Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  ‘I think we need to make that decision for him, Marianne,’ replied Madame Gartrille with a matching smirk, and she disarmed Colbert with one rapid movement, pinning his pistol arm behind his back while the tearful Monique, suddenly released, fled sobbing into Madame Gloria’s arms. The gun clattered harmlessly to the floor where Marianne Gris retrieved it with a graceful sweep. The company burst into loud applause and the ladies bowed with a flourish as they led their prisoner away. The tank hatch opened and the crew began to emerge, congratulating the two young women on their capture of the villain Colbert. A young officer strode into the foyer and a pair of lively brown eyes scanned the company.

  ‘Guy!’ Lily cried and threw herself into the arms of Captain Guy Raphael, who had returned to Le Prix, racing into Paris at the tail end of the liberating French forces. She held him close as the others patted him on the back, delighted to see him, finally releasing him to greet the much-recovered Monsieur Maurice. A second figure, this time wearing a French uniform, had followed close behind Guy and he was now also submerged in the embraces of his former companions.

  ‘Alain!’ Maurice, having held Guy close and murmured a quiet prayer of thanks for his safe return, held out his arms to greet the second of the two young men he had regarded as akin to sons. He clapped his arms around the young Frenchman, his gratitude for Alain’s deliverance evident in his broad grin and moist eyes. A tearful Madame Lucille appeared at Alain’s side and held him to her. Like Maurice she had become very fond of the two young men and had nursed years of anxiety over their safety.

  ‘Are you with the British forces?’ she asked Alain, quietly confused over his appearance from the inside of a British tank, but wearing a French uniform.

  ‘No, no, I came in with the French forces of General Leclerc who liberated the city,’ he explained, ‘but, like Guy, I was desperate to return to Le Prix to tell you that I had survived. So I found some Brits who knew Guy and hitched a lift!’

  Another officer, a tall, moustachioed young man in a British uniform, had also followed Guy into the foyer and was revelling in the hugs and kisses of the grateful showgirls. He turned and looked over Guy’s shoulder and Lily caught sight of a familiar countenance. She gently freed herself from Guy’s embrace and moved to greet the moustachioed officer.

  ‘Hello Dickie, have the Boy Scouts gone to war then?’ Dickie’s face wore a look of pure astonishment and he pushed through the jubilant crowd to reach her.

  ‘Miranda? Miranda Maidstone ... the honourable Miranda Maidstone ...?’ he stammered.

  ‘Not so honourable these days,’ replied Lily-Miranda, gesturing at her gilded surrounds as Guy stared at her with a look of bewilderment.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Honourable Miranda,’ he told her with an ironic smile.

  ‘Guy ...’

  ‘I think you might have told me your real name.’ The smile had faded and was replaced by a look of abject injury.

  ‘I’m sorry, Guy, it was complicated ...’ Dickie was also keen for explanations.

  ‘What are you doing here, Miranda? Last I heard of you was years ago at a party in London ... then you just disappeared from view.’

  ‘It’s Lily here, Dickie,’ she replied gently, ‘I’ve found a new life and,’ she slipped an arm around Guy’s waist, ‘a new man. Let’s have some champagne and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  Just half an hour later, Monsieur Maurice’s memory was miraculously restored and a case of champagne was discovered under the former home of his faithful printing press in his little office. With equally exquisite timing, a large truck chugged into the little alleyway at the back of the theatre and Napoleon bounded out, emerging through thick clouds of smoke like a latter-day messiah. His truck disgorged two boxes of champagne and several sacks of food to the delight of Madame Gloria who kissed him on both cheeks while the big man blushed furiously. The electricity chose that moment to suddenly return and a feast was prepared. Hiram the Brazilian trumpeter blared the ‘Marseillaise’ at every turn and the other members of the orchestra joined him in a patriotic conga line around the theatre. The little company immediately fell into party mode. It was not alone.

  That night, the whole of Paris seemed to dissolve into loud celebrations as Parisians ignored the remnant Germans holed up in the city and celebrated their first night of freedom. There were bonfires, dancing, street parties and the much-anticipated declaration of the liberation over the resistance radio. Monsieur Maurice announced to his performers that radios were now permitted, indeed encouraged, although he was certain that there had been no clandestine radio sets among the law-abiding members of his company. Immediately three sets were produced and visions of leather-coated Gestapo agents saw him break into a profuse sweat. He was comforted by his friend Dr Paul wielding a large glass of champagne and the visions disappeared. Hiram clinked glasses with the doctor and his manager.

  ‘Will you look at that, Maurice, we survived!’ he declared, tears streaming down his face.

  ‘We did!’ rejoined Monsieur Maurice, brushing away his own tears and hugging his friends in jubilation.

  Madame Gloria delighted in the celebrations, and in the knowledge that she had helped her tenants survive the dreadful days of the occupation. She joined copious toasts, shouting ‘Vive la France!’ with the other members of the company until they all left to find the nearest bonfire and Madame Gloria decided she was ready for bed. The wraithlike Lena Varigny appeared suddenly and came to give her a warm hug, thanking Madame Gloria for becoming a second mother to her.

  ‘You will stay, Lena, will you not? You are part of the family.’ Lena nodded shyly.

  ‘I would like to stay, Madame, but my employer, Monsieur Metzinger, has left the country or been arrested, or ... I don’t know what. I will need to look for work.’ She smiled at Madame Gloria. ‘As you know, I am an artist’s model and, when I lost my job, Monsieur Metzinger helped me. I was working in his office and, quite by accident, I discovered I had a talent for forging identity cards and passes.’ She shrugged the thin shoulders. ‘Who knows, perhaps I could become an artist and hire a model.’ They laughed together before Madame Gloria asked her the one question that had been bothering her for so long.

  ‘Were you really a member of the resistance, my dear?’ Lena smiled softly.

  ‘In between modelling jobs I worked as a guide to help people fleeing into Zone NonO and I also took one group to Spain. But it was so hard, even in summer it was freezing cold and it made me so ill that I vowed that I would never do that again. That was how I came to be in Fresnes Prison. I was betrayed. Then suddenly one day I was released into Monsieur Metzinger’s care. It seems one of the artists had some connections and he asked Monsieur Metzinger to help me. I began to work for the resistance again, forging papers and identity cards, but Monsieur Metzinger did not know about that. I was sure he would not approve. He worked for the Abwehr, the German military intelligence service. That is how he could find supplies for Monsieur Maurice.’ She brightened suddenly, her thin face assuming the broadest smile that Madame Gloria could ever remember.

  ‘And that is how I met Mademoiselle Gris and Madame Gartrille.’ Gloria started in astonishment.

  ‘You knew them?’ Lena nodded.

  ‘Yes, I met them through the resistance. All those trips Mademoiselle Gris made to assist her ailing mother were really escort jobs for the resistance. She is very, very brave. She was almost caught so many times, but somehow she always managed to escape. Madame Gartrille was trained as a radio operator and sent messages. She was also very brave — the Germans had mobile tracking stations that searched for the resistance radio operators and she had some narrow escapes.’ Gloria felt a shiver run down her spine. The arrest of either of these two courageous women could have led the Gestapo straight to Le Prix. She took Lena’s hand in hers.

  ‘Best keep that a little secret from Monsieur Maurice, my dear.’ Lena nodded and smiled winningly as Madame Gloria beamed broadly at her in return. ‘All that i
s over now, and we can return to a normal life ... if we can remember what that is.’

  A little later, as Madame Gloria wandered back to her apartment, she received word that Roland the office boy and erstwhile barricade hero was looking for her. Several minutes later he found her.

  ‘Madame,’ he told her, ‘I have a note for you from the Red Cross.’

  ‘For me, Roland?’ She took the typewritten envelope he proffered and opened it carefully. The note inside was brief but extraordinary. She breathed deeply and sat down immediately. Hubert. Hubert was not dead, but had been taken prisoner. She held the note to her breast and breathed deeply. Her Hubert was alive. She had been told with so much certainty that he was dead but, like so much in the chaos that was war, certainty had been lost and Hubert had been found. Like their son Didier, who had been a prisoner in southern Germany for four years, Hubert would be home as soon as the war was over, whenever that would be. To Gloria, his arrival home at some unstated time in the future was almost immaterial. He was alive. She felt the tears begin to flow.

  It was later that night that Guy and Lily finally found the opportunity to slip away. They walked through the warm night, crowded with celebration and the occasional burst of gunfire, heading for the beautiful church of Sacré-Coeur. When they arrived, an extraordinary sight met their eyes. With the street lights of Paris yet to be restored, people all over the city danced and partied to the light of bonfires. But here, in front of the glorious faςade of God’s ornate house, a car had been parked and its lights turned on, illuminating the magnificent creamy white domes and arches of the basilica. It was the first time since the Germans had marched down the Champs-Élysées that the church had been illuminated and it made the perfect gift of gratitude to the Almighty for the liberation of Paris.

  Guy and Lily found a soft patch of grass that overlooked the city and snuggled together as the celebrations erupted in the streets that lay beneath them. There was so much to say. But now they had time. Lily began.

  ‘I left home in a bit of a hurry,’ she explained, ‘I had an argument with my parents and I just wanted to get away. My father has always been a bully.’

  ‘What did you argue about?’

  ‘My life.’ Lily sighed. ‘My parents wanted me to marry a nice young man from a good family, settle down, have children and become a society belle, as it were.’ She turned to Guy, wondering whether he had any idea how stifling it was to be robbed of life’s richest choices.

  ‘But you didn’t want to marry?’ he suggested helpfully.

  ‘Guy darling, I wanted to live,’ she replied forcefully, ‘I wanted to survive on my own without Father’s money and petty rules for living the right sort of life. I didn’t even know whether I could do it, but I wanted to try. So I answered an advertisement for a job as a dancer in Madrid.’

  ‘Madrid?’ Guy was flabbergasted. ‘But ... could you dance?’

  ‘A bit ... you know, foxtrot, waltz, the Charleston, that sort of thing. I had no idea what sort of dancing the company had in mind and that was a bit of a shock,’ she laughed. ‘But I did it. I lived with the other dancers and they helped me and I worked as a showgirl.’ Her eyes flashed and she grinned broadly. ‘I loved it, Guy, I really loved it! And, strangely enough, when you think where I came from, I was good at it! I discovered I could dance.’

  ‘So, where to from Spain?’

  ‘I went to Le Troc in Marseilles, where I also worked as a showgirl. Then I saw Monsieur Maurice’s advertisement for a showgirl at Le Prix and ... well, who doesn’t want to dance in Paris? After all,’ and she looked down on the tumultuous city, drowning in its own exuberance, ‘look at it!’ Guy pulled her close.

  ‘So, who are you now? Miranda or Lily?’

  ‘Definitely Lily.’

  The next day the entire city suffered a massive hangover. A victory parade was organised, to be led by the now familiar figure of General Charles de Gaulle, leader of the Free French, recently returned from his cheerless exile in London, alongside several enormous Sherman tanks and a motley collection of representatives of all the resistance groups. While vast crowds surged towards the city centre to celebrate, the little company at Le Prix spent its time dismantling the barricade and reliving its moments of glory. Allied troops had begun to pour into the city, most of the British and American troops waiting for the victory parade to finish, to allow the French to reclaim their city. As the Allied tanks, armoured cars and jeeps moved through the suburbs, they were mobbed by grateful Parisians who jumped aboard while others ran alongside, kissing the soldiers, garlanding them and their vehicles with flowers and cheering them in jubilation. A Sherman tank headed down the Boulevard de Clichy towards Le Prix as Lily emerged with Guy, who was due to rejoin his unit. The tank paused outside the theatre long enough for Lily to see a platinum head emerge through the open hatch.

  ‘Yoo hoo, Lily-pilly!’ came the joyful call, ‘I’ve got me a tank full of Yanks!’ A helmeted head popped up next to the blonde songstress and waved cheerily at Lily and Guy. ‘And you’ll never guess,’ Crecy continued, adopting a conspiratorial tone, ‘they call him “Dodo”!!’ With that, the tank engines revved again and the machine departed, clanking noisily and belching puffs of black smoke, leaving Lily and Guy coughing in its wake and marvelling at the antics of one of Le Prix’s most colourful characters.

  A jeep drew up and Dickie waved at Guy.

  ‘You’ll have to release him for duty, Lily-Miranda,’ he called, ‘we still have a war to win!’ Lily turned to Guy who clasped her in his arms.

  ‘I want you back in one piece,’ she told him, ‘I’ve only just found you again and now I’m losing you. So next time, make sure you stay longer.’

  ‘I will,’ he told her, ‘we’ll just win this little war and then I’ll swing myself a permanent posting to Paris. Either that or,’ he looked at her with a grin, ‘I’ll leave the army and come and work with you at Le Prix!’ A tender kiss, a tight hug, a cheery wave and he was gone. Bloody war, thought Lily, desperate for the conflict to finally end. As she stood wondering when she would see her lover again, Sadie sidled up to her, waving at the retreating British officers.

  ‘Your friend Dickie is very nice,’ she told Lily coyly, ‘I do hope he comes back too.’

  ‘Yes, he’s a real charmer, that one. So you helped him celebrate last night?’

  ‘Of course, we have to thank the liberators properly, don’t we now?’ She giggled before linking arms with Lily. ‘And I’ve received a message from Léon.’ Lily stopped and looked at her.

  ‘He’s alive?’

  ‘Oh yes, I told you I thought he had just gone to the country to join that good woman his wife. Well, he had. But it seems that, once the Germans invaded Zone NonO, he had to hide in the attic of his house. So he owes her his life and she won’t let him forget it.’ She looked momentarily rueful. ‘So it’s no more Léon for me. But then,’ and her face lit up once more, ‘I’d much rather have your friend Dickie. Léon may be terribly rich, but Dickie is so very handsome!’ They grinned as Lily mused over the extraordinary changes to Dickie’s rather staid upper-crust life that a vivacious French dancer could wreak. Her thoughts were interrupted by a hiss from Sadie.

  ‘Look! It’s Sabine ... and isn’t that ... the German Governor’s mistress!’ Two girls walked past them hand in hand. Sabine, her glossy dark bob now fluffy at the back and the buttons of her tricolour dress half undone, clasped the hand of a second girl, a blonde whose piled-up hairdo sat awry, her dress also partially unbuttoned at the back. She wore a tricolour sash which drooped at the front as if stretched by the exuberance of its wearer.

  ‘She’s clearly reinvented herself as a good French patriot,’ murmured Lily. She exchanged a shrug with Sadie who slipped away to join the crowd inside the theatre foyer.

  Lily stopped for a moment outside the theatre watching the colourful crowds streaming towards the victory parade. She did not feel much like parading, her thoughts still with Guy and the battles that lay ahe
ad. He had explained that, as intelligence officers, he and Dickie were not front-line troops, but Lily was less than reassured. As the last four years in Paris had proven so very effectively, war could find people well behind the front line. She sighed and set out to find Poppy. A drink would arrest her descent into the maudlin. As she turned, a surreal sight unfolded in front of her. Sister Marguerite was walking across the boulevard towards Le Prix arm in arm with Coco — her sister. They passed a gaggle of rough-looking men in dishevelled uniforms wearing the armbands of the communist fighters and clutching Tommy guns surrounding a companion who was being feted with backslaps and cheers. The crowd parted sufficiently for Lily to see who was at the centre. It was Chinon, now sporting a large, redribboned medal, and receiving the accolades of this band of resistance brigands. The little man was wreathed in smiles and, guessed Lily, busy reliving his moment of glory.

  Monsieur Maurice poured Madame Gloria a large glass of champagne and they toasted liberation, survival and Hubert. Madame Claudette had gone to bed with a cold compress after dancing for most of the night in a rare display of exuberance and Maurice was in a philosophical mood as they considered the last four years.

  ‘We did it, Madame, we survived the German occupation.’ They clinked glasses and shared a smile.

  ‘Monsieur, there is no doubt that we survived because of you.’

  ‘Non, non, Madame, I could not have done it without your help and without your kitchen to retreat to when it all became too difficult.’

  ‘And I could not have done it without Napoleon.’

  ‘Ah, Napoleon!’ And they clinked glasses again in acknowledgement of the huge, hairy black marketeer who had seen them through their darkest moments, funded by the German Governor’s wine, brandy and cigarettes. Maurice pondered a moment.

  ‘I wonder how they will judge me ... and Le Prix ... after all, we played to the invader. Not very patriotic, eh?’ Madame Gloria tut-tutted.