Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  Having feasted on the remnants of the maize pancakes from breakfast, some canned vegetables and the last of the rabbit stew from the night before, the fighters were enjoying a cigarette and a cup of wine from a box fortuitously discovered at the back of Monsieur Maurice’s office by the determined Madame Lucille. Their attention was suddenly captured by the clanking of something large and mechanical as it made its way arduously along the boulevard towards them. Chinon clambered onto the top of the pissoir, heaved on its side by Orlando to provide him a command post. Orlando, his face transformed with fear, climbed up next to his diminutive commander, his bulk suddenly threatening to tip the pissoir onto the street below taking the commander with it. Chinon cursed volubly as Orlando muttered his apologies and stepped down, his place taken by the much lighter Roland. All three stood transfixed as the clanking moved closer.

  The noise inspired a mass exodus of fighters from the barricade, the showgirls falling over one another in their haste to escape to the safety of the theatre foyer. Once inside, they cowered in a jumbled heap while Crecy assured them that he was still prepared to negotiate, as long as there was no violence. Lily looked at him askance, wondering momentarily whether he had finally lost his fragile grip on reality. Above all, violence was now assured. They watched through the gilded glass doors and waited to see what manner of behemoth would appear around the slight bend in the Boulevard de Clichy that led past Le Prix.

  An enormous, battered German Tiger tank clanked its way slowly along the street. Lily crawled to the front of the glass doors and watched as the iron monster inched its way towards the barricade.

  ‘Do you think it’s lost?’ whispered Poppy from behind her. ‘Maybe they’ll ask directions and then leave.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Lily replied, ‘they’re more likely to blast the barricade out of the way and then leave.’

  ‘That’s when I could negotiate,’ inserted Crecy helpfully.

  The tank continued its clanking, creaking way along the boulevard, approaching the barricade slowly and inexorably as Chinon and his command team stood firm. Then it stopped. The hatch opened and a helmeted head appeared waving a pistol and yelling something unintelligible in guttural German. Chinon ignored it and brandished his own ancient weapon. From his commanding position atop the pissoir and in the voice of a proud communist, he called on the tank commander to surrender, assuring him that he was surrounded by the tough, seasoned fighters of the Le Prix Defence Brigade. The tank commander paused for a moment before a shot rang out and Chinon sagged and fell. Roland, standing next to him, erupted in fury at the shooting of his brave commander and swung his weapon — the heavy hammer he had liberated from the theatre — with all his might in the direction of the tank hatch. The commander ducked at the last minute and disappeared into the tank, followed by the hurtling hammer which pursued him with remarkable accuracy. The effect on the tank was immediate. With a roar of its engines and a puff of black smoke, it backed up and turned awkwardly, reversing and rotating and setting off back down the boulevard as fast as a machine of its size could manage, rattling in alarming fashion. The girls poured out of the theatre foyer cheering and yelling, dancing in victory and sending colourful messages of advice to the Germans on how to leave Paris by the most rapid routes.

  On the pissoir atop the barricade, Orlando cradled his valiant commander in his arms, the tears running down his grimy face. Chinon looked up at him, gasping and fighting for every breath.

  ‘We saw them off, men,’ he told Orlando and Roland, the hero of the hour, who was still struggling to believe what he had done. ‘We won our battle just as we promised the resistance fighters, we did it! We did it for Paris, we did it for France!’ By now, Chloe, Lily and Poppy had reached the pissoir and the dying commander. Chloe took the great, shaggy head from Orlando and held it close, sobbing loudly. Lily, the self-appointed barricade medic, pulled out her supply of bandages and prepared to do battle for the little communist’s life.

  ‘Chinon,’ Lily told him urgently, ‘you must save your breath. We will bandage the wound and then we will try to take you to the hospital. But,’ and the tears began to flow as she saw that the tousle-headed patriot was fading fast, ‘you must try to stay alive. Fight Chinon, fight as you have never fought before!’ The barricade commander nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Am I a good communist?’ he asked her weakly, as if to save this most crucial of questions for his dying breath. Lily’s face was awash with tears.

  ‘Of course you are, Chinon, the very best. I will ensure that the comrades hear all about your heroism.’ Chinon’s strength was failing quickly and his grip on Chloe’s hand was weakening.

  ‘Stay with me, Chinon,’ called Lily anxiously, frightened that she was losing her battle for his life. Next to her, Poppy was having problems of her own.

  ‘Lil,’ she whispered, ‘I can’t find any blood!’ Lily looked at her aghast.

  ‘Mon Dieu, the bullet must have gone straight through him!’

  ‘But ... there would still be blood ... wouldn’t there?’ Lily turned her attention to the bullet hole in the front of the grimy jacket. She pulled the jacket open to reveal a thick wad of pages, shoved into the little man’s belt and which had covered most of his chest. Firmly embedded in the centre of the pages, at the thickest part, was a bullet. Lily threw her head back and laughed, while Poppy pulled out the pages and stared at them in disbelief.

  ‘Chinon, what is this?’ she asked the patient, now barely conscious and soaked in the tears that fell in vast quantities from the bereft Chloe.

  ‘It’s the Communist Manifesto,’ he whispered, ‘I will clutch it to my broken heart as I leave this cruel, capitalist world.’ By now Lily had recovered herself.

  ‘Chinon, you’re not actually leaving this cruel, capitalist world,’ she told him. The little man opened one eye, peering at her in disbelief. She pointed to the thick wad of paper, showing him the embedded bullet. ‘Your copy of the Communist Manifesto saved your life!’ The diminutive red’s eyes widened and he fingered the wad of paper and the bullet firmly implanted in its midpoint in astonishment.

  ‘Ha ha!’ he yelled, sitting up and planting a large kiss on the manifesto, followed by another on Chloe’s forehead. ‘I knew communism would save us all — look what it has done for me!’ And he jumped to his feet, dancing on top of the precariously swaying pissoir as if he had just saved the world. Lily and Poppy exchanged glances of relief and sat exhausted at the foot of the pissoir as the command team completed its victory dance with a rousing rendition of the ‘Marseillaise’ that boasted a great deal more enthusiasm than melody.

  The victory celebrations continued into the night, the barricade left temporarily deserted as a violent thunderstorm broke over Paris and drove the revellers into the foyer of the cabaret where the party resumed, the celebratory spirit, while dampened somewhat, nonetheless undiminished. More stocks of Monsieur Maurice’s alcoholic supplies had been uncovered, many boxes hidden in dressing and practice rooms and another cache in the basement. Tales were told and the great day relived again and again while detailed planning also ensued for the day when the Allies would finally arrive in Paris which, they all agreed, must come soon. Surely they could not be far away now. The exhausted revellers finally collapsed on the red velvet carpet and slept off their celebrations, waking late to find the barricade drenched in rain as the downpour of the night before continued unrelentingly. At this rate, the barricade would be swept away by the elements long before it could be blown away by the Germans.

  By early afternoon the weather had cleared and the barricaders returned to the scene of their earlier triumph to restore their fortifications and resume their positions. The staccato tap of machinegun fire echoed in neighbourhoods close by and Chinon warned his fighters to be prepared for more assaults by German forces. Lily hoped fervently that the barricade commander had remembered to pack his manifesto, useful as a form of body armour if for nothing else, in her opinion. All afternoon runni
ng repairs were effected and enhancements made to the barricade while its fighters sought to rearm themselves. Roland searched high and low and finally located a replacement hammer, deciding that the weapon had proven itself a deadly missile and would no doubt find its mark again. Monsieur Maurice shook his head and lamented quietly to Madame Gloria that, had the tank commander simply had the presence of mind to fire his tank gun, the entire barricade would have been instantly swept away, communists, pissoir and all. Perhaps it was as well that the structure looked so ramshackle as this had clearly led the German commander to completely underestimate its strength and the determination of its defenders. Maurice breathed a hefty sigh of relief and wondered whether they would be so fortunate a second time around.

  Late afternoon produced rumours that the Allies were poised to enter the city and were delayed only by pockets of Germans fighting stubborn rearguard actions. The news prompted more celebrations and another rendition of the ‘Marseillaise’. Fortunately, the supplies of wine had been exhausted by the previous night’s revelry and the remaining boxes were proving elusive. Maurice was gently pummelled for information by several members of his company but, try as he might, he could not remember where he had stowed the last boxes of wine. Madame Gloria’s stocks of mulberry wine were also running dangerously low and she decided to save the final bottles to celebrate liberation which, they all agreed, must come soon.

  Dinner was served, this time several of Gloria’s chickens sacrificing their lives to feed the defenders. The now veteran fighters ate on the barricade and around its base in a spirit of camaraderie born of shared combat and forged in the fire of battle. Leaden skies threatened further rain and they again retired to the foyer of Le Prix leaving the barricade unattended, confident that they would hear the clank of another German behemoth should the Boches return. Chinon shook his shaggy head grimly, his dusty brow furrowed and he gripped his ancient pistol at the very thought. He was ready for anything.

  With the little troupe relaxing in groups and discussing the coming liberation at length, particularly the return to normal supplies of food that this would undoubtedly bring, the LPDB failed to notice one of its arch-enemies slip inside the front doors of the foyer, left open to dispel the stifling heat of the evening. It was the click as a pistol was cocked and the thin, nasal laugh that accompanied it that drew the barricaders’ attention. They turned as one and then gasped collectively as the sight of the dastardly villain Paul Colbert greeted them. And he was not alone. Gripped tight by an arm across her throat was Monique, the pistol that had clicked pushed firmly into the side of her head.

  ‘Allo, allo,’ began the whiny voice, ‘avin’ a little celebration are we? I think you could’ve invited me, I’m family, I am.’ Monsieur Maurice, sitting at the back of the gathering, leaning against the gilded doors that led to the theatre, now rose slowly to greet the gunman, fighting to keep his voice level and calm.

  ‘Monsieur, please put the pistol down, and then perhaps you could tell us what you want.’

  ‘I want all your takings, that’s what I want. Everything from the till in your bar. Cos I’m leavin’, you see, I’m not stayin’ for the party, the timing’s a bit inconvenient for my liking.’ He tightened his grip on Monique, who whimpered in terror, before gesticulating to a frightened Madame Lucille with the gun, sowing panic among the company members who ducked away from his arc of fire. ‘You! Go and get all the money from the till, put it in a bag and bring it out. Nice an’ easy. No tricks or she gets it.’ Lucille turned a terrified face to Monsieur Maurice who told her gently to do as the man demanded.

  ‘Monsieur,’ Maurice began to reason with Colbert, ‘please release Monique, you have no reason to harm her, we will do as you say. She is just an innocent girl, please release her.’ Colbert laughed, a narrow, high-pitched laugh that brought grimaces to the assembled faces.

  ‘Innocent girl?’ he lowered his face to Monique’s. ‘They don’t know, do they sweetie? They don’t know that you’ve been tellin’ me all their secrets. Ain’t they good friends,’ he wheedled, ‘all that time you was spyin’ on them and they didn’t suspect a thing.’ A horrified gasp filled the room.

  ‘Monique!’ cried Lily, ‘so it was you!’ Monique burst into noisy tears.

  ‘I didn’t want to,’ she wailed piteously, ‘he forced me. He threatened to hurt me ... to break my toes so that I could never dance again. What could I do? If I could not dance, I would end up at One Two Two!’

  ‘Mind you,’ Crecy declared authoritatively from the other side of the room, ‘One Two Two is the pick of them, I hear Le Chabanais has become very tawdry since the Germans moved in.’ He was greeted with looks of bemusement while Monique burst into fresh tears.

  ‘You bastard!’ hissed Lily and boos and catcalls erupted all over the foyer as Colbert snarled in response.

  ‘Hurry up with that money,’ he bellowed towards the theatre, ‘or I might lose my sense of humour. And then your friend gets it, understand?’

  But Lily remained undaunted and was now keen to know more about the trail of villainy wreaked by the despicable Colbert.

  ‘Who were you working for?’ she demanded, deciding that she had nothing to lose and might as well have some of her own questions answered.

  ‘For myself, of course, although the Germans were pretty keen to pay me. They recognised my singular talents.’

  ‘But you’re British, aren’t you?’ He studied her for a second.

  ‘Ooh, aren’t we the clever one? Yes, I’m a Londoner through and through.’

  ‘You’re a traitor through and through,’ Lily retorted darkly, ‘you deserve to hang!’ The silence deepened as the company waited to see how the villain would respond. Truly, thought Monsieur Maurice, breaking into a sweat, if they emerged from this predicament alive he would burn hundreds of candles at Sacré-Coeur.

  ‘Now that’s a bit unfriendly,’ replied the gunman, ‘an I seem to recall that you ’aven’t been friendly to me at all. Now that’s a shame, ’cos I might ’ave to do for you as well after I’ve finished this little trollop.’

  But the company refused to be bowed by his threats and more catcalls erupted, only to be silenced by Monsieur Maurice, who was wary of angering Colbert further. Madame Lucille had returned from the theatre clutching a soft black bag with all the takings from the bar, modest though they were. She handed the bag to Maurice who thanked her gently. Then he paused for a moment, standing stock still with his head held erect as if struck by a sudden thought. He turned his gaze to the members of his little company and, ignoring Colbert, addressed them with a single word.

  ‘Listen!’ he told them.

  A hush fell over the gathering as they paused as one, as if holding their collective breath. Then they heard it. A great sound had burst forth outside, a tidal wave of noise that erupted and flowed over the city, lapping at doors and washing across parks and neighbourhoods, enveloping buildings and barricades alike. The bells of Paris were ringing.

  Every member of the little company wore an expression of overwhelming joy. This, at last, was the sound of liberation. They began to cry out with jubilation, embracing one another with tears running down their faces, completely ignoring the gunman who stood poised at the open door, ready to make his escape and shouting in vain for Maurice to hand him the bag. It was another voice completely that silenced this latest chaos and it came from behind Colbert.

  ‘Put the gun down,’ it said, ‘slowly, now.’ The voice was calm, controlled and it was female. A figure emerged to stand one side of Colbert, pistol jammed into the back of his head, joined by a matching figure on the other side, who poked her pistol into his ribs. A collective gasp rose from the company. On one side of Colbert stood Mademoiselle Gris, on the other, Madame Gartrille. Lily looked from one to the other. The invisible seamstress and the dowdy pianist had been transformed. They wore the quasi-military garb of the resistance, FFI armbands on each sleeve, black berets at a fetching angle over long, brown tresses and blazing red lipst
ick on delicately angled faces. Each sported an impressive array of weapons. Sabine emitted a long sigh which attracted amused glances from those around her.

  ‘Ooh la la,’ she breathed, ‘who’d have thought?’

  But Colbert was not finished yet.

  ‘Who’s goin’ to make me?’ he asked them, his whiny voice remaining defiant. ‘Only two of you ladies? You ’ave to admit you’ve seriously underestimated me. If the Gestapo couldn’t hold me, you don’t stand a chance.’ The two women smiled and kept their weapons pinned against the man’s head. A roar had been building steadily behind them and now it grew to a crescendo as the long barrel of a tank gun nosed its way forward, its movement ceasing only when the barrel was nestled in the small of Colbert’s back.

  ‘One word from us and you’ll be blown sky high,’ cautioned Madame Gartrille, her voice smooth and silky. Monsieur Maurice turned white, his eyes rolled heavenwards and, with a loud sigh of ‘My theatre!’ he slipped gracefully to the floor.

  ‘Sshh, Maurice,’ admonished Madame Claudette sharply, ‘I don’t want to miss the action!’ The standoff continued as the seconds ticked away.

  ‘Do you think he’s ready to surrender, Celeste?’ Mademoiselle Gris asked her companion with a smile as Colbert stood transfixed, not daring to turn.