As the warmth of late June descended on the city, more tales of the heavy fighting reached Paris and Maurice made it his mission to remind his coterie of performers that they must stay within the legal limits of the occupiers’ laws, at least until the Allies arrived to liberate them. While he hoped that the Allies would not take too long to deliver them from the clutches of the Germans, Maurice could not be sure that this would happen swiftly since, in the weeks since the Allied forces had landed, they appeared to have become stuck in the coastal areas and, according to Napoleon, were having difficulty moving inland. That was it, Maurice decided, he would simply have to be prepared to last a little longer while the Allies organised themselves for the push to Paris.
While Maurice was keen to advocate caution and prudence, particularly among his more passionate employees, he resisted any temptation to personally venture into the apartments of his showgirls and artistes, conscious that the freedom he permitted them meant that he should also respect their privacy. Deep down, however, if he was absolutely honest with himself, he had to admit that he was a little concerned over what he might find should he venture into the inner sanctum of his performers’ lives, particularly if Chinon and his collection of banned communist broadsheets provided any indication. As he mulled over this, and the rather alarming reality that this policy could also leave him somewhat exposed, he crossed the tiny courtyard around which the living quarters of his little company were arranged. This was no easy matter as, during the occupation, the courtyard had gradually filled with the paraphernalia of Madame Gloria’s dietary supplements, solid evidence of her ingenious attempts to beat the rationer. There were pots of every shape and size, the old cupboard that sprouted plants of every description, the converted bed that housed her rabbits, the ancient copper that was now virtually a freestanding pumpkin and all manner of other strange objects that housed vegetables and livestock of some sort. It resembled a mini obstacle course and now required some care to negotiate safely lest the unwary pedestrian land upended in a tub of potatoes or sprawled on a shelf of rampant tomatoes.
Crossing the courtyard from the other direction was the perennially intimidating Madame Fresange, dressed in a vibrant spring dress of a most alarming yellow that Maurice was certain closely resembled some curtains that had fluttered in the hallway next to his apartment until quite recently. Madame had teamed her vibrant dress with a turban in a colour that Maurice could only describe as violent orange. La Fresange clattered along in her wooden-soled shoes looking for all the world like an oversized lollipop and wearing an expression of strident disapproval, her lips pursed so firmly that they had all but disappeared. Monsieur Maurice, ever the gentleman, doffed his hat and sang a bright good morning to his landlady, careful to also maintain a close eye on the sinuous path through the obstacle course. As she turned her look of disapproval on him, no doubt ready to accuse his performers of some apparent indiscretion, her eye was caught by a dullish brown sheet of paper that fluttered lazily from one of the windows high up in Madame Gloria’s apartment block. Maurice spied the paper at the same time and both watched in unison as it sank gracefully towards the cluttered courtyard, catching a wafting breeze that lifted it here and a more powerful breath that sent it spinning there. It balanced gently at the top of the vegetable cupboard, pausing momentarily before continuing its journey via the pumpkin copper and teetering on the edge of the hutch where several small rabbits paused their lunch to regard it curiously. Finally the sheet completed its journey to earth and landed in a large pot of rutabagas that sat precisely between the watchers, the boldly printed typeface landing face up as Maurice raced to retrieve it. But La Fresange now displayed an uncharacteristic rapidity of movement and, springing suddenly forward, reached the paper a split second before Maurice, grasping it and reading the blazing headlines as Maurice reached her. He peered over her shoulder and what he saw made his blood run cold. It was the front page of the banned communist newspaper L’Humanité. ‘A Call to Arms!’ the headline blared, exhorting communists everywhere to stockpile arms of any description ready for the Allied liberation of Paris which was, apparently, imminent.
La Fresange was just as astounded as Maurice at the broadsheet that had floated so ill-advisedly to earth and she gaped as she read, her mouth opening and closing like a fish in its death throes. Maurice saw his chance and grabbed it with both hands, gently relieving the gaping landlady of the offending newspaper, ready to stuff it into his jacket pocket. But while La Fresange may not have known much about the communists and their broadsheet, she recognised contraband when she saw it and she was not about to relinquish something that could earn her several hundred francs in monetary reward from the Germans. She held her end of the broadsheet tightly and an undignified tussle ensued.
‘Madame,’ began Maurice, determined to remain courtly and unruffled, ‘this is a prop from the theatre, used by one of my performers in an act for the show. It is nothing that should cause you concern. Let me dispose of it for you.’ But Madame remained dauntingly unconvinced.
‘Non, Monsieur, I think this may be a copy of an illicit newspaper and I will have to hand it over to the Germans. They need to know about such matters as this,’ she added stridently, tapping the shouting headlines that promised insurrection and death to the Germans with such unfortunate clarity. Maurice felt himself turn ashen.
‘I assure you, Madame, it is simply a theatre prop that will cause alarm unnecessarily. If you take this to the Germans they will think there is a revolution being planned and they may send troops to your apartment building. Imagine how your tenants will feel if the Germans threaten them.’
‘Law-abiding citizens have nothing to fear, Monsieur,’ she replied tenaciously, echoing the favourite catchcry of the Gestapo raiding parties, ‘and I must insist that you release your half of this illegal document!’ But Maurice would do nothing of the sort and clung grimly to his half of the broadsheet as if his life depended on it — which, in fact, it did.
Help arrived from the most unexpected quarter, its timing nonetheless perfect. At the very moment that Maurice was tussling with La Fresange over a communist broadsheet in the crowded courtyard, an unearthly scream rent the air. Madame Fresange immediately released the broadsheet, allowing Maurice to stuff it unceremoniously into his coat pocket and turn towards the source of the scream.
‘Mon Dieu!’ yelped La Fresange, ‘What was that?’ The scream sounded again and this time its author appeared at the window. It was Madame Fresange’s elderly hypochondriac tenant Madame Auguste Dupleix who stood at her window and let forth a scream that rivalled the cry of a banshee.
‘My dog!’ she cried, ‘my little Bonbon! He is being stolen by a criminal!’ She turned from the window and addressed someone in her apartment. ‘You villain, put him down!’ A ferocious yapping ensued and Madame Auguste let loose another bloodcurdling scream as Monsieur Maurice and Madame Fresange hastened to her aid, struggling to find a swift path around the pots, beds and cupboards. Moments later they raced into the apartment and up the stairs as the yapping and screaming continued, now merging with the howls of a man in pain.
‘Alright, alright,’ he screeched, ‘you can ’ave your bleedin’ dog back, but get it orff me!’ Maurice arrived at Madame Auguste’s apartment first and was greeted by the sight of Paul Colbert attempting unsuccessfully to prise Madame Auguste’s Pekinese from his ankle. Blood had begun to pool from what could have been a severe wound, but was obscured by the clamped jaws of the Pekinese, which steadfastly refused to release its victim. Maurice spoke soothingly to the little dog, patting its head and, with the assistance of several barked commands from Madame Auguste, the dog was persuaded to grudgingly relinquish its hold, although it continued to yap viciously at its would-be kidnapper. La Fresange calmed her elderly tenant while Maurice turned to Colbert who was attempting to limp away unnoticed.
‘Monsieur, you had best leave these premises and never return,’ Monsieur Maurice told him in his most threatening tone, ‘or I will
be forced to call the police. Shame on you,’ he added, ‘for attempting to steal an old lady’s harmless little companion.’
‘Harmless little companion?’ retorted Colbert, grimacing in pain, ‘there are lions in zoos that are friendlier than that hell hound, it deserves to end up in the pot!’
‘Be off!’ was Maurice’s only reply as the villain limped his way out of the apartment leaving a trail of bloodstains that Maurice knew would raise the ire of the pernickety Fresange. He watched to ensure that the man left the building, noting his thin build and strange accent. So this was Paul Colbert, the man his showgirls were certain was responsible for the police and Gestapo raids. Maurice was concerned. This was a man who was clearly determined to make mischief for him and his little troupe. He would have to warn his performers that Paul Colbert was very much in evidence and they would have to be careful not to arouse suspicion. With that in mind, Monsieur Maurice patted his pocket where the incriminating copy of L’Humanité rested uneasily. He set his jaw and turned to march steadily towards the room of his communist ringmaster.
It was the customary mix of stale brandy fumes and cigarette smoke that hit him first. As he neared the room, Maurice found himself in the early grip of a combination of asphyxiation and light-headedness. He took a final gulp of semi-clear air, not unlike a drowning man searching for that last, desperate gasp, and knocked on the door.
‘Chinon,’ he called in a loud, urgent whisper, ‘it is I, Maurice.’ A slight movement from inside the room was followed by a pause. Then more movement and finally the click as the door was unlocked and opened slowly. The tidal wave of fumes that engulfed the little manager almost knocked him from his feet. He coughed and spluttered as the ruffled head of his Master of Ceremonies emerged.
‘Maurice,’ it hissed, ‘were you followed?’
‘Non, non, but I do need to come in and talk to you,’ coughed Maurice. The door opened and, as more of the noxious fumes emerged to envelop him, Maurice was pulled unceremoniously into the room, the door closed firmly behind him.
Inside, the front of the room was swallowed by an almost total darkness, the curtains drawn with just a single globe on a battered lamp stem casting a diffused light. The window that overlooked the courtyard at the back of the room was slightly ajar, its curtains held back by a pile of newspapers. Maurice realised that this was the source of the sheet that had insinuated itself so innocuously into the courtyard and he made a mental note to shift the pile. The safer alternative of closing the window would, alas, certainly ensure his immediate death by asphyxiation. The room itself was a mass of paper and empty bottles, the dishevelled bed the only evidence that this was a bedroom rather than the home of a drunken newspaper proprietor. All around him Maurice could see copies of the banned communist broadsheet. His heart sank even as he fought to breathe, the insistent fumes seeping into his throat and pouring into his nose. But Chinon had either discovered some other means to draw breath or was utterly immune to the noxious fumes.
‘Maurice!’ he cried, ‘we have the Boches on the run! Liberation beckons, comrade, freedom is surely just days away!’ He brushed a tear from his cheek, his haggard face a picture of barely contained jubilation. ‘Of course,’ he added, his tone now more businesslike, ‘there will be a reckoning, but I will put in a word for you.’ He gripped his manager’s arm. ‘You could be a true comrade if you were not such a devoted capitalist.’ But Maurice was far from sure that he would survive long enough to see a communist reckoning. He pulled the crumpled broadsheet from his pocket and brandished it under Chinon’s nose.
‘Mon ami, it is a Gestapo reckoning that will be the end of us if you continue to spread these around the courtyard — are you out of your mind? You will have us all shot! I had to wrestle with Madame Fresange over this, she was going to take it to the Germans!’ Chinon shook his head and muttered darkly.
‘That viper! She will be one of the first to meet her reckoning, Maurice, of that you may be sure.’
‘Alas, Chinon, the reckoning may come too late — she may already have had us all shot. You must be more careful!’ He was sweating profusely in the close atmosphere of the bedroom while the noxious fumes pursued their mission to asphyxiate him. But Chinon merely shrugged, his square shoulders barely moving under a grubby singlet.
‘Ah, but our liberation is at hand, Maurice, it is time for us to show our true colours.’ Maurice turned a shade of crimson, a combination of the early stages of oxygen deprivation and his desperation to force his performer to see sense.
‘Non, Chinon, our liberation may still be weeks, perhaps months away, we cannot afford to take chances. Do you not want to live to see the Allies enter the city?’ A growl was all that issued from the shaggy head which now shook vigorously.
‘Maurice, you must understand that the Allies are not liberators, they are simply the means of evicting the fascist Boche bastards from our city. It is the comrades who will be our true liberators.’ Maurice was fast losing the fight for sensibility, both on his own and his performer’s account.
‘Chinon, mon ami,’ he began, more gently this time, ‘when the Allies arrive to confront the Germans, we will all help to liberate the city, all of us, alongside the comrades. But until they arrive, we must bide our time, do you understand?’ The shaggy head nodded as its owner reached for a nearby bottle which, unlike its legions of fellows, appeared to have something left inside. A cigarette also appeared just as Maurice decided that another layer of smoke would almost certainly see him expire. He began to take his leave, suppressing his sense of urgency in favour of a final desperate plea with his Master of Ceremonies to remove the offending newspapers.
‘I will take these newspapers and burn them, or they may be the end of us all.’ He moved to gather the first pile, but suddenly realised the enormity of his task. The newspapers were everywhere. It would take him several trips down two flights of stairs to remove all the illegal broadsheets. He looked at Chinon who was taking another hefty swig of brandy. Truly, thought Maurice, his insides must be utterly pickled. He sighed as he realised that he would have to find another means of removing the banned newspapers.
‘Chinon, you have so many newspapers, I cannot possibly burn them all at once. I presume you have somewhere we can hide them until liberation?’
‘Of course.’ The little communist gestured towards the cupboard with a wave of his cigarette. Maurice exploded.
‘Not in the cupboard, Chinon, that is the first place they will look!’
‘Non, non, Maurice, I am not a simpleton! There is a false back to the cupboard. That is where I keep my collection hidden.’ Maurice started, as he always did, at the word ‘collection’. He could feel the beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. With great reluctance he took a deep breath, straining against the worst of the fumes and decided that the less he knew the better.
‘Please let me help you move these, my friend. They must disappear or we are all on our way to the dungeons in the rue de Saussaies, eh?’ The shaggy head nodded and Maurice bent his back and helped clear the room. He worked hard, aware that he would not sleep until the last of the illegal newspapers was safely hidden even from the most prying eyes, of which there were plenty, although his mind’s eye was dominated by one pair in particular. Then he would open every window and possibly the door or his own demise surely threatened.
His task completed, Maurice extracted himself with some difficulty from Chinon’s smoke-filled den, having ensured that every copy of L’Humanité was carefully hidden in a false wall at the back of the cupboard, artfully constructed by one of Le Prix’s enterprising men. Maurice wished fervently that he knew just which of these enterprising men had displayed such carpentry skills. The fewer people who knew of Chinon’s collection of contraband the better. Having survived the dreadful years of the occupation, Maurice was determined that he and his company would be alive to celebrate the liberation of their beloved city. But, with increasing acts of sabotage and violence by the resistance and, more rec
ently, mounting air raids by the Allied air forces, survival was by no means assured. He mopped his brow with the large, spotted handkerchief he had liberated from the hiding place under the stage. Truly survival was a difficult feat. He wondered suddenly what would have happened if Paul Colbert had not chosen that precise moment to attempt his theft of Madame Auguste’s dog — or if Madame Fresange had picked up the copy of L’Humanité in the courtyard without Monsieur Maurice there to arrest her progress. He felt his heartbeat quicken. He must be more vigilant or they would all be last-minute guests of the Gestapo.
Chapter 36
Fomenting insurrection
It was a warm July morning and Monsieur Maurice was keen to join Madame Lucille for a stocktake following a very busy week at Le Prix. Somehow the Germans appeared to be drinking more than usual and he wondered whether the latest rumours of an Allied advance from the coast had sown panic among the occupiers. Maurice still could not bring himself to entertain hopes that the end of the occupation might be imminent, frightened that such fragile hopes would be all too easily dashed. He wandered through the back door of the cabaret, through the darkened theatre and approached the bar only to have his progress arrested by Cabot, who was fretting and agitated.
‘Monsieur Maurice, come quickly!’
‘What is it Cabot?’
‘The police, the police are here!’ and with that last bleat, the gnomish janitor fled into the depths of the theatre as if the devil himself were in pursuit. Maurice sighed heavily and, with a reassuring glance at Madame Lucille, frozen mid-polish between glass and tea towel, hurried to the front of Le Prix, ready to show the police through the former bolt hole beneath the stage once again. A large police sergeant, his kepi standing smartly to attention, was advancing to meet him.
Secrets and Showgirls Page 38