Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  Indeed Parisians were becoming emboldened by the obvious panic of the erstwhile invader. The conquering heroes now appeared far more frightened of the population, which turned out in droves to watch as the files were burned in the rue des Saussaies and the other Gestapo offices in the Avenue Foch and at headquarters around the city, taunting the German soldiers and urging them on their way in no uncertain terms. Such vast quantities of files were burned that ash fell from the sky in nearby streets. The evidence of the occupation was literally going up in smoke. The city’s inhabitants sensed a changing of the guard and they could not have been happier. But the Germans were clearly not prepared to abandon Paris without a fight. Maurice heard rumours of German tanks clanking throughout the city and an enormous gun being installed at the Jardin du Luxembourg, taking the place of the lunchtime strollers who traditionally filled the park.

  But, for Maurice, the most frightening development came on the 10th of August with a communist call to arms, issued through the pointlessly banned broadsheet L’Humanité, and which filled Le Prix’s resident communist with glee.

  ‘Look Maurice!’ shouted Chinon in jubilation, pointing to the headline in the latest issue which screamed ‘Everyone to Battle!’, ‘now we will have some action!’ Maurice’s heart sank. Now he would have no hope of containing the wild, patriotic exuberance of his Master of Ceremonies. He had no choice but to accept the inevitable.

  ‘Well Chinon,’ he told his friend gravely, ‘you must do as the comrades command. Only,’ he added, his tone assuming a pleading note, ‘do be careful. There is nothing glorious about a pointless death, no matter what the comrades tell you.’

  ‘Ah, Maurice,’ assured the little communist, ‘we are prepared, we are ready for anything the Boches can throw at us. Just watch as we liberate our city. Vive la France!!’

  Maurice left him to his jubilation and retired to Madame Gloria’s bustling kitchen where he knew Napoleon was expected. Maurice had been careful to ensure that his black market supplies would continue as the shops were emptying fast and even the previous meagre stocks of bread and basic vegetables were not being replaced in viable quantities. The big man arrived early that afternoon, his charcoal-fired truck puffing its way to the front of Madame Gloria’s apartment boarding house, leaving clouds of fumes to dissipate slowly in the searing August heat. Napoleon had taken a delivery from a contact in the countryside and had arrived with more adventurous options for Madame Gloria’s menu, including a fox and a large grass snake. Gloria shrieked with horror at the sight of the snake which Napoleon brandished in one fist, draping it around his neck to demonstrate to her that it was truly deceased. But Gloria would have none of it, insisting that she could not possibly feed it to her tenants. Napoleon was unfussed.

  ‘No matter, Madame, I will give it to Madame Fresange who is less sensitive and delicate. Although I can assure you that these snakes are often eaten in some parts where they are considered a delicacy. They say the meat is like chicken, just a little more ... muscular.’ Gloria shivered in horror and Napoleon disappeared to his truck, bringing a second sack which he emptied onto the table to reveal several small squirrels. Gloria was marginally less horrified at the sight of the tiny, furry bodies.

  ‘Poor things!’ she cried piteously, ‘I hope your country friend did not kill them, Monsieur.’ Napoleon looked at her quizzically before leaping to explain.

  ‘Oh, non, Madame,’ he replied, prodding the bodies gently, ‘non, these appear to be older squirrels that no doubt simply died of old age after a long and happy life, performing their final service for your table.’ Gloria looked askance but, keen for something to fill the gaping holes in her larder, accepted the squirrels with obvious reluctance.

  ‘Very well Monsieur, since you assure me that they were not cruelly hunted and killed, I will accept them.’

  ‘But of course, Madame,’ he lied smoothly, giving her an earnest look, ‘you have my assurance.’

  The opening of the door saved the swarthy black marketeer from further scrutiny and he greeted Monsieur Maurice with an unexpected burst of enthusiasm.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Maurice,’ he bellowed, clapping a hairy paw on the little man’s shoulder, ‘what news eh?’ Maurice spluttered and recovered, keen to hear the latest gossip from the shabby underside of Paris which fomented rumours at an extraordinary rate, generally of the most astonishing kind. Indeed he vaguely recalled being reliably assured some months earlier that Hitler had left Berlin to join a Japanese suicide cult. It had taken some time for the credibility of Napoleon’s network to recover from that outlandish pronouncement. But now Maurice was grateful for any news that Napoleon could impart. He shook his ginger head and his brow furrowed in deep creases as he acknowledged the gravity of the situation in the streets of the city.

  ‘Times are dangerous and uncertain, Monsieur, there are so many men with weapons on the streets, both ours and theirs and some in between, we dare not venture out.’ Napoleon nodded in agreement.

  ‘It is certainly dangerous, Monsieur, three times my truck was stopped this morning on my way here. Lucky for me I have a collection of passes — one for the Germans, one for the police, one for the resistance and one for the Milice.’ He glanced at the door and lowered his voice. ‘The Milice are true bastards — pardon Madame — the most trigger-happy of them all. I am very fortunate to be here.’ Maurice nodded his agreement while Madame Gloria paled in fright. ‘But,’ the big man continued, ‘at least the Germans are leaving, and now the railways are on strike.’ Maurice started.

  ‘On strike!’

  ‘Of course. They seem to be no longer afraid of the Germans and they want to help the Allies. If the trains do not run, then there will be no troops going to the front, eh?’ He grinned happily, as if pleased that civil disobedience seemed to be reasserting itself as a form of resistance. Maurice smiled wanly. He would be happier if he thought that civil disobedience was the only form of resistance the city would see in the coming weeks as a confrontation between the invader and the Allies loomed.

  Chapter 37

  The barricade king

  On the steamy, sultry day that was Thursday the 10th of August, when the heat lay like a thick blanket over the restive city, the new German Military Governor of Paris arrived. Faced with a burgeoning popular insurrection and not a man to brook opposition in any form, he immediately decided to remind the population that the Germans were still very much in control. A day later, large bodies of glowering troops bristling with weapons marched down the Champs-Élysées in a show of force designed to intimidate the people of Paris. Anti-aircraft guns were towed through the streets of the seething capital while enormous, battle-scarred tanks clanked around the suburbs ripping up the pavements and the cobbled surface of the streets, and flattening anything in their path. Lily, Poppy and Crecy stood outside Le Prix and watched as a huge, drab-green tank rolled past, its long-barrelled gun traversing alarmingly, while its menacing occupants glared from the raised hatch in the turret as if daring the population to make a false move.

  ‘Ooh, I just love tanks,’ declared Crecy, ‘so masculine with that big gun out the front. I bet those wicked boys are having the most wonderful time driving around frightening everyone.’ He raised one arm, a delicate lace handkerchief dangling from the manicured hand, and waved vigorously at the nearest tank.

  ‘Yoo hoo boys! Love your big, bad tank!!’ The helmeted commander turned sharply towards the waving handkerchief with a look of astonishment just as the tank ran over the edge of the pavement, catching him off guard. He dropped instantly from view, the helmeted head only resurfacing when the tank was almost out of sight, its owner swivelling hopelessly as the girls doubled up with laughter.

  ‘Crecy!’ hooted Lily, ‘you almost made that tank crash!’ Poppy was laughing so hard she had tears running down her face.

  ‘Imagine if that thing had crashed through the doors of Le Prix, poor Monsieur Maurice would have had a heart attack!’ Crecy looked longingly as the last tank in t
he ominous procession disappeared from view in a puff of black smoke.

  ‘I’m going to have a ride in a tank before this war is over,’ he declared, narrowing the green eyes purposefully ‘just watch me!’

  An increasingly anxious Monsieur Maurice took pains to remind the members of his little company that the Germans were now more dangerous than ever because they were frightened and might fire on anything at any time.

  ‘You must be careful not to anger them or they will destroy our theatre with their tanks and guns and shoot us all. They are more deadly now than ever before!’

  But Maurice might have saved his breath. Having watched the withdrawal of large numbers of the German occupiers, the civil population was becoming ever bolder and the inhabitants of Le Prix were no different. With the electricity still stubbornly off and the theatre doors still closed, the company had little else to do than foment insurrection. Regular councils of war were held in Madame Gloria’s now sweltering kitchen, the landing on the first floor of her apartment block and wherever the performers and showgirls met. Chinon was in his element.

  ‘At last we have the Boches on the run!’ he told his fellow company members with undisguised jubilation, ‘when the comrades give the order, we must race to join them in the front line to drive the last of the invaders from Paris. We will prevail!’

  But, while his enthusiasm was infectious and provoked cheers and ragged applause from the other members of the little troupe, the comrades seemed slow to issue the order to mobilise and he was forced to pay frequent visits to his colleagues and encourage them, bolstering their patriotism which threatened to flag in the oppressive summer heat, particularly as water supplies were now running low.

  When le métro ground to a halt on the 15th of August the colourful company at Le Prix began to realise that the liberation of Paris would be fought block by block, street by street. Food shortages had begun to grip the city and Napoleon arrived with his usual delivery only to announce in solemn tones, his swarthy face wearing a grave look, that this would be the last until liberation. The roads were too dangerous, he told Monsieur Maurice, and the farmers were beginning to hoard their produce. The prices they demanded were so outrageous that Napoleon had refused to pay. But he had included a little bonus, he told the diminutive manager with a wink, and wolf-whistled in the direction of the truck. A large, hairy head appeared and Orlando leapt out, his face creased in smiles. The gangly Roland followed with André in tow and Maurice was certain the painfully thin Hungarian violinist had increased in bulk as the black marketeer had promised. Maurice shook each hand in turn, delighted to see his ‘illegals’ delivered safely back now that the Gestapo had left town. He thanked Napoleon for looking after them with genuine gratitude, his eyes moistening. As for supplies, he shrugged and adopted a philosophical tone.

  ‘We will manage,’ Maurice told the bulky procurer while adding a note of caution. ‘But you must take care not to be caught between the two great armies.’ Napoleon nodded his enormous head and fingered his thick, black moustache.

  ‘Difficult times, Monsieur, but we are survivors, are we not?’ And he gave Maurice’s back a hefty pat to reinforce the point. Maurice coughed but smiled broadly at his supplier.

  ‘Monsieur, we could not have survived the war without you — I hope we can meet again once Paris is liberated.’ Napoleon flashed a toothy grin.

  ‘But of course, as soon as it is safe, I will come back. I still hope to visit Mademoiselle Crecy each week ... perhaps once the Allies have tossed the Boches back over the border.’

  ‘And we will be very glad to see you back,’ responded Maurice warmly. Napoleon drew him close, his face serious once more.

  ‘You will keep her safe, won’t you?’ he whispered, his tone gravelly with concern.

  ‘I will, Monsieur, you have my word,’ murmured Maurice in response, patting the big man’s arm. However he was less certain that he could prevent Crecy becoming far more adventurous as the Allies rolled into town. He swallowed the rising panic that greeted any mention of the coming fight. Surely they could rid Paris of the Germans without bothering Le Prix unduly. After all, this was a cabaret, not some sort of military bastion. But Maurice could not escape the ominous feeling that the final battles would be less than discriminating and that most of Paris now represented a target of some sort.

  Just days later the call to arms that Chinon had been anticipating with such feverish excitement finally arrived. Colourful posters sprouted around the city calling for an insurrection and for Parisians to build barricades, the work of the communists who now called for a popular uprising. Chinon immediately assumed the air of a commander, issuing orders for the company to build its own barricade outside the theatre in the Boulevarde de Clichy. He assembled a work team of Orlando, Roland, Cabot, Hiram and the members of his orchestra and as many of the showgirls as he could recruit to his cause. Crecy appeared in tailored overalls and shirt, complete with floral turban, keen to do his bit. Even Coco decided that the time had come to make a stand, shedding her customary leathers for sensible drill cotton trousers and gabardine shirt. Maurice watched in agony as they ripped flagstones from the road and pavement and piled sandbags from an abandoned civil defence post and whatever else they could find into a makeshift structure, a human chain handing items of all shapes and sizes to the builders atop their steadily growing buttress.

  ‘Chinon, mon ami, what are you doing?’ pleaded the little manager, his face a picture of distress. ‘This will bring the Germans to the theatre in their tanks, they will destroy Le Prix as they try to blow away the barricade.’ But Chinon narrowed his eyes, set his jaw grimly and remained defiant.

  ‘Maurice, you must not worry about buildings, we can repair them. But we must fight for our freedom, we must drive the Boches from our country — destruction is a small price to pay for regaining our liberty!’ Maurice remained inconsolable and watched on in mounting horror as the barricade grew in size. Iron railings were torn away from the boulevard and around the base of trees, old wooden boxes and chairs were piled on top and an ancient bicycle appeared from nowhere.

  ‘Hey!’ protested Cabot, ‘That’s my bicycle!’ Chinon, now sporting a red, white and blue armband with the letters ‘LPDB’ scribbled on the side, clapped a hand on Cabot’s shoulder.

  ‘And the Le Prix Defence Brigade thanks you for your valuable contribution, mon ami,’ he told the fretful janitor, tapping his armband significantly. ‘We will restore your bicycle to you after liberation.’ Cabot turned back to his bicycle, perhaps seeking to liberate it somewhat earlier, only to discover that it had disappeared under a mountain of assorted objects. Old suitcases, a bed frame and a wheeled bath chair perched perilously on top as the barricade maintained its impressive growth.

  ‘Isn’t that Madame Auguste’s bath chair?’ asked Lily with some trepidation lest the testy Madame Fresange be lurking nearby and overhear.

  ‘It’s clearly her contribution to liberation,’ Poppy informed her. ‘What a shame we can’t add Madame Auguste herself to the pile, that dog of hers would see off any rampaging Huns!’

  The barricade continued to acquire an odd jumble of items, Chinon supervising its growth until it gained what he decided was the requisite height for a barricade, a fact known only to the stocky commander. At that point it was ceremoniously crowned with a small, circular public toilet — known as a pissoir — removed with some difficulty from the street. The little communist appeared to sport an impressive knowledge of barricades, something he considered essential to his role as leader of Le Prix’s very own insurrection. A day later, a large flag had been added, hastily sewn by Mademoiselle Gris, who had also sewn several others that Chinon had requested for the front of the theatre itself. This was the last straw for Monsieur Maurice.

  ‘But if the Germans see the flags, they will fire on us!’ he protested, on the verge of tears. Chinon remained unmoved.

  ‘Maurice, if the Allies see we are not flying flags, they will fire on us,’ he retorte
d, ‘which would you prefer?’

  Maurice could face it no longer and trudged off to Madame Gloria’s for a large, fortifying glass of something very alcoholic. After four years of protecting his theatre and his little company from an occupying force, he was about to lose it all on the eve of liberation. He was at his lowest ebb, powerless to safeguard his theatre and his people.

  But Monsieur Maurice’s people were having the time of their lives. In the days since the theatre had been forced to close they had drifted aimlessly, anxious that the informer would betray them to the Gestapo at the last minute but unable to fight back. Now that the only Germans who remained in Paris were those whose hopeless task it was to defend the rearguard of the retreating occupation armies, the strictured city had begun to come to life. There was no more Gestapo, no leather-coated assassins to batter down the doors of luckless Parisians during the night and drag them off to be tortured and murdered. A strong sense of freedom was insinuating its way through the city despite the fact that the Allies had yet to arrive, and the passionate performers at Le Prix were determined to live again.

  Chinon strode around the barricade like a feudal king surveying his defences. He had managed to find an ancient firearm, this time a pistol, at least a hundred years old and a foot long, clearly lifted from the same museum as the elderly Berthier rifle. Having ensured that the thing could never hope to fire again, he had stuck it in his belt where it menaced all who saw it and added just the right note of vigilante authority. Orlando had also managed to find a vintage weapon that had seen better days, a short-barrelled pistol which now protruded from his trouser pocket. He had fastened a belt across his body like a leather sash and wore a tricolour bandana on his head. With his swarthy looks and huge, hairy chest, he looked like a pirate from the Spanish Main as he deputised for Chinon. Young Roland, the fluffy-haired office boy, had also acquired a weapon, albeit a large hammer, which he stuck through his belt, hoping it would be mistaken for a gun. Like Orlando, he had donned a tricolour bandana and a belt that ran diagonally across his chest and he now danced around the top of the barricade, delighted to have regained his freedom and to have been permitted by Chinon to play some part in the proceedings. Monsieur Maurice had warned him that the Germans were not beaten yet and he should remain in hiding, a warning that Roland had blithely ignored, acquiring a steely-eyed look in recognition of the precarious nature of what Chinon referred to as the ‘military situation’. At the same time, he hoped fervently that his mother would not appear on the scene and order him home. He was desperate for some taste of glory.