Maurice reached for his damp handkerchief once more as the sweat collected in large rivulets on his brow, silently cursing the comrades who had allowed his Master of Ceremonies to become dangerously carried away by his patriotic fervour. The Milice was the French paramilitary force that specialised in hunting the resistance. Tangling with its ruthless members was not the way to guarantee a long and happy life. Maurice paused a moment to stem the rivulets of sweat and allow his racing heart to slow a little, spluttering as the brandy fumes found him once more.
‘Chinon, taking on the Milice is just another form of suicide,’ Maurice told him with all the fortitude he could muster. ‘I hope you will have the sense to stay away from any fighting and play your part by continuing to watch and listen to the many high-ranking Germans who come to Le Prix.’
The harried manager sought to tread warily, conscious that a clumsy attempt to spy on the cabaret’s German clientele was just as likely to have them all arrested. He floundered for some happy middle ground that would preserve the patriotic dignity of his cabaret’s resident communist and also protect the sacred anonymity of his little company.
‘Surely the comrades recognise the value of your reports?’ he added lamely, aware that failure stared him in the eye.
‘But Maurice, I want to fight!’ exploded Chinon. ‘If I cannot fight, then I cannot be regarded as a true patriot!’ Several swigs of the brandy bottle ensued as Maurice searched his mind for a more persuasive argument that would also involve a pacifist approach.
‘You can fight, Chinon, but in a different way, and one that will not bring the wrath of the Germans down on all of us at Le Prix. Spying is dangerous work and needs a brave man who can watch carefully and report. It is certainly not for the faint-hearted.’ His brain raced furiously as he searched for something valiant but safe that would convince his shaggy-headed performer who now studied him with patent disapproval. He returned to the swirling rumour mill that promised an Allied invasion in the next few months.
‘My friend, the comrades will need information to assist them to prepare for the invasion of the Allied forces that surely must come soon. They will need plenty of intelligence that you can provide from your position at Le Prix. There will be much they need to know.’ Another swig of the brandy bottle ensued before Chinon began to nod his head, grudgingly aware of the truth of Maurice’s words.
‘You are right, Maurice, the comrades will need good intelligence to help them plan the overthrow of the Boche invaders. But the capitalists cannot be relied on to liberate us quickly, we must liberate ourselves. And there is only one way to do that!’ He reached for the rifle but, failing to find it on the table, having forgotten that Maurice had wrapped it and shoved it under the bed, he reached for the brandy bottle instead, brandishing it menacingly.
‘I have decided,’ he announced, after several rapid swigs that almost saw the bottle emptied, ‘that I will fight alongside the comrades when the time comes.’ He eyed Maurice. ‘I know you are a true patriot, my friend, although you are also a true capitalist, but I could ask the comrades if you could fight with us. I could mention your service in the last war that saw the Boche bastards kicked out of France to fester in their fascist swamp.’
‘Oh, non, non, merci Chinon,’ protested Maurice hastily, attempting to clothe his response in deepest sincerity, ‘I am honoured that you should think me worthy, but I am too old and I doubt the comrades would accept me, as I am as you say, a true capitalist.’ He sighed and his shoulders sagged as he accepted defeat. ‘If you must fight, Chinon, then do so, I will not stand in your way.’
‘That is just as well, Maurice,’ retorted the other in a gruff voice, ‘because I would not like to be forced to use that fearful weapon on you if you tried to prevent me doing my patriotic duty.’ And he gestured towards the bed where the fearful weapon lurked in its sheeted shroud. Maurice swallowed a smile.
‘Mon ami, I would not make you do that, although I know the true strength of your patriotism.’
Visions of the ancient rifle exploding in the hands of its user crowded his mind. Truly it would be safer for them all if that particular beast were returned to its museum. He patted his friend grimly on the shoulder and moved towards the door, conscious that fresh air and saner minds lay just the other side of its solid bulk. He would leave Chinon in the hands of the comrades who no doubt had some plan that could make use of his patriotic fervour but would ignore his alcoholic tendencies and utter lack of experience in anything more than a street brawl. He descended from Chinon’s particular version of Hell into Madame Gloria’s Heaven, desperate for a cup of ersatz coffee and a dose of her sunny equanimity.
Chapter 35
Knee-deep in contraband
As spring deepened and the days grew warmer with the approach of summer, the rumours of an Allied invasion persisted and began to take hold in a population that was growing increasingly restive. The Germans became correspondingly nervous, erecting protective barricades around patrol posts, strongpoints and the hotels that were their offices and headquarters, guarded day and night by glowering German troops and French police, forcing complaining pedestrians to take wide detours. The little company at Le Prix had noticed one other significant change that might not have been obvious to the average Parisian — the young, blonde and handsome German soldiers who had marched down the Champs-Élysées in June 1940 had been replaced by older soldiers who were flabbier, scruffier and hardly the example of Aryan manhood Parisian women had become used to encountering over the years of the occupation. The showgirls at Le Prix could barely hide their disappointment.
‘If we have to cope with an invader, he could at least be attractive,’ moaned Sadie.
‘I heard that the Madam at One Two Two has complained at the drop in the quality of her clientele,’ remarked Poppy, who had picked up this particular titbit from Gunther.
‘She should be pleased she’s still open for business,’ retorted Sadie, ‘if that pious old Marshal Pétain had his way, all the brothels would be closed and their inhabitants would spend their time on their knees saying the Rosary.’
When the Allied forces finally landed on the 6th ofJune, the news spread with lightning speed. For those who listened — illegally of course — to the wireless transmissions by the BBC, vivid descriptions of the bloody battles involving Allied troops were available in regular broadcasts by plucky reporters. But for those for whom the BBC represented another reason for the unexpected intrusion of the leather-coated gents of the Gestapo, the rumour mill was the only means of remaining informed. Monsieur Maurice was adamant that his performers remain law-abiding for as long as it took the Allied troops to travel the short distance from the coast to Paris and liberate the city. The trouble was, thought Maurice, the Germans simply refused to admit that they were beaten and leave like good sports. While there had been a gradual drawdown of troops, plenty of them remained, the nightly attendances at Le Prix evidence enough that the grey-green hordes were still in Paris en masse.
The news of the Allied landings arrived at Le Prix via its favourite black marketeer and purveyor of the latest rumours. Napoleon’s truck screeched up the alleyway that bordered Madame Gloria’s apartment boarding house and the big man leapt out with surprising agility, bursting into Madame Gloria’s kitchen in a frenzy of excitement.
‘It’s happened,’ he told a shocked Monsieur Maurice and Madame Gloria, ‘the Allies have landed!’ They reeled with the impact of the news.
‘Really Monsieur? They have really landed?’
‘They have,’ announced the hairy procurer proudly. ‘My wife’s cousin’s best friend’s nephew has a girlfriend whose brother listens to the BBC.’ He surveyed his audience, now mired in the depths of confusion. ‘Course you’ll have to keep that a secret, know what I mean?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ hastened Maurice, ‘where are they ... the Allies, that is, not your wife’s cousin’s ...’ he gave up in despair, ‘where are the Allied forces?’
‘On t
he coast,’ replied Napoleon, conscious of stating the obvious, ‘but they’ll be in Paris in a matter of weeks, and then everything will change.’
‘And will that affect your ... er ... business, Monsieur?’ The big head shook vigorously.
‘Non, Monsieur, of that you can be sure. Everyone needs a businessman, even the Allies!’
As if in response to the landings, resistance groups instituted a campaign of sabotage that targeted roads, bridges and railway lines, factories and facilities in various parts of the country. In Paris, the railways were closed for repairs as great gaping holes were blown in both stations and tracks across the city and the hapless citizens grumbled even more about the inconvenience of the war. A nervous Monsieur Maurice advised his company members to stay as close to Le Prix as possible to avoid being caught up in the destructive activities of the resistance and the inevitable reprisals inflicted by the Germans. The city became increasingly tense as the weather continued to warm, shortages intensified with the closure of many of the outbound railway lines, and Parisians became progressively bolder in confronting the occupier given the news of the battles raging along the coast.
But at Le Prix, life ebbed and flowed as usual, with Monsieur Maurice fighting to retain the thin veneer of normality that he had established despite the fact that the city was overrun with jackbooted occupiers. His shows continued to draw large crowds of German officers and the Governor somehow managed to maintain the constant flow of alcohol and cigarettes that underwrote the cabaret’s profits. Maurice checked his accounts anxiously, unsure how long he could continue diverting a portion of the Governor’s supplies to fund his black market purchases. Fortunately, the Germans seemed so intent on hunting the resistance that they had allowed their customary almost forensic accounting practices to slip and Maurice had exploited this to full effect. But for how much longer? If only the Allies would deliver the city’s promised liberation, surely all this secrecy and rationing would come to an end.
Early one sultry June morning, Monsieur Maurice made his way as he always did, through the darkened theatre to check stocks with Madame Lucille and then out the back door to Madame Gloria’s cheery kitchen for a cup of ersatz coffee and a cosy chat. But, as he crossed the alleyway at the back of the theatre, he was startled to hear a low groan somewhere close by. He stopped and listened. There it was again. A low, rumbling growl, possibly a dog in distress. Maurice was surprised at the thought of a dog nearby as most had ended up in the cooking pot to supplement the starvation rations on which the city was forced to live. Only Madame Auguste Dupleix’s notoriously savage Pekinese, kept by her side at all times, had survived the lean times and, given the dog’s vicious nature, only Madame Auguste herself was grateful for its survival. Now Maurice hastened to retrieve whatever unfortunate animal lay in the bushes, distressed that it could have been injured by a speeding car and somehow made its way to Madame Gloria’s garden at the front of the apartment boarding house directly behind Le Prix.
He crossed the alleyway and followed the low groaning towards the garden at the base of Madame Gloria’s apartment block. He peered into the shrubbery, now featuring a collection of summer vegetables and edible plants with which Madame Gloria supplemented the diet of her tenants. A flattened section of cabbage pointed to the origin of the noise and Monsieur Maurice stopped and bent double, ready to assess the luckless creature’s injuries. He peered into the foliage only to start in fright as a pair of boots confronted him. While the rest of the wretched individual lay completely submerged amid Madame Gloria’s vegetables, Maurice immediately identified the source of the noise, now more a rumble than a groan.
‘Chinon!’ he called quietly, ‘Chinon, are you hurt?’ A louder rumble was the only response. ‘Chinon, it is I, Maurice, let me help you up.’
‘No, Maurice, just leave me here to die, I am no use to my country, I wish to die.’ A large empty brandy bottle rolled out as the boots kicked in despair.
‘Chinon, I respect your wish to die, but please do not do this in Madame Gloria’s cabbage patch. She will be most distressed.’ He reached in and found an arm, which he began to pull gently. ‘Come, mon ami, let me take you inside.’ The rest of the body began to follow, although the rumbling, having abated momentarily, now resumed in full force.
‘Maurice, I am no use, the comrades will not let me fight with them, they plan to leave me behind like a sack of rubbish.’ He began to sob and Maurice cursed the heartless comrades who he thought showed scant regard for the feelings of a true communist patriot.
‘Now then, my friend, I will take you upstairs and you can tell me all about it.’
By now he had managed to wrest the diminutive performer from the cabbage, which was proving unexpectedly possessive of its latest acquisition, and lead him to the front door where they began to climb the stairs. Maurice regarded his Master of Ceremonies with concern. Chinon was in a dreadful state, having clearly spent a good proportion of the night in a drunken stupor amid the vegetables. His shaggy hair resembled an abandoned bird’s nest, his face was blotched and haggard and his eyes were bloodshot and ringed with dark circles. He groaned occasionally and muttered, wiping a grubby hand across his face several times as they ascended the stairs, Maurice doing his best to support his friend.
They reached Chloe’s room on the second floor and Maurice knocked quietly, conscious that the other girls who lived close by would not be pleased to be woken so early. A sleepy Chloe opened the door and Chinon fell into her arms, sobbing anew as Maurice helped her wrestle him to the bed where he collapsed, spreadeagled, Chloe pulling off his boots as Maurice tried to calm his communist ringmaster as best he could.
‘They won’t let me join them in their headquarters,’ sobbed Chinon, ‘they said I could not fight with them, but that I must stay at Le Prix.’ In a sudden burst of energy he grabbed the little manager by the collar of his coat. ‘Maurice, there will be no fighting in this part of Paris, it will happen in the city when the Allies arrive and I will miss my moment of patriotic glory. My whole life will have been in vain, I will have lived for nothing! Nothing!’ and he flung himself back on the bed, dissolving into heavy sobs, his shoulders heaving and his legs kicking in frustration. Maurice was alarmed.
‘Calm yourself, Chinon, you will make yourself ill,’ he cried desperately.
‘I want to be ill, I want to die!’ came the wailed response. Maurice glanced at the frightened Chloe, sending her on a quest for strong coffee from Madame Gloria. She threw some clothes over her nightdress and raced down to Madame Gloria’s kitchen to find something that would bring Chinon to his senses.
By the time Chloe returned with a small jug of syrupy ersatz coffee, the wailing had abated and Chinon was calmer. He told Maurice that he had met the comrades the previous night after the show, in a meeting of the local cell of the brotherhood. He had handed over the antique Berthier rifle, meticulously clean, although no closer to working since the museum staff had removed all its internal parts. But the comrades thought it might have some use as a club given the shortage of weapons since the fickle capitalist Allies had refused to supply the communist fighters. Maurice mentally thanked the Allies for their caution, confident that a communist insurrection would be even more problematic for the weary people of Paris than the current occupation. He was also grateful that the brotherhood had taken Chinon’s weapon which, given its size, could indeed prove a useful deterrent. Confronted in a dark alley with a weapon like the Berthier rifle, Maurice was certain many a man would cower in fear.
The ersatz coffee, for all its dubious quality, seemed to calm Chinon further and Maurice was finally able to talk some sense into his diminutive Master of Ceremonies.
‘Chinon,’ he told the bushy-headed ringmaster gravely, ‘I do not believe that there will be fighting only in the centre of Paris.’ The bleary eyes fixed on him. ‘I think that the Germans will not want to give up this city. I think they will fight on every block, in every street, and we will all be called on to defend our hom
es.’ The haggard face lifted to regard him doubtfully.
‘You really think this Maurice?’ The moustachioed manager nodded.
‘I do. Those comrades who collect in the centre of the city will certainly fight, but they will not see the real fight — for the suburbs of Paris.’ The light began to return to the bloodshot eyes and Maurice continued. ‘Think of the revolution,’ he told the tousled patriot, ‘think of the Paris commune, these great moments in our history — those battles were waged not just in the centre of the city, but in the suburbs of Paris.’ Now the eyes began to light up. ‘This battle will be no different.’ Chinon began to smile. Maurice paused as the smile became a grin and then the stocky red slapped Maurice so hard on the back that the little manager almost fell off the bed.
‘You are right, Maurice, you are right!’ he cried jubilantly. ‘The people will fight in every street, on every city corner, in every building and apartment and the city will be liberated — by us!’ A darker thought crossed his mind and he grinned wickedly. ‘And all the comrades who told me I was useless will believe that I have missed the greatest moment in the history of Paris — but I will be there!’ he broke into a tuneless rendition of the communist anthem the ‘Internationale’ until Maurice hissed at him to stop with such vigour that he was shocked into silence.
‘You must be cautious,’ enjoined Maurice, almost in tears himself at the thought that the ragged strains of the anthem, delivered with such vigour, might be wafting into the ear trumpet of the ever-vigilant Madame Auguste Dupleix. ‘You want to live to liberate Paris, do you not?’ The ardent communist nodded vigorously and a finger was placed on lips in a gesture of silence. Maurice eventually extracted himself with enormous relief and slowly descended the stairs wondering whether he or his communist front man would live to see liberation. He was beginning to regard the odds as minimal at best.
Secrets and Showgirls Page 37