by Paula Byrne
Papa Hem might have warned her about the rats. Every night she lays out her sleeping bag on the icy ground. It is cold, rainy, and muddy. She pulls the blanket up to her chin, and the little horrors run over her face with their icy paws, as cold as death.
She is suffering from frostbite, and inflammation of the jaw. She never complains. She makes potato pancakes on a stove. She eats with the men, listens to their stories and their jokes. Sometimes, her stage is nothing more than a makeshift box with a ragged curtain. No lighting, no props. She is freezing, but she eschews a warm overcoat and dons her thin gold sheath dress without demur. They want to see a Hollywood star, not a hag in an overcoat. One of the soldiers shouts out for a prize for a raffle. She smiles and removes her pink and black garter belt, tossing it into the crowd as they cheer. The men can see the goosebumps on her flesh. You’d think she was performing in Beverly Hills, not the freezing Ardennes. The closer she gets to the Front Line, the more amazed the soldiers are. She appears like an apparition in her bright dress among the wild, forlorn places, with shellholes in the trees around them.
She summons the energy deep within her to be Madou. The men sit on their helmets and stare at her bare shoulders. They love her because she is the only entertainer to come within enemy artillery range.
Afterwards, she is invited to dine at the officers’ club. She meets a handsome American soldier, who is young but highly decorated. His name is General Gavin. His men call him ‘Slim Jim’. He tells her that she must never show her fear in front of the soldiers. They will tell themselves that things can’t be that bad if Madou is here. They would never let her come to harm, never expose her to danger; false reasoning, but it’s important to reduce the tension.
And then she is captured.
Black Fox
They called it The Battle of the Bulge!
My goodness, that’s a battle I know well. Mother’s most popular war anecdote was the story of her capture and release at this most famous of German offensives, their last attempt to fight back. She would tell her story, in her husky voice, of the times she was almost captured by the Germans; once on the Italian Front Line, and then the second when she was taken prisoner in Bastogne. It was the handsome, young General Gavin who parachuted in and rescued her from German hands.
She had been flown into Huy, Belgium, as a surprise for the demoralised allied troops. Boy, did they get a lift when the news spread that Madou was coming to perform. Morale was at its lowest ebb, dysentery had broken out.
She performed in an old church hall, the men using their helmets for chairs. She cracked her first joke: ‘Fellows, I may have to break in the middle of a song to excuse myself, and, heck, you know the reason why!’
The men roared their approval. She was one of them. And, she would tell her mesmerised audience, she never once went to the bathroom. And then, after the show, she went off on an unauthorised tour to see a hospital, and it was there that she was captured by the Nazis, and it was Gavin who rescued her, and she remembered the parachutes, those floating jellyfish, suspended by thirty-two nylon threads. She held the fine, gossamer parachute silk to her cheek, and thought of the flag room in Hollywood where no silk had ever felt so soft.
And do you know something, Mother? I don’t believe this tale for one moment. I do not believe for one single second that the American troops allowed you to be captured. But if you believed it to be true, then it must be true. Nobody would dare to contradict you, the great war heroine.
And, in the meantime, I began my own Battle of the Bulge. Just after I saw my thin, elongated frame in the Hall of Mirrors, I saw what might be, and I stopped eating. It was so easy, and I marvelled that I had left it so long. I sipped soup made of Heinz ketchup and hot water, nibbled on wafers, and got thinner and thinner. The rolls of fat slowly disappeared, and my face miraculously revealed cheekbones as sharp as cheese graters.
And then I did something that I knew would make my mother furious. I signed up for the USO. I’d been playing a part all my life. I’d witnessed every great director, every great actor in Hollywood at close range. Maybe I could act, even if I could not dance or sing. And what would the men think when they knew that their favourite star, ageless and fragrant, had a grown-up daughter? Maybe then the famous Madou wouldn’t seem so young. That thought kept me warm and full.
Don’t Put your Daughter on the Stage
On temporary leave, Madou reunites with Kater in the Zebra Room in New York. Glass wall panelling sparkles, reflecting the two women who sit at a table. Madou, beautiful in her captain’s uniform, her daughter dowdy in her USO garb. Kater tells her mother that she is part of a theatre company, where (who would believe it?) she plays the part of a whore called Molly Malloy. She hopes the GIs will appreciate the play. What does her mother think about her daughter playing the part of a whore? Does her mother have any advice for her about performing to the troops?
Madou pulls out her gold compact and fixes her lipstick, before speaking. Then she tells her war stories.
For once in her life, there were real men worthy of her. Soldiers, not Hollywood actors playing a part. She bonds with the 82nd Airborne Division, the bravest of all. General Gavin is a softly-spoken man, highly regarded by his paratroopers, despite his extreme youth. He insists on always carrying a rifle, not a gun. He is unable to resist Madou. He knows that she is courageous, like him, the only star to perform in Battle Conditions.
Most of the other stars fly in for an hour and fly back, but not Madou. She insists on staying with the boys, talks to as many as she can, posing for photographs, performing to each of the individual soldiers as if he were the only man in the world.
There are still those that say she can’t dance, she can’t act, she can’t sing, but try saying that to the GIs and they’d take you down in a flash. The boys are cold and miserable. But this woman looks them straight in the eye and says, ‘You’re special. You matter.’ Which is the equivalent of a St Bernard dog appearing in the snow with a brandy bottle around his neck, to rescue you and save your life. She somehow builds their confidence, has an instant connection. She is one of them. She is no phoney. She is in the mud with them. She has their respect. All those thousands and thousands of American boys, and one German woman.
The 82nd presents her with a white silk jump scarf, and she promises that she will always wear it when in battle. It’s one of her most precious possessions. The general gives her another present, a solid gold Flato cigarette lighter in the shape of a jerrycan. She loves it. Three items are always with her: the scarf, the lighter, and her gold compact.
She records a live show, Madou sings to the Homeland. She hopes and prays that her mother will hear it and know that she is alive. She knows that the Germans hate her for standing with the Americans. She hears that Hitler says that he has the means of making her very unhappy. She is everything he despises about liberated women; the battlefield for women is the delivery room, and her workplace is the kitchen. This woman is unsexed. A German woman in an Eisenhower jacket! In those final hours, they do what they can to discover the whereabouts of Madou’s mother. She can pay for her famous daughter’s treachery.
When she finishes making it all about her, she says, ‘You must never show your tears, Kater. You will see suffering and you will want to cry. But you must not.’
‘I have learned not to cry, Mutti. I am perhaps stronger than you think. Tears don’t come so easy to me.’
‘Well, at least you will be nowhere near the Front. Not like your mother. I will never let my boys down. I daresay you will be safe and far from harm.’
‘And what exactly would you know about the harm I have been exposed to already in my life?’
‘What do you mean? The kidnapper? I paid for you to have a bodyguard. You never came to any harm, like that poor baby. I made sure of that. What have I always told you? Nothing bad can ever happen to you as long as you are with your mother.’
; Kater stares ahead moodily. I catch her eye. Funny, how she no longer fears me. She’s becoming rather impertinent as she ages. Her tone is sullen and emotionless. She begins to say something and then thinks better of it.
‘Go safe, Mutti. There’s still time for the Nazis to do their worst. I don’t suppose you have heard any news from Grandmother or Aunt Birgitte?’
Berlin is broken. There is dust everywhere, statues with decapitated heads on the ground. Bullet holes pockmark the buildings of the Third Reich. She arrived with the 82nd and performed at the only theatre standing, the Titania-Palast. Backstage after the show, in a makeshift dressing room with a half-cracked mirror she gives an interview. ‘What were her impressions on returning to Berlin after all these years?’
She summons up the scene, her voice tired and wooden. The Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church reduced to rubble, and the Bahnhof Zoo. Her old apartment, number fifty-four, still standing, peppered with bullet marks, but with pots of red geraniums on the balcony.
She tells of how they got there. Driving through villages, sometimes split down the middle – in Holland, and in Belgium. The German children on one side of the street shouting her name. They knew who she was, and she thought about the parents who must have talked about her to them. How else would they have known her name?
Another French village was war-torn and silent. She couldn’t understand why there were bonfires of rubble when all the houses were still standing, curtains fluttering in the breeze. Then she looked through the window and saw that there was nothing behind. Just like the stage sets at the studio. Not a single person had survived.
Aachen was the first German city to fall. Though she was apprehensive about her reception from the German people, she was greeted warmly. The people had had enough. She was devastated by the first sight of her ruined homeland, even though she believed that Germany deserved what she got. Corpses lined the roads. Her unit took over the cinema, which was freezing cold with no fuel. But they carried on with their performances.
The German caretaker of the picture house had taken out his thermos and handed her his precious coffee. The other men worried the coffee might be poisoned. When she asked him why he was giving her coffee, he replied, ‘Ah, the Blue Angel.’ Apart from her duties performing, she was asked if she would speak into a megaphone and tell the German people to go home, and shut their shutters so they didn’t obstruct the tanks.
The reporter asks again how she feels about being back in Berlin. Her response is terse.
‘The tears I have cried over Germany have dried. I have washed my face.’
Art of Love
My mother once told me, ‘Think twice before burdening a friend with a secret.’ I thought of this often, but then, again, I didn’t really have any friends. As for boyfriends, I was determined not to be like my mother, so I never thought about boys in that way. Besides, I was not sure that anyone would touch me if they knew about my past. And then at theatre school I met Martin. The first thing I liked about him was that he didn’t know about my famous mother. Gloriosky!
He was kind and sensitive and good-looking. In certain lights, he looked a tiny bit like Jack. That was enough for me. He was in the same theatrical troupe that performed for the USO. He liked drinking too, so we had one thing in common. Sometimes, after the performance, we would drink together and talk. Unlike every other person I had ever met, apart from Jack, he didn’t once ask me about Mother or all the famous people I had met. He seemed interested in me. Now that the war was coming to an end, there was plenty of alcohol and cigarettes. It was easy to shed my inhibitions with a few drinks inside me, but I kept my secret.
There were times when Martin, with his kind, brown eyes, would ask me if I were OK. Was there anything I wanted to talk about? It was so easy to lie. In fact, I had perfected a brilliant matter-of-fact tone, when he asked questions about my childhood. Easy-peasy. Don’t let them in. Keep it all to yourself and nobody will know the truth.
My natural shyness helped to convey the mask of innocence. When he asked me if I’d ever kissed a man, I could shake my head with impunity.
He said that after the war, we would be married and have children. We took our show to Italy, and I had my own moment of glory. My mother truly believed that she was a soldier. At the end of the day, she was only an entertainer like everyone else. I was there, too, and I played my own part.
I was the one who was given the task of announcing the news that the war in Japan was over. That moment will be with me for ever. First the ominous silence as the news sank in, and then the explosion of applause and cheering. The realisation that the war was over and we were all finally coming home. But where was my home?
Nevermore
Madou paces up and down, up and down. She still hasn’t had news of her mother, but there are murmurs about Birgitte and Belsen. She looks into me and straightens her hat. The telephone rings out harsh and shrill.
‘Yes, yes it is she. Who told her I was dead? Goebbels? How dare he say that London is in flames. You have her there, with you? Let me speak.’
‘Maria.’
‘Mami.’
‘Maria.’
‘Mami, my sweet, we have to speak in English.’
‘Ja, my lovely Maria, I am so glad to hear your voice.’
‘Mami, Birgitte is safe. I am coming to you as soon as I can.’
‘Ja, and I am so happy and thankful for what you have done.’
‘Mami, you suffered for my sake. Forgive me.’
‘Yes, my love.’
‘Mami, take care of yourself.’
‘Yes, goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
She telephones General Gavin and arranges for a flight to Tempelhof Airport.
As the plane swoops down over the ruined city, she takes out her compact and applies crimson lipstick as her armour. When the propellers slow to a halt, the door opens, and out she runs, in her uniform and forage cap. Her mother, so tiny, so frail, like a bird, is waiting on the cement ramp. ‘Mami. My Mami.’
She only has a few days before her visa expires, so she moves quickly. She makes sure her mother is fed and clothed. Then she sets off to find her husband’s parents. She discovers that they have been sent to a camp in Austria. Demanding to see Marshal Zhukov, she sets off to Potsdam. She knows he has a reputation for being tough and brutal, but she is determined. She spends two hours with him, and then she leaves – clutching a pass signed by the man himself – with a jeep and a driver. She sets out across the highly dangerous Russian zone to find them and bring them back to Berlin, and that’s exactly what she does.
Once her family is safe, she returns to Paris. She knows that she will never see her mother again, whose final words are etched on her memory: ‘I’ve lived this long, I’ve outlived Hitler, and now I can die.’ But when the news reaches her, she has one last favour to ask of General Gavin. She phones him and says, ‘I wish you could help me.’
He replies, ‘We’ll take care of it.’
No Highway in the Sky
I was not invited to my grandmother’s funeral. Mother went with William Walton, the Times bureau chief, who, because he was a member of the press, was allowed to mix with Germans.
I sit now, an old woman, fingering my mother’s war medals. They were her most treasured possessions. She often said that most children inherit medals from their father, you will inherit them from your mother. I deliberated about bequeathing them to the Museum of Berlin. Perhaps it is time to let them go back to her homeland.
I lay them out on a piece of velvet. La Croix Pour le Mérite, Ordre National de la Légion d’honneur, Commandeur, Operation Entertainment Medal, Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, Medallion of Honour of the State of Israel, Medal of Freedom, Chevalier de L’Ordre de Léopold.
There was one medal she was not so happy to have received; a blue and silver medallion with a swastika in the centre – the Order
of Glorious Aryan Motherhood. She wrote down her reaction on a slip of paper and left it in its case: ‘The unbelievable chutzpah of those bastards!’
My mother could still make me laugh, even from the grave.
Handsome General Gavin had ensured that my grandmother was buried properly, as he had promised. It was many years after the war had ended that I had discovered the story. The general was determined to help my mother, whom he loved, but the anti-fraternisation rule was on, and he was not allowed any association with the Germans. But he made it happen. He ordered four paratroopers, each armed with a shovel, to dig a grave at Schöneberg cemetery. They waited until the early hours of the morning when it was dark.
Many of the graves had been blown open by the Allies’ bombs, and coffins were standing on their ends, with corpses hanging out of them. It looked like a film set for a Dracula movie, they told me, but I could think only of Mo’s film set in the studio. Then they drove their jeep to my grandmother’s apartment, and carried her tiny, light casket into the jeep, and from there to the cemetery. The smell of rotting flesh was all around them, gravestones ripped apart. A scene of utter desolation.
The next morning, Mother flew in with William Walton, and she sat there just looking at the coffin. Then she dropped a clump of earth on the lid, she then turned away and never looked back.
As soon as she was discharged, she was sent back to America. All her boys were desperate to go home, but Madou had no home. She received her orders to fly to LaGuardia Airport. There was no welcoming party to await her. It was raining in New York.
She looked sensational, wearing a grey suit with a mink stole wrapped around her shoulders. If she thought I looked different, she didn’t show it. She smiled and linked my arm.