‘What is all this shouting?!’ Now Madame Fresange emerged from her doorway, large broom in hand, as if to confront an invader. A little late for that, Maurice told himself as he prepared to assuage the sensitivities of Fresange the formidable.
‘Madame, I do beg your forgiveness, I was explaining to Madame Dupleix that the doctor is on his way,’ a charming smile, more doffing of his hat and more bows and Maurice extracted himself from the danger zone leaving a rumbling Fresange in his wake.
Entering through the rear door, Maurice climbed the two flights of stairs to Chloe’s room where he knew he would find his stocky Master of Ceremonies somewhat the worse for wear. He paused at the top of the second flight to catch his breath — truly old age was advancing with merciless rapidity. He tapped quietly on Chloe’s door only to have it flung open by Chinon, bottle in hand, wearing his pyjama bottoms and an enormous coat. The room was heavy with the fumes of celebration and Maurice decided that, if Le Prix ever smelled this bad, he would immediately have it closed for fumigation. Despite the imminent risk of asphyxiation, Maurice beat a hasty path to the window, latching it firmly against the greater risk, the eavesdropping proclivities of La Fresange.
‘Have you heard the news, Maurice?!’ Chinon thrust a ragged copy of the communist broadsheet L’Humanité at him with the broadest grin Maurice had seen him wear since the arrival of the greygreen Germanic hordes. He took the battered page from Chinon’s outstretched hand and read the banner headline. The German army besieging Stalingrad had surrendered. Little wonder Chinon was in a state of brandy-fuelled euphoria.
‘Marvellous news, Chinon,’ he told his friend in a lowered voice, ‘this gives us hope that we will soon be free.’
‘Oui, Maurice, we will eject those Boche bastards from France with the biggest boot they have ever seen,’ he glowered jubilantly, ‘even now, the brotherhood is planning —’
‘Sshh,’ Maurice interrupted with a desperate hiss, ‘I must urge you to be discreet mon ami, the Germans are still strong and they have their spies and informers everywhere.’
‘Ah, oui, oui, Maurice, in my joy I had forgotten that we are still surrounded by collabo swine! We have reserved a special punishment for them.’ He nodded emphatically in between swigs of brandy, the bottle mercifully almost empty. ‘When the Germans are gone, there will be a reckoning, Maurice, of that you may be sure.’
‘I have no doubt you are right,’ admitted Maurice, a pall of gloom settling over his own post-war prospects, ‘but first we must survive the Germans.’
‘Of course, Maurice, this is true,’ the shaggy head drooped a little, only to bounce back as it caught sight of the headlines once more. ‘But it will not be long now!’
‘Would it were so,’ rejoined Maurice, taking the opportunity to retrieve the banned broadsheet. But Chinon, despite his parlous state, was too quick for him.
‘No, Maurice, I need to keep this — it represents hope!’ Maurice felt his heart sink.
‘But Chinon, you cannot, if it is found here, it will become a death sentence!’ Chinon reached up to pat his manager’s shoulder.
‘Fear not, Maurice, I have the best hiding place for my collection. No-one will discover it!’ And he winked at the now ashen Maurice. Collection? Maurice was aghast.
‘Let me show you ...’ Chinon turned towards the other end of the room.
‘Non, Chinon, merci, but I think it is best I do not know.’ The diminutive red regarded him for a moment, produced a raucous laugh and tapped his nose conspiratorially.
‘Ah, Maurice, always you are the wise one. Let it remain a secret.’
As he extracted himself with relief from the den of his closet communist, Maurice felt his little world closing in on him. How many more secrets would Le Prix reveal? Was a hidden stash of banned communist broadsheets merely the tip of an enormous contraband iceberg? He trudged downstairs slowly, only to be greeted at the end of his descent by Madame Gloria, radiant and cheerful after several glasses of mulberry wine.
‘Monsieur Maurice, what a lovely surprise! Do join me for a teensy glass, won’t you?’ And for once, Maurice accepted with alacrity.
Chapter 27
The budding subversive
Monsieur Maurice took some time to recover his composure following Chinon’s revelation of his secret collection of the banned communist broadsheet L’Humanité. It helped him considerably that the weather had warmed with the approach of spring and Madame Claudette’s health had improved markedly. She had needed no further supplies from the hospital and was close to regaining her former vigour, now incorporating the foot-stamping of old into her testy rehearsal repertoire. Maurice was feeling far happier despite the discomfort of his showgirls who had become complacent under the softer regime. Ah, sighed Maurice to himself, it would do them good. He wandered over to Le Prix to consult Madame Lucille on the state of her bar stocks, falling into step with Hiram, who was rounding up his musicians for a rehearsal.
‘Hiram, my friend, I hope you and Lisette are coping in these difficult times.’
‘We get by, Maurice, we do,’ and he turned to check whether anyone was listening, a common movement that prefaced any outdoor conversation in occupied Paris. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘since the good ol’ US of A joined the fight, I had my papers checked more times than I could tell you. They all think ’cos I’m dark, I have to be a Yank.’
‘Hiram, I’m sorry,’ Maurice felt for his gangly trumpeter as the checking of papers could be a bruising experience in the wrong hands. ‘I trust there have been no problems with your papers?’
‘No, but it makes me wonder whether somehow they’re tryin’ to catch me out. You know, as if one day I’ll be caught with a different set of papers and they will throw me in that Fresnes Prison.’ He stopped and regarded Maurice’s troubled face for a moment. ‘You think we being watched, Maurice?’ The ginger-haired manager sighed.
‘Hiram, in Paris, everyone is being watched. Best not give anyone a reason to report you. Just keep your head down and survive. One day,’ Maurice dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘one day we will have our city back.’ He slapped his friend on the back. ‘Courage, mon ami!’ Hiram smiled weakly and patted Maurice on the arm in a gesture of solidarity before setting off in search of his musicians.
Maurice found Madame Lucille busy behind the glitzy theatre bar arranging bottles of wine and checking the bar stocks for the forthcoming week of performances. Lucille’s tally told him that he would need to petition both Bobby Metzinger and the Military Governor for additional stocks of champagne and cognac. Exhausting his supply of his patrons’ favourite drinks would never do.
Next, he visited the basement where his muscular Spanish illusionist, Orlando, and Cabot the wizened janitor had been keeping an eye on the notoriously temperamental coal-fired boiler that supplied Le Prix with its warmth. Orlando had been lumbering coal for the little janitor who had the measure of the boiler and specialised in its maintenance, able to diagnose and cure its ailments with a wrench and the odd spare part, usually supplied by Napoleon. The bags of coal had also diminished, but with spring well and truly on the way, Maurice was less concerned than he had been at the shortage of cognac that had greeted him at the bar.
‘Will our supply last another two months?’ he asked the gnomelike Cabot. The sooty janitor rubbed his stubbly chin and consulted the mountainous Orlando who grunted his reply.
‘Perhaps two or three extra bags would see us through, Maurice.’
‘Yes, two or three would do.’
Satisfied he could wrest two bags of coal from the Governor and one from the charming Monsieur Metzinger, Maurice climbed the steps from the basement, its door still carrying the warning sign ‘abris’ that bristled with concern over the likelihood of air raids. Maurice could not remember the last time the air raid siren had sounded — was it 1941? Or early 1942? No, it was too long ago, too much had happened in the years in between then and now, early spring 1943.
As he left the basement to c
heck on the state of the posters in the foyer, Maurice realised that Orlando had followed him and now fell into step beside him.
‘Orlando, my friend,’ Maurice noted his presence with a quiet sense of unease which he fought to dispel with deliberate cheeriness, ‘and how is our resident Spaniard?’
‘Monsieur Maurice,’ began the hairy-chested giant in a voice that Maurice almost failed to recognise as belonging to his charismatic illusionist. The transformation from the hearty man he had greeted in the basement just minutes earlier could not have been more complete.
‘But whatever is the matter?’ he asked in some consternation, his progress towards the foyer well and truly arrested. He looked up at the massive countenance and was shaken by what he saw. Orlando’s swarthy face was pale, his lips trembled and giant beads of sweat pricked his forehead. He was clearly in a state of such nervous excitement that he almost revived Maurice’s distant memories of shell-shocked soldiers from the last war. He took Orlando’s trunk-like arm and guided him towards the little office that formerly housed Monsieur Six, the accountant, and which was now home to Roland, the curly-haired office boy, and the printing press that churned out programs and posters for the foyer.
Roland, lounging in his chair with his feet on the desk, his hand absently turning the handle of the mimeograph machine, was obviously not expecting to receive a visit from his manager. He jumped up and began to apologise profusely, his face a dark shade of beetroot. The printing press was apparently doing all the work. Maurice silenced his spindly office boy with a raised hand and despatched him to Madame Lucille for a bottle of brandy.
‘Just a bottle of the cheaper brandy, if you please, Roland, we are a little short of the more expensive varieties.’ Roland dashed off to redeem himself while Maurice guided Orlando to the recently vacated chair by the mimeograph.
‘My dear Orlando, please tell me what it is that is causing you such anxiety.’ He pulled up another chair and sat close by. ‘You know I will do all I can to help.’ Orlando rubbed his face with one giant paw. ‘You can trust me, my friend, we are a family, are we not?’ Orlando nodded and looked at the floor, as if avoiding the necessity to look Maurice in the eye.
‘Maurice, I do not wish to burden you with my troubles.’
‘No, no, amigo, your troubles are my troubles, we will work this out together, eh?’ Orlando nodded slowly, although Maurice still thought he looked close to tears. A rap on the door startled them both and they were relieved when Roland fell through the entrance brandishing a large bottle and two glasses.
‘Thank you, Roland, and would you please assist Madame Lucille for a few minutes while I discuss business with Monsieur Orlando.’ Roland licked his lips, glanced at the mimeograph and half-motioned towards it.
‘Monsieur, I was printing some ... new programs ... for the performance this week.’
‘Very well, Roland, I shall look at them once I have finished my chat with Monsieur Orlando,’ replied Maurice, signalling for his office boy to withdraw. He was a little surprised at Roland’s hesitation. He was not usually so concerned over the work of the mimeograph machine and often had to be reminded to print new programs. Roland disappeared and Maurice poured a large brandy for Orlando, pouring himself a far less generous measure. Whatever was distressing his swarthy strongman promised to tax Maurice’s ingenuity to the limits.
He passed the glass of amber liquid to Orlando who raised his hairy head and downed it in one enormous gulp. Maurice started slightly. This was clearly a serious matter. But the brandy had the desired effect and, with a heavy sigh, Orlando began to speak.
‘You have always been so good to me Maurice ... you have never pried into my personal life ... even when I did not complete the census, you did not question me.’ Maurice nodded, although his own anxiety was now growing. He began to anticipate what Orlando was attempting to tell him.
‘I have always told you ... told everyone ... that I am Spanish.’
‘Of course, my dear fellow,’ agreed Maurice in a small voice tinged with the first pinpricks of alarm.
‘But you see ... I am not ... in fact ... Spanish.’
‘I see,’ responded Maurice, waiting for the Sword of Damocles to fall on him. If Orlando proved to be Jewish, he would have to find some way of hiding him — or indeed moving him — before the Gestapo arrived to move them all to new quarters at Fresnes or in the rue de Saussaies. He swallowed hard.
‘Not Spanish?’
‘No.’ A shake of the great, tousled head. ‘In truth ...’
Maurice endured an agonised wait, his mind now gripped by images of Madame Claudette dying alone while he peered through the bars of a freezing stone cell at Fresnes as the snowflakes drifted in.
‘I am ...’
‘Jewish?’ Maurice prompted helpfully, his heart pounding.
‘Non, Maurice,’ came the immediate retort, ‘do I look Jewish?’ Maurice shrugged. His accountant, Monsieur Six, had been Jewish and he looked almost Scandinavian, with a generous head of whiteblonde hair and several pale, blue-eyed children. Who could tell another’s ethnicity with any degree of reliability?
‘No, I am of Romany heritage, although I was born in France and am a proud Frenchman.’
‘Ah,’ Maurice returned to reality with a thud, images of snowy cells fading mercifully. A Manouche — a French gypsy — that was not quite as difficult, although it was still far less convenient than a Spaniard. It was an unfortunate reality that French gypsies were still carted off to camps with alarming frequency.
‘So, your papers ...’
‘Ah, Maurice, it is all too obvious, even with the most cursory inspection.’ Maurice drew a deep breath. There were few courses of action open to him, but he would take them for his friend.
‘Orlando, mon ami, we will look after you.’ The great head lifted, but the eyes remained clouded with anxiety. Maurice thought his burly artiste still appeared on the verge of tears.
‘No, Maurice, it is better that I leave. If they arrest me, they will also come for you. You will be accused of sheltering an undesirable.’
‘Let us hope that it does not come to that,’ replied Maurice simply. ‘But you must stay and I will enquire about some new papers for you — since you have successfully passed as Spanish for so long, we will have to make you officially Spanish.’ He smiled at the big man. ‘In the meantime, we do have a hiding place for you. Remember the concealed room below the stage, near the orchestra pit, that we built for Guy and Alain?’ Orlando nodded, his face brightening slightly with cautious hope. ‘If you have any reason to be alarmed, you can hide there. As you know, it is quite comfortable and we can provide you with food until any danger passes.’ Orlando broke into a cautious smile, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
‘Maurice, you would do this for me?’
‘Of course, my friend, we are a family!’ The big man smiled slowly in response, a broad, generous grin that revealed a flash of white teeth and told of the overwhelming relief of their owner. Orlando gripped his manager’s hand in his and shook it firmly.
‘Thank you, Maurice, thank you, one day I will repay you, I swear!’ He placed one hand on his heart while he continued to pump Maurice’s hand furiously with the other. ‘You have saved me,’ he told his manager, as the tears began to spill, ‘I owe you my life.’
‘We are not there yet,’ Maurice cautioned him, retrieving his hand before it was crushed by Orlando’s overwhelming gratitude. ‘Go and find André and he will give you the key to the hiding place — you can tell him you are going to do some maintenance. And,’ he placed one finger on his lips, ‘best tell no-one what you have told me. That will keep us both safe!’ Orlando nodded, scraped at his tears with a massive fist and heaved his way from the office while Maurice turned his attention to the labours of the printing press. Something unusual was going on.
Orlando had no sooner disappeared in a diminishing thunder of heavy footsteps when a curly blonde head appeared around the office door.
‘Mo
nsieur Maurice,’ began a timid voice laced with anxiety.
‘Ah, Roland, I think you had better come and explain yourself.’ Roland opened the door just wide enough for his long, slender body to insinuate its way through. He surveyed the corridor outside the little office before closing the door softly and carefully behind him. Maurice knew only too well that his office boy was taking his time, trying desperately to manufacture an excuse for the stridently antiGerman leaflets that had spewed from the printing press, their bold black headlines the perfect recipe for incarceration.
‘Monsieur, I beg your pardon, I was just ... I was ... I ...’
Maurice looked at him sternly. Roland had been office boy at Le Prix for almost four years, apprenticed to Monsieur Six at the tender age of fourteen to learn the intricacies of clerical work. He had continued his schooling sporadically since the arrival of the Germans, his school closing and reopening with monotonous frequency. In the accountant’s absence he had been responsible for the day-to-day workings of the financial heart of Le Prix, supervised by Monsieur Maurice. Maurice planned to send the boy to university once the Germans departed and life regained some semblance of normality. He had hoped that the combination of increased responsibility and reduced supervision might have advanced Roland along the path to maturity. Now he realised that his office boy had instead exploited Maurice’s generosity to advance along the path to subversion.
Roland stood, head bowed, and shuffled his feet. Maurice was not a man given to displays of anger, but he was shaken to the core by the cavalier way in which this boy had toyed with his freedom and that of his staff and performers.
‘Roland, do you understand just how dangerous this is?’
Secrets and Showgirls Page 27