Crecy joined them on the barricade, picking his way carefully up the treacherous structure and avoiding contact with the pissoir which emitted a rather pungent odour. Having completed the workmanlike task of building the barricade, he had decided to dress rather more patriotically, now clad in a sleeveless shift of red, white and blue, his nails patriotically coloured and the voluminous coiffure captured in a clip that sported a tiny tricolour flag. With a dramatic flourish he produced a tricolour sash emblazoned with the letters ‘LPDB’ which he donned, positioning it deftly in the landscape of his enormous bosom, before parading with difficulty across the top of the structure to the hoots and catcalls of the assembled showgirls.
‘I’m ready for those big, muscular Americans,’ he called to his audience, ‘and I’m hoping they’ll bring me a weapon or two!’ He batted his luxurious eyelashes, announcing to Chinon that he was ready to enter the fray. Lily and Poppy had also mounted the barricade, sporting hats with little tricolour flags on top and waving larger flags with enthusiasm. Chloe, Sadie and Sabine climbed up behind them, their dresses tied at the waist with tricolour sashes. Coco appeared, whip in hand, the leather handle decorated with tricolour ribbons. Madame Lucille, tasked with manning the crucial supply line, brought two bottles of wine to ‘support the fighters in their hour of need’ and was promptly sent back for more. She reappeared some time later with several reinforcements.
‘Don’t drink these too quickly,’ she told her thirsty barricaders, ‘Monsieur Maurice hid the rest from the Germans and we’re having trouble finding them!’
Hiram and André and the gentler members of the orchestra watched from the sidelines, reluctant to become involved.
‘We’re here if you need us!’ called the grinning Brazilian, happy to watch from a distance. Privately he had decided that, since he and his wife Lisette had come through the occupation unscathed, they were not prepared to risk their lives in some show of hopeless bravado just as liberation beckoned. They could all be heroes together once the Allies arrived. Cabot scampered back and forth, having been designated Chinon’s official messenger, now primarily involved in the vital task of securing personal supplies of food and brandy for the barricade commander. He lasted half an hour before retiring for a much-needed rest. Madame Gloria and Monsieur Maurice stood outside the glass foyer doors alongside Madame Claudette and marvelled at the enormous barricade with a mixture of horror and admiration. Madame Claudette proved surprisingly enthusiastic, waving her stick and bellowing at Chinon to ‘let the Boches have it!’, displaying extraordinary gusto given the apparent fragility of her frame. Her husband and Madame Gloria exchanged looks of astonishment.
‘Must be her Polish blood,’ whispered Monsieur Maurice, quietly pleased to see her come to life after her lengthy illness and the tensions of the occupation. He began to hope that some of the passion and sparkling joie de vivre that had excited him during their courting days might return. This next phase of their lives could prove more than a little lively.
News of the erection of the barricade had also drawn the formidable Madame Fresange and her elderly hypochondriac tenant, Madame Auguste, to the street to view the defences first hand. Madame Fresange, clad in a fortuitously patriotic red dress with a blue sash, topped with a turban of a dubious shade that approximated white, stood aghast and open-mouthed while Madame Auguste held the lead of her vicious Pekinese in one hand and clutched a large ear trumpet in the other. The Pekinese yapped continuously, darting to snap at ankles and consequently clearing a wide space around it. Chinon saluted the ladies with elaborate courtesy and told his lads to look smart as an inspection team had arrived. Madame Auguste studied the barricade from top to bottom before seizing on the fact that Chinon seemed to be in command.
‘Young man,’ she addressed him peremptorily in her high-pitched quaver, ‘what are you doing with all that paraphernalia?’ Chinon drew himself up, puffed out his chest and stood, feet apart, assuming a Napoleonic attitude.
‘Madame,’ he boomed in reply, ‘we are defending the neighbourhood against the Boches and welcoming the liberators of Paris!’ The effect on Madame Auguste was electric.
‘Those Boche bastards!’ she hurled in response, shocking all within earshot, ‘you let them have it! Kill some for me! And,’ she added with as much venom as she could muster, given that her voice creaked with old age, ‘don’t take any prisoners. You’ll only have to execute them later.’ And she spat in the street to reinforce her point, scattering even her loyal lieutenant La Fresange. The Pekinese paused its frantic yapping for a moment to regard its owner, clearly never having heard such passion emanate from the aged body. Chinon saluted smartly in reply.
‘We have no intention of taking prisoners, Madame, but if there are wounded Boches, you may personally supervise the firing squad.’ Madame Auguste waved her ear trumpet in reply and grinned wickedly before catching sight of her wheeled bath chair in among the debris that comprised the structure.
‘Is that my bath chair?’ she demanded of the barricade commander, her tone now substantially more peeved than vicious.
‘It is Madame,’ answered the commander, maintaining his noble visage, ‘and we thank you for its use at this dangerous time. Your generosity will be remembered and honoured once the foe is defeated and Paris is liberated.’ Madame Auguste lowered her ear trumpet and regarded the commander with some suspicion.
‘Very well, as long as it is returned unharmed, you may continue to use it. But I may need it tomorrow afternoon, so do be sure to defeat the Boches and secure liberation by then, if you please.’ Chinon bowed courteously while Lily giggled quietly to Poppy.
‘If the Germans arrive, you can be sure that bath chair will be blown to pieces in the first five minutes of the battle. It will probably end up in a tangled heap with the pissoir.’
‘Oh, very fragrant,’ replied Poppy, wrinkling her nose, ‘then Chinon will really have some explaining to do!’
The defenders sat atop their barricade in old chairs, sipping their wine and telling stories, enjoying the warm summer sun. A lone cyclist rode down the boulevard and stopped to pass the barricade, dismounting to admire the structure as Chinon stood puffed with pride on the top of the untidy heap, leaning against the pissoir in an unfortunate collision of patriotism and grubby necessity. The cyclist was handed a cup of wine and invited to share the latest news.
‘The Allies are at the gates of Paris,’ he told them, ‘there is fighting throughout the city, you are very fortunate to have escaped.’ He paused as he noted the disappointment that now clouded Chinon’s face. ‘But the fighting is bound to spread to this neighbourhood very soon,’ he told them, adding a note of optimism to his voice, ‘you surely can’t have too long to wait until it finds you.’ With that, he thanked the girls for the wine, mounted his bicycle and sped away. Chinon watched him depart and decided that this was the moment to rally the troops for the coming fight.
‘Men!’ he cried, ignoring the fact that the vast majority of his troops were women and that most of the men had decided to shelter in the foyer, safe from any fighting that might threaten. ‘As the dispatch rider revealed,’ endowing the cyclist with heavy military significance, ‘we do not have long to wait. We must be prepared to defend our position down to our last bullet, to our last man!’
‘Well that’s rich,’ murmured Lily, ‘we don’t have any guns, let alone any bullets, and we don’t have any men apart from him and his two pirate mates!’
‘We’ll just have to look fierce,’ suggested Poppy helpfully, assuming a look of such ferocity that Lily almost fell off the barricade with laughter.
‘Careful Lil,’ warned Poppy, ‘you were almost our first casualty!’
The Le Prix garrison remained on duty until late that night when the girls decided that, since the attack could come at any time, they should at least grab a few hours’ sleep. Chinon decided to sleep on his beloved barricade and drew up a roster which was promptly ignored, leaving him, his two lieutenants and the faithf
ul Chloe to man the defences.
‘I’ll sound the alarm if the Germans attack!’ called Chinon to his departing troops.
‘Rightio,’ called Lily on behalf of the troops, without the least idea of how said alarm would be sounded. ‘But I think we’d hear if a tank came up the boulevard,’ she told the others.
‘I could negotiate with a tank,’ offered Crecy, flicking his platinum curls in anticipation, ‘I feel an affinity with tank drivers — such dangerous men!’ He donned a sultry look and patted his cheeks. ‘But I do need my beauty sleep, so I hope they’ll all be perfect gentlemen and attack after lunch tomorrow when a girl is back to her best.’
By the time the troops returned to the barricade late the next morning, having enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of ground maize pancakes cooked by Madame Gloria over the fire and supplemented with some tinned sardines, and smoked several cigarettes while Crecy assembled his outfit to face the mad, bad, but splendidly handsome desperados who would undoubtedly turn up that day, Chinon and his lieutenants had been updated on the progress of the looming fight. The Allies were still closing in on the city, but all over Paris the insurrection was blooming and the areas where the Germans were holed up were proving deadly, with several attacks by resistance forces led, according to Chinon, by the communists. He addressed his fighters in stentorian tones, brandishing the latest poster, copies of which now decorated Parisian walls the length and breadth of the city. ‘Attack German soldiers!’ the poster ordered stridently, ‘seize their weapons! Everyone must capture a Hun! Everyone to the barricades!’ It was signed by the communist leader, Colonel Rol. Chinon was euphoric. Here at last was clear evidence that the insurrection was being led by the comrades. He paused a moment to choke back his emotion before he could address his troops.
‘You see,’ called the now severely tousled commander, looking more like a barbarian with each passing day, ‘the communist insurrection has begun and we must each capture a Hun. It is our duty, we must play our part in liberating our city and the whole of France!’
The girls, unmoved by the leadership of the communists, nonetheless agreed wholeheartedly with these last sentiments.
‘I’m happy to have a nice German boy,’ announced Crecy, ‘in fact I had one until recently before he had himself arrested. Now I wonder what happened to poor Otto.’
‘I could have produced Gunther if I’d known we were required to find ourselves a German,’ added Poppy, ‘but he’s gone back to Germany.’
‘We could just knock on Coco’s door, I’m sure she has some saved up for later, we’d only have to ask her for one each.’ Lily looked at them in bewilderment.
‘I don’t think that’s quite what it means ...’ she explained haltingly, ‘I think we have to . bag a Hun, so to speak.’
‘You mean kill one?’ Poppy looked startled.
‘Oh, dahling, I don’t think I could kill a poor little German boy,’ asserted Crecy, patting his coiffed hair in concern, ‘although I could speak quite sharply to one if I thought he was being rude.’
‘And if he tried to kill you?’ Lily asked pointedly.
‘I think that would have to be accidental, you know,’ responded Crecy, unconvinced, ‘they really are nice boys, they just need a little understanding.’ Lily glanced towards the heavens in a mutely beseeching look and decided to leave her friends happily ignorant of the true nature of the approaching battle.
That afternoon a band of ‘Fifis’ — members of the French Forces of the Interior, the armed resistance fighters who were taking the fight to the Germans, alongside the communists, of course — swaggered down the boulevard towards the barricade. They were dressed in vaguely military garb boasting makeshift armbands proclaiming ‘FFI’ in black lettering on a white background with red, white and blue patches confirming their patriotic purpose. They brandished menacing-looking Sten submachine-guns and sported heavy bandoliers of ammunition across their chests, giving them the appearance of Mexican bandits. Each man wore a black beret and an expression of such gravity that Crecy immediately called for smelling salts. The small group, no more than half a dozen, was evidently engaged in patrolling the streets and, noting the enormous tricolour that dominated the front of the barricade, approached the makeshift structure, the foremost Fifi calling for the commander. A shaggy, unshaven head emerged from the side of the pissoir and Chinon hailed the Fifis, calling for the latest news. At the same time, the showgirls clambered down from their perch to greet the arrivals. The newcomers were grimy, their faces sporting a substantial growth of stubble and they carried the unmistakeable air of veteran fighters. These were clearly men of action and the girls were delighted with their visitors. The Fifis were likewise delighted with their reception and, having imbibed a cup of wine each, ‘to give them strength for the coming fight’ as the showgirls assured them, they provided colourful descriptions of the battles taking place all over Paris. There was heavy fighting not far away, they told their audience, in fact several important victories had been scored by the resistance forces and the Germans were on the run. Barricades such as these had been attacked and bravely defended with heavy casualties. They hoped Chinon and his valiant men, ogling the leggy showgirls as they spoke, could hold out against a German attack as long as possible, ideally for several days, although most of the German forces included tanks which could pose something of a problem, they added, eyeing the crude structure.
Chinon listened carefully, his features grim, while the swarthy Orlando paled conspicuously. Only the youthful Roland replied, assuring the Fifis that they could hold out indefinitely, tanks or no tanks.
‘Vive de Gaulle!’ he cried, in a burst of noisy patriotism, repeating the name he had heard bandied around by those who listened to clandestine BBC broadcasts, and brandishing the hammer with such vigour that it was almost pitched into the fray against the unfortunate Fifis. Chinon silenced him with a stern look.
‘We need weapons,’ he told them gravely, ‘we have no guns and no ammunition, no bombs and no grenades. If you can send supplies then we will indeed hold out as long as you need us to — even against tanks.’
This produced a burst of excited chatter among the Fifis which died down as quickly as it had erupted. Chinon held his breath. The leader turned towards the little commander perched atop the pissoir and reassured him that, if weapons could be found, he would send them immediately to the ... he read Chinon’s armband ... LPDB. But weapons were in short supply, he explained, as London seemed somewhat reluctant to drop any to the fighters in Paris. Chinon muttered darkly, venting his frustration on the perfidious capitalist Allies, but gave the Fifis a nod of approval and a wave of appreciation. Neither was acknowledged by the fighters who were now surrounded by the admiring showgirls and thoroughly enjoying the experience.
‘I love your weapon,’ purred Crecy to one particularly dishevelled young man, stroking the barrel of his gun as he spoke, ‘it’s very threatening.’ Another of the fighters noticed the now leather-clad Coco smoking at the foot of the barricade eyeing them as she tapped her whip in a staccato rhythm against a shapely thigh.
‘Know how to use that thing, cherie?’ he called with a leer.
‘You want to find out?’ she replied with a salacious smile and a defiant hand on one hip. The man moved closer and whispered to her while Lily and Poppy looked on in astonishment.
‘Coco doesn’t waste any time switching sides,’ gasped Lily.
‘I think she’s taking appointments,’ giggled Poppy, ‘talk about the ultimate businesswoman!’
The visit of the Fifis breathed new life into the barricade’s command team which now stopped every hour or so for a command conference on how to handle an attack by a German force featuring a tank. An attack was not a prospect relished by the LPDB fighters, with the exception of its commander and the more junior of his deputies. But they had resolved to make a stand, Chinon told them with fierce determination, and now there was no turning back. Their fighters depended on them, he added, casting his eye on
the lolling showgirls, Crecy, who had now donned a green herbal poultice to reduce the impact of the sun, and Cabot who had collapsed with exhaustion outside the doors of Le Prix after one too many messages. The commander sighed heavily. Perhaps once the attack began his troops would find the necessary fighting spirit to prove their mettle and drive the attackers off.
Chapter 38
The LPDB defeats its arch-enemy
The attack, if it could be called an attack, arrived inconveniently at teatime and just as rain was threatening. The reports of the fighting were as confused as ever, with Madame Gloria’s cousin in another part of the city telephoning her to relate the latest BBC news broadcast which had declared that Paris was liberated and that all the bells of the churches were ringing.
‘The odd thing was,’ a bewildered Madame Gloria told the assembled barricaders, ‘I could hear the sound of gunfire in the background, but no bells.’ Confused murmurs greeted the news, the general consensus that the fighters should remain at the barricade until more reliable news could be sourced. Perhaps a patrol could be sent to the high ground at Sacré-Coeur, with its panoramic views, to spy on the city for signs of Allied troops. Perhaps Roland should ride Cabot’s bicycle to the centre of Paris in search of the latest information. Perhaps, suggested Monsieur Maurice, they should all wait to see what would happen. The BBC was not in Paris and could not know the true state of the fighting. An uneasy quiet settled over the barricade as the LPDB fighters discussed what they should do next. Madame Gloria hurried away to prepare something to feed her fighters, worried that her dwindling stores were now running dangerously low. If only Napoleon had been able to get through, she murmured to herself with more than a little concern.
Secrets and Showgirls Page 41