Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

By the next night, Genevieve was a bundle of nerves. She sang, she danced, she sparkled during her numbers with the energy she was always, without fail, able to summon when she went onstage, but inside she was so tense that it took every ounce of professionalism she possessed to put on the show the audience had paid to see.

To begin with, she was terrified every time she allowed her thoughts to drift to what might be happening to her mother. With every hour that passed, she feared that Lillian’s chances of surviving shrank.

Then Max hadn’t shown up in her hotel room the previous night. She’d sat up for hours waiting for him, and he hadn’t come. Not that she’d wanted to see him—quite the opposite—but she’d had news: Wagner had assured her that she had no need to fear a successful Allied invasion because the entire German Fifteenth Army had been relocated to Pas-de-Calais to overwhelm the Allies with sheer force of numbers if they should be so foolish as to try to invade there; and dinner had been interrupted by a soldier arriving tableside to whisper apparently urgent tidings into Wagner’s ear. Turning red with what she’d thought was anger, although it could have been alarm, Wagner had stood up abruptly, apologized and left the restaurant with the soldier, leaving Lutz to take her back to the hotel.

On one hand, Wagner’s premature departure had been a huge relief: after her fall, he’d been solicitous of her to the point where he was practically hovering over her as they ate, stroking her arm, patting her cheek, and in general giving every indication that he had amorous hopes for the balance of the evening. On the other hand, she was terrified that whatever had caused him to leave might have had something to do with Emmy and the attempted rescue of their mother. Knowing no details, she could do nothing but wait and worry. And of course she’d heard nothing from Emmy all day.

Still, only something of major importance would have drawn Wagner away, and that, plus the news about the Fifteenth Army, was what she’d wanted to tell Max. What she was still wanting to tell Max, who was apparently occupied with urgent matters of his own.

In related news, a huge bouquet of flowers had been waiting for her at the hotel when she’d returned from rehearsal that afternoon. Wagner had sent them, along with a note:

My dearest Genevieve,

Please accept my most profound apology for abandoning you at dinner last night. It was unforgivably rude, I know, but unavoidable as I had to respond to an emergency. That same emergency has required me to travel to Stuttgart, where I am resigned to staying for the next few weeks. I am desolate to be obliged to part from you so abruptly, and to miss the last of your Paris shows. Once I am settled, I will ring you up if I may to discuss when and where we can see each other again, which I hope to do at our mutual earliest convenience.

Ardently,

Claus

“Where is Max?” she’d demanded of Otto when he’d driven her to rehearsal, but Otto had professed not to know. Angry, but feeling that what she’d learned from Wagner was too important not to be passed on as soon as possible, she’d told Otto, who’d promised to convey it to Max without delay.

Max hadn’t shown up for her show.

Instead, sometime during the last number of the first half, the Nazis did.

Flushed and overwarm from the stage lights despite the flimsiness of the short gold flapper dress she wore for the first half finale, she came offstage to find at least a dozen soldiers storming through the backstage area. Checking at the sight, she caught her breath at the drawn sidearms, the gray-green uniforms, the young German soldiers striding along the halls, their faces set and pale under the dim lights.

A raid. She heard the terrified whisper being passed around among the crew, and had an instant, horrible flashback to Anna and Rachel, and Rachel’s fate.

They’re here for Max was her first petrified thought, and she thanked God that he wasn’t at the theater. Then it occurred to her that, coming so close on the heels of her by-the-skin-of-her-teeth escape from the gestapo yesterday, or even maybe from something to do with Emmy and their mother, they might very well be there for her.

Her stomach dropped clear to her toes.

“You girls, go to your dressing room and get your papers ready. You boys, do the same,” an officer barked at the chorus as they came flooding offstage in her wake. The lively closing music of the final song of the first half still filled the air along with the unseen audience’s thunderous applause, providing a surreal backdrop to the frightening scenario backstage. The choristes stuttered and stumbled, wide-eyed and visibly nervous as they realized what was happening and were corralled by soldiers who divided them up and herded them along like livestock. There was massive confusion as stagehands, makeup artists, costumers, choristes, performers who hadn’t been onstage for the last number and anyone else unlucky enough to find themselves behind the scenes at the time were rounded up by the soldiers.

Heart pounding, Genevieve looked desperately around for Pierre, for Otto, for somebody to find out what was happening and handle it. The closest she came was Madame Arnault, whose face was white and fearful as she was hurried along with the rest. The fact that there were no protests from anyone, that everyone was compliant, that Madame was as meek as the youngest of the choristes, told Genevieve as eloquently as anything could have how bad this was.

It was abundantly clear: there was no one to question what was happening except her. If the soldiers were there to arrest her, there would be no escaping them anyway. She was too well-known, and the only possible route of escape without going right through them would be to turn around, go back onstage, jump off and make her way out through the audience. Getting caught trying that would be tantamount to screaming, I’m guilty. Better to face down whatever this was and try to bluff it out.

Gathering up her courage, squaring her shoulders, she approached the officer who seemed to be in charge, the one who’d been barking orders, the one who was now directing his subordinates to separate out the stagehands and take them to the prop room.

“Good evening,” she began as she reached him, careful to be polite. The Germans were a touchy lot: if their egos were offended, more often than not heads would roll. Her heart was beating so hard now that she feared he would hear it. Her only protection from the soldiers’ all-encompassing power was her star persona, and as the officer swung around in response to her greeting, she deployed it like a peacock spreading its tail feathers. He met her gaze, his expression disagreeable. She saw that he was about forty, dark haired and hollow cheeked, with sharp features and penetrating eyes. “We are in the middle of a sold-out performance. I am hoping you can tell me the purpose of this extremely ill-timed...visit?”

His eyes swept her, and his expression changed, becoming almost pleasant.

“Mademoiselle Dumont.” He bowed stiffly. “It is a pleasure. I am Captain Hahn. Forgive this intrusion, but we have received information that one or more members of the Resistance may be operating among the theater company here. We must search, and verify identities, but we don’t wish to disrupt your show any more than we have to. Please, continue as you normally would. This is intermission, is it not? I see no reason why the second half should not go on as usual.”

They were searching for members of the Resistance operating among the theater company? The enormity of it slammed into her like a freight train. She felt her blood turn to ice in her veins. Her heart continued to beat, but in thick, sluggish strokes.

She was terrified of what he might read in her face. She couldn’t let him see that she was afraid.

“The second act can’t go on without my chorus,” she said. “Or the crew. Or, in fact, anyone backstage. They all have a role to play.”

“Your first song after intermission is a solo in which you accompany yourself on the piano, is it not?” He smiled at her, a superior smirk that would have annoyed her if she had not been so frightened. “I have had the pleasure of attending your show, you see. My wife is quite a fan. By the time you have finished with that, all your people should be free to continue on as usual. Minus any who are found to be working against the Reich, of course.”

“Of course. That goes without saying.” She returned his smile with one of her own, hopefully not as wooden as it felt. “Excuse me. If I am to perform as usual, I must go change.”

He inclined his head. Walking away from him, she was careful to keep her head high and her movements unhurried. Honore and Cecile rushed past, holding hands, their faces chalky with fear. The girls flashed frightened looks at her, and she put a comforting hand on Honore’s arm in passing, but with the soldiers all around, they didn’t speak. Hahn did not seem to harbor any suspicion about her, unless he was very good at concealing his true thoughts and was just waiting to spring some sort of trap. The thought made her insides twist, but, once again, there was nothing to be done. As far as she could see, her best course of action was to cooperate and hope that they found nothing. There were, she saw as she walked toward her dressing room, guards at both backstage exits, preventing anyone from leaving.

If they found whoever they were looking for, there would be no escape.

A soldier, young and pink cheeked, waited inside her dressing room with Berthe.

“I told him I had to be here to help you change.” Berthe’s voice sounded strained. The soldiers’ mere presence was an excruciating ordeal for her, Genevieve knew.

“Yes, that’s true,” Genevieve said to the soldier. “If I am to perform, I must change, and I can’t change without her help.”

“Very well,” the soldier said. “I’ll wait outside the door. When you’re done here, I’ll escort you to join the others. Not you, Mademoiselle Dumont—we all know who you are—but her.”

“I vouch for her,” Genevieve said. “She has nothing to do with anyone you’re looking for.”

“Nevertheless, I must take her to be examined. Orders, you understand. I’m sure nothing will be found to be amiss, and if so, she will return to you shortly.” He looked at Berthe. “I’ll be right outside when you’re ready. Please, don’t be too long.”

He left the room, closing the door behind him.

She and Berthe exchanged frightened looks. Of course, Berthe knew nothing of what she and Max and Otto had been doing for years now. She had no idea of Max’s true identity, or that he was an SOE agent, or that Genevieve and Otto worked for him. But Berthe had lived through the bloodbath that was the German invasion of her homeland and all the terror and brutality that had followed. Her husband’s death and her own near death at the hands of the invaders had left her with an abiding fear of them along with a permanent scar upon her soul.

More to the point under the present harrowing circumstances, to get her out of Poland, Max had provided her with forged papers. It was those papers that she was going to have to present to the soldiers now.

Genevieve flew to the other woman’s side.

“It will be all right,” she whispered. “You’ll show them your papers, and they’ll glance at them and be done.”

“Who are they looking for?” Berthe’s answering whisper shook.

“I don’t know. Pray they don’t find whoever it is.”

“Tak.” Only in moments of extreme agitation did Berthe lapse into Polish. Tak, Genevieve knew, meant yes.

“Help me change. We must behave normally, as if we have nothing to fear. For the benefit of the soldier outside.”

Berthe nodded.

“It was very hot under the spotlights in the last number. See how flushed my cheeks are,” Genevieve said clearly, although in reality any flush she might have experienced had vanished with the raid.

“Let me powder them. That will tone them down,” Berthe replied, going along.

With dismay Genevieve saw that she was pale as milk and her hands were shaking. Catching Berthe’s hands between her own, she rubbed them briskly to warm them. The other woman submitted with mute misery.

“When next you go out, try to get more of this carmine lipstick,” Genevieve said. “It doesn’t melt under the lights. And the liquid rouge is very good. You should get that, too.”

She gave Berthe a look of encouragement.

“I will, but as you know, stage cosmetics are almost impossible to find now.”

Despite the nerves afflicting them both, they continued with what they hoped would pass for a normal conversation, although Genevieve was sure neither would remember later a single word that was exchanged. In the meantime, while going through the familiar motions of getting Genevieve ready for the second act, Berthe regained some of her color and her hands ceased to shake.

Berthe had just finished doing up the back of her scarlet ball gown and was shaking out the full skirt when there was a knock on the dressing room door.

“Fräulein, I’ve been asked to bring you along now.”

Both women froze and exchanged a look. Berthe reached out an icy hand, and Genevieve squeezed it.

“One minute,” Genevieve called, and whispered, “Remember, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Berthe nodded. Then she gathered up her ID cards, went to the door and stepped out into the hall where Genevieve could see the soldier waiting for her.

“Don’t forget to powder your nose,” Berthe called back to her. Her voice was strong and steady.

“I won’t,” Genevieve answered, and smiled at her as the soldier closed the door.

Alone in her dressing room, she barely made it to her dressing table before her knees gave out and she had to sit down on the bench. A glance at the clock told her that she had a little less than ten minutes before she needed to head for the stage. She looked in the mirror to find that her face was paper white. With her black hair swept up into a chignon to expose her neck, and the strapless ball gown leaving her shoulders bare, she looked almost as vulnerable as she felt.

She closed her eyes, fought for calm.

Please don’t let them find anything wrong with Berthe’s papers. Please don’t let them find anything wrong with anything. And please keep Max away from the theater until this is over, and don’t let them be looking for him.

“You dirty little slut, did you really think there would be no payback for what you’ve done?”

Those words, spoken in a low, guttural voice, caused her eyes to pop open and her head to whip around toward the source.

Touvier emerged from behind the dressing screen in the corner, a long-barreled black pistol in his hand.

It was aimed at her.

⇐ Предыдущая 26 27 28 29 303132 33 34 35 Следующая ⇒