‘Yes, Monsieur, please forgive me for my thoughtlessness.’ The curly blonde head remained bowed, the long fingers clenching and unclenching in anguish. Maurice felt his anger grow.
‘Forgive you? For your thoughtlessness!’ Maurice was now fairly shaking with constrained fury. ‘Mon Dieu, Roland, did you not think of the consequences of being caught? We could all end up in a Gestapo cell in the rue de Saussaies — not just you, but Madame Claudette, Madame Lucille, Hiram, André, Orlando ... me!’ He grasped one of the offending leaflets. ‘Look at this! The Germans shoot people for far less than this! Did you never think what would happen if these leaflets were traced to Le Prix?’
Roland shook his head, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor and his hands continuing their agonising wringing. Maurice once again dropped his voice to a whisper as Roland stood silent, a penitent made fully aware of the dire nature of his sins.
‘And,’ added the grim-faced manager for effect, ‘once they had finished with us, they would arrest your mother.’ Roland’s downcast eyes widened. ‘Your crime would also be her crime.’ Maurice had struck a chord — Roland was his mother’s sole support, his father and elder brothers all prisoners of war in Germany.
‘Monsieur,’ he offered in a small voice, ‘the leaflets are not distributed near Le Prix. The group is very careful to take them far away ...’ he trailed off as the face of his manager grew even more purple than before.
‘Group? You are part of a group?’ Maurice’s voice had dropped to a whisper. Roland nodded mutely, aware that every word further deepened his guilt. ‘So there are others who know that these leaflets are being printed at Le Prix?’
‘Er ...’ Now Roland began to realise the full gravity of his offence. ‘Monsieur, the members of the group are absolutely trustworthy,’ he pleaded, ‘you can rely on them not to betray Le Prix.’ But Maurice was shaking his head gravely.
‘Roland, for three years now we have lived under the German jackboot and yet you have still to learn that no-one — no-one — can be trusted. Even those who swear their loyalty to you, who vow that they would rather die than reveal the names of their fellow subversives are mere playthings in the hands of the Gestapo. Do you understand that? These men know how to break people — almost no-one can withstand their terrible torture.’
‘Yes, Monsieur, I truly beg your pardon,’ whimpered the hapless boy, his face blanched with fear. Maurice paused to regard him sternly for a moment before his tone became more businesslike.
‘Now then, we must dispose of these leaflets, Roland, and we must do it properly so that nothing — nothing — remains to implicate us, not a trace. You must burn them — wrap them in old programs and take them down to the boiler. Watch them burn until they are no more than ash and then bury the ash. Nothing must remain, nothing! The smallest cinder could incriminate us — us, Roland, not just you, but all of us. Remember that!’ He paused again before gesturing towards a stack of sheets on an ancient wooden table. ‘Take the leaflets and the pile of old programs on the table in the corner, and dispose of them immediately. And make sure no-one sees you!’ Roland grabbed the broadsheets from the printing press, buried them in the pile of programs and raced off to the basement to obliterate the offending material.
Left alone in the suffused stillness of his abating anger, Maurice regarded his faithful mimeograph machine and wondered whether it was sufficiently contaminated with contraband sentiment to warrant its own sentencing. Certainly the stencils would have to be destroyed as they bore the imprint of an unknown number of antiGerman slogans and resistance catchcries. He groaned at the thought, conscious that stencils were difficult to find in occupied Paris. But surely the machine itself was worth salvaging. After all, it was essential for printing programs for his patrons, many of whom souvenired the little leaflets for the memories they cherished of unforgettable nights at Le Prix. Maurice was also very proud of his little machine which he had persuaded Monsieur Le Prix’s Owner to buy several years ago when such contraptions were considered very modern. Since then it had served him well and, had it not been for the subversive proclivities of his office boy, would have led a blameless existence. No, Maurice decided that he would keep his mimeograph machine, although he would clean it very carefully to ensure that it could withstand the scrutiny of even the most forensic of Gestapo examinations. Only then could he be sure that it would not unwittingly betray its owner.
Lily and the showgirls were certainly feeling the effects of Madame’s return to prodigious good health. Maurice had been accurate in his assessment that they had become complacent and Madame was merciless in her determination to return them to their prancing, cavorting best. There were extra rehearsals, exercises and hours spent at the ballet barre conditioning and honing muscles that had become lazy. Lily had never worked so hard and had never felt so fit. Madame was at her most demanding and her most relentless and produced dazzling results. Routines were reworked with more complex steps and more sophisticated choreography. Le Prix’s artistes likewise revitalised their routines and the theatre was given a glitzy makeover with which to reward the loyalty of its patrons. Maurice was delighted with the results and Madame Lucille’s bar profits soared. Not for the first time, Maurice celebrated his good fortune at having secured the patronage of the Governor and well-connected businessmen such as Bobby Metzinger.
With the arrival of the spring thaw, Lily had been watching and waiting for the return of the debonair entrepreneur following the reopening of the roads and railway lines from Switzerland, keen to hear that he had received the message from Lena. There had been no sign of Paul Colbert and Lily hoped that this was some indication that Bobby had removed this particular threat from Le Prix. One Friday night she caught sight of the attractive businessman from the stage, smiling to herself as she watched him work the room with practised finesse. He was clearly a consummate networker and Lily wondered idly whether he was a former diplomat. Possibly, she told herself, although he was more likely to be a spy. But, as always, she was confused over who Bobby worked for. He was obviously a friend of the Germans, but that did not explain why he had sprung Lena from Fresnes and hidden her at Le Prix. Lily sighed internally, broadened her smile and returned her focus to the demanding choreography — step, kick, turn and ... hold!
The show ended with its traditional showgirl flourish, acrobatics and ribald jokes from Chinon. Nun jokes, Lily grimaced internally under her flashing smile, why did Chinon always tell nun jokes? Lily now had rather a soft spot for nuns and made a mental note to ask Chinon if he knew any priest jokes instead. The little Master of Ceremonies disappeared after the performance as was his way, off to drink himself into oblivion to salve his communist conscience at having performed for the invader. The showgirls slipped into their sparkling hostess gowns and headed to the theatre floor to serve drinks to their rowdy clientele. At the bar Lily noticed Crecy deep in conversation with Poppy’s friend Gunther and smiled to herself. Poppy would not be pleased. Balancing a tray with several glasses and a bottle of champagne, Lily headed into the throng to find Bobby.
‘Champagne, Monsieur Metzinger?’
‘Ah, Lily,’ the handsome face broke into a smile and Bobby excused himself from his table. Evidently what he had to say was for her ears alone. ‘What a dazzling show!’ he complimented her, ‘you have clearly worked hard over the winter.’
‘Thank you,’ she beamed, pouring him a glass and adding one for herself. They clinked glasses.
‘ Santé!
‘Santé! A quick sip and Lily was ready for business. ‘How is Lena?’ ‘She is well, thank you, Madame Gloria looks after her with much kindness. I am most grateful to her and Monsieur Maurice.’ He sipped his champagne then added in an undertone, ‘And, yes, I received your message.’
‘Oh well done, Lena,’ Lily was pleased. She watched Bobby’s finely chiselled features. He scanned constantly but subtly, his captivating smile never fading, his eyes shifting from one group to another as he spoke.
‘I was
very interested in Monsieur Paul Colbert,’ he told her quietly, ‘in fact I had been interested in him for quite some time before your message came to me. You confirmed a number of my suspicions.’
‘Do you think he is French?’ Bobby looked at her intently, searchingly.
‘Clearly you don’t,’ he replied evasively.
‘No, his accent is awful.’
‘So?’
Lily gulped. She had not been prepared for this conversation — what if Bobby worked for the Gestapo? But then this was Colbert who she knew was conducting an affair with Celine Caton behind Monique’s back. No, he did not deserve his freedom.
‘I think he’s English,’ she replied.
‘I’m inclined to agree.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘Your message prompted me to find Monsieur Colbert and have a quiet chat.’ Bobby grimaced slightly. ‘He is a most unpleasant individual and someone who obviously specialises in making life difficult for others.’ He patted Lily’s arm reassuringly. ‘Leave him to me, Lily, I will ensure that he bothers you no more.’ The showgirl smiled with relief.
‘Thank you Bobby, he has already made himself cosy with one of our girls and I’m frightened of what she might tell him.’
‘Really? Hmm, that could be difficult for all of us.’ He thought a moment. ‘Let me see what I can do.’ His smile returned. ‘And I would appreciate your telling me if there are any other ... unpleasant individuals ... loitering at Le Prix. I would like to think that you and Lena and the delightful Monsieur Maurice and Madame Gloria were all safe from such threats.’
Lily smiled in return, fully aware that the handsome Bobby had just engaged her to spy for him in return for investigating the dreadful Paul Colbert. It was a slightly chilling thought and one she found difficult to reconcile with the charming smile currently directed at her. Even at Le Prix, loyalty was bought and sold alongside champagne, cognac and other less quantifiable delights.
Chapter 28
A goose behind the door
By late summer 1943, Madame Gloria and her black market supplier, Napoleon, had developed a sophisticated system for feeding the tenants of the little apartment boarding house. As Napoleon staggered into her kitchen one morning bearing a huge sack of produce, Gloria drained her glass of rhubarb wine — the latest crop of mulberries had yet to be harvested — and prepared to receive a load of contraband fare to feed her tenants. She mentally listed the unusual culinary delicacies that had appeared in Napoleon’s sacks over the past three years and arrived at a list that resembled the occupants of a small zoo. They included a hedgehog, a wild boar, several deer and a collection of foxes, an enormous variety of frogs, a swan, a series of goats, a falcon and a badger. She drew the line at cats and dogs and considered rabbits, crows, pigeons and horses such common fare that they barely rated a mention. Her culinary skills had been tested on many occasions — she had pondered the preparation and cooking of the hedgehog for some considerable period of time — and there had been occasions when she had been somewhat inventive with the names of her dishes. But there had been no complaints and, more’s the point, no-one had gone hungry and no-one had fallen ill due to her cooking. Madame Gloria nursed a warm glow of pride and wondered whether she should not compile a little cookbook once the war was over, describing her methods for cooking more exotic species. She dismissed the concept only when it occurred to her that awkward questions could be asked over how she had managed to procure hedgehogs and badgers in central Paris during wartime.
‘Good morning Monsieur,’ sang Madame Gloria, the advance party of Napoleon’s powerful cologne having warned her of his imminent approach. ‘Will you have a little glass of my special rhubarb wine?’
‘Morning Madame,’ boomed Napoleon in reply as he pulled his hat from his head and heaved an enormous sack onto the wooden table in Madame Gloria’s pretty, sunny kitchen. He took the glass from Gloria’s outstretched hand and downed it in one hearty gulp, exhaling loudly as the added alcohol asserted itself. ‘Merci, Madame, you make a mean drop!’ he wiped his mouth with a huge, grimy paw before beaming anew at his customer.
‘Got a real treat for you today, Madame Gloria, wait till you see!’ He grinned at the little landlady, his enormous white teeth dominating his dark features.
‘Ooh, Monsieur,’ trilled Gloria, clapping her hands in anticipation, ‘how very exciting!’ Napoleon opened the sack and a large goose fell onto the table, its glassy stare pointing accusingly at Madame Gloria, who jumped in fright.
‘Monsieur, what a surprise!’ she recovered quickly, fully aware what a coup this was. Goose was a rare treat, even when they were not at war and suffering under starvation rations. Napoleon’s grin took on a lopsided look.
‘Ran out in front of a truck it did, Madame,’ he confessed with emphatic sincerity, caressing his chin ruefully, ‘and we couldn’t waste it, now could we?’ Gloria shook her head decisively.
‘Certainly not, Monsieur, we will eat like kings this week!’ Napoleon beamed broadly and then swallowed the grin, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
‘We’ll just keep this one our secret, eh Madame? You see ...’ and he moved quickly to the door, opened it and thrust his giant head into the corridor before closing it and returning to Madame Gloria’s side.
‘There’s only one goose,’ he told her in a whisper, ‘I saved it for my best customer, know what I mean?’ Gloria did. Napoleon still procured goods for Madame Fresange, but preferred to deal with Madame Gloria who lacked La Fresange’s ruthless ability to negotiate.
‘Ah of course, Monsieur, I understand completely.’ She smiled a little smugly — clearly there was no goose for the formidable Fresange. Napoleon grasped the goose by the neck, pulling it unceremoniously from the sack, a collection of onions, potatoes and other vegetables rolling onto the table, rallying around the carcass as if lending it support. Gloria crossed the kitchen and opened a capacious cupboard, parting the piles of tablecloths and serviettes that filled its interior and pulling out several bottles and a large box of cigarettes. A laundry bag followed suit and Napoleon’s payment was rolled inside an old shirt and arranged carefully at the bottom of the bag.
‘Merci, Monsieur,’ announced Gloria, handing him the bag, ‘there are extra cigarettes as some may be ersatz — they make them of artichoke now, but I can never tell, and Mademoiselle Crecy was unsure.’ Napoleon’s face lit up at the mention of his favourite artiste.
‘Ah, the beautiful Mademoiselle Crecy, how is she?’
‘She is well, Monsieur, and will meet you as usual on Thursday. But she apologises for the cigarettes — her German supplier was a little unreliable this time.’
‘No matter, Madame,’ Napoleon waved a paw dismissively, ‘my clients are less fussy than they used to be. I am quite certain they cannot taste the difference. People are smoking almost anything these days. I have a contact in the country, a farmer, who smokes the hair of his horses — not to my taste — but he has become used to the flavour and he says some horses taste better than others. Truly we have become bizarre, have we not, Madame?’
Gloria agreed, shaking her faded coppery curls vigorously as she tried also to shake the image of a horse’s tail protruding from a cigarette. Napoleon took the laundry bag, shoved it into his sack, jammed his fedora on his head and bade her a booming goodbye.
‘Farewell Madame, until Thursday,’ he bellowed as he thumped his way out the door, down the little alleyway and back into the world of black market intrigue. Gloria and the goose regarded each other as she considered where she should keep the hapless creature until she had time to pluck it and prepare it for the pot. The march of determined footsteps added urgency to her deliberations and a dappled strawberry turban passed her kitchen window — La Fresange herself was set to cross the threshold. Gloria’s heart leapt. She must not see the goose!
Madame Fresange was in a particularly prickly mood as she marched over to visit her vacuous, alcoholic neighbour. She pursed her lips and set
her jaw, determined to speak to her sharply about the rather suspect activities of some of her tenants. She shook her head as she replayed the vision of poor Madame Auguste Dupleix, a respectable lady of quality, not to mention considerable wealth, who had summoned her to complain about the dreadful noise emanating from the apartment block inhabited by Madame Gloria’s tenants. Madame Auguste was a very sensitive and observant tenant who kept a careful eye on the neighbourhood to ensure that the presence of thugs and gangsters was immediately reported to the police. She had alerted Madame Fresange to some dreadful noises that had woken her very early this morning and which she described as approximating the sounds of torture and the beating of some poor wretch. Had the fearsome inhabitants of the rue de Saussaies taken up residence with Madame Gloria? Madame Dupleix had been driven to wonder whether this was the case. Then there had been some far more dreadful noises which Madame, a godfearing, church-going lady of the highest order, simply could not bring herself to describe. These horrendous sounds had also affected her poor little dog, her only companion which, like its owner, suffered from a very delicate constitution and was at the whim of an overly sensitive nature. Poor little Bonbon could not be expected to endure such shocks without his precarious health breaking down. Really, it was too much. When La Fresange had left her, Madame Dupleix had taken to her bed having imbibed a large tonic from Dr Paul, much of which, the sharp-eyed landlady suspected, comprised brandy of dubious quality. Still, she was determined to find out what was going on in Madame Gloria’s apartment boarding house — if the landlady herself was sober. La Fresange emitted a loud sniff at this further evidence of the laxity of morals that characterised her neighbour’s establishment. She could not remember the last time she had seen Madame Gloria without a glass in one hand. Perhaps this was why she never seemed to take the occupation seriously. She was permanently intoxicated. Well, that would not stop Madame Fresange giving her a good dressing down.
Secrets and Showgirls Page 28