirls Page 24