Songbird Under a German Moon (6 page)

Betty nodded, watching as Mickey headed out with purposeful strides to announce the performances scheduled for tonight's variety show.

“Don't mind her. Kat's always a little sharp with her words. I think she wants to make it clear she's not one of us. C'mon.” Irene grabbed Betty's arm, pulling her to the side of the stage. “This is the best place in the house to watch.”

Betty patted her hair, realizing that in less than one minute they had twisted her dark hair up in a chignon at the base of her neck. She also realized that she hadn't even checked her makeup, but she trusted she was in good hands. It was clear that it was a top-notch show, and everyone did their part to make all the other members look good.

“By your special request,” Mickey started as he leaned close to the microphone, “a night that will take you home. More than that, a night that will bring the stars of home to life—performing the best numbers of the decade, just for you.”

Applause exploded, and Mickey strode off, pausing briefly at Betty's side. “Don't mess up, kid. If you don't nail it tonight, you'll be on tomorrow's plane home.”

Betty reached for Irene's hand.

“Don't worry about him, Betty. He was a studio czar back in Hollywood,” Irene explained. “I don't want to spread any rumors now, but there's a reason why he's here, you catch my meaning? There were problems. Mr. Nice Guy one minute and then—”

Loud music interrupted Irene's words.

The evening started with an accordionist unlike anyone Betty had ever heard. She tried to enjoy herself without getting too worked up about Mickey's words. She couldn't go home tomorrow. She had to do well. The alternative was unacceptable.

Dear God, since I know You're around to help—now's a great time.

After that, a tap-dancer took the stage with feet that didn't stop moving and a smile that was wide and pearly white. Betty stood just to the side of the curtain, which allowed her to watch the dancer without being seen. When the woman added cartwheels to
her tapping, flipping around the stage like a tumbleweed caught in the wind, the crowd cheered with approval so loud it would put the roar of the Douglas C-47 to shame.

“How many men are out there?” she mumbled to herself. She dared to take a step forward, peeking out. The first dozen rows were so packed she sucked in a breath. Beyond them, there was an olive-drab sea of smiling faces.

“Oh, my goodness.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “I think there are more men out there than people in my hometown.”

“Have you ever performed before a crowd this large?” Irene asked, leaning close to her ear.

Betty shook her head, no. “Not even close.”

“I have a tip for you. It's something my mother taught me.” Irene guided her farther behind the stage, talking loudly, close to her ear. “She said whenever I went to a party, I needed to wait by the door until I spotted the hostess, and then I was supposed to go to her, and she would introduce me to the rest of the room.”

Betty furrowed her brow, unsure of how this advice would help, but she listened intently, trying not to fret over the fact that three girls who looked like sisters in matching red dresses and white bloomers waited in the wings.
The Johnson Sisters, I suppose.

“So what you do when you go on stage is scan the crowd and find your hostess—or in this case your host. Find someone with a friendly face you can turn back to time and time again, especially when you feel overwhelmed and lost. Feel free to look around, but it helps to know that he's got your back. Helps even more if he's handsome.” Irene winked.

Betty nodded, and she supposed it was good advice, but she wasn't sure she would remember that bit of wisdom once the panic of being on stage set in. Right now, she was having a hard enough time remembering the songs she'd told Mickey she wanted to sing.
I thought this would be easy—but this is big. Real big. And really important too—nothing like the canteen.

She felt her leg jiggle as she watched the Johnson sisters do a high-kicking act. She couldn't help but laugh when the sisters picked two soldiers from the audience and encouraged the guys to kick along with them. The laughter eased her nerves, but only slightly.

Finally, they kicked their way off stage, and it was her turn.

Just when she was about to step out, Mickey beat her, rushing onto the stage. He'd changed during the high-kicking act and now wore a canary yellow suit with a blue tie.

“And now, just flapping her wings and flying in from Santa Monica, California, we have a new performer tonight—I like to call her Songbird. Flutter on out and sing us a song or two!” Mickey wiped his brow with a blue handkerchief that matched his tie, and hurried off stage. Applause rose from the soldiers.

Betty's breath caught in her throat as she strode onto the stage. The ceiling rose above her nearly to the clouds—or so it seemed. Tall white columns lined the side walls, as tall as trees. Round globe lights lit the columns' tops, like dozens of stars that had dared to drop down from the heavens to take a listen.

Below her was the orchestra pit, now empty. Instead of using the pit, a small orchestra sat behind her, stage right. In front of her were row upon row of seats filled with smiling, cheering, clapping GIs.
Above and behind the regular seats more GIs sat in theater boxes. For the briefest moment, she remembered hearing that one of the boxes used to belong to Hitler. But that thought was pushed away as she glanced to the orchestra and the music began.

The opening chords started for “Stormy Weather,” and she widened her eyes and stretched a smile over her face.

So many faces, smiles, eyes directed on her. She wasn't easily scared, but suddenly her stomach felt as if it were filled with a hundred little bubbles, bouncing against each other and trying to get out. And then, at the right moment, Betty opened her mouth and the words came out clear, sweet, and beautiful, surprising even herself.

The singer dressed in pink waltzed to center stage as if she were an angel. She glanced to the orchestra for the briefest moment and then the music began.

Frank lifted his camera, feeling the anger release from his neck, sliding down his back as she smiled into the crowd. He couldn't believe Marv. How could he dare give him
this
assignment? He was a combat photographer. He'd flown nearly a hundred missions, getting shots of the land, the destruction, the battles in enemy territory, and now they wanted him to take photos of singing, dancing girls, of evening gowns and bloomers?

He couldn't wait until he made it into HQ tomorrow. Only one thing made him halfway okay with this assignment—surely the real reason he was here didn't have to do with snapping shots of singing and dancing girls. Surely something else was going on behind the scenes. From the relaxed smiles on the faces of everyone behind stage earlier, he also guessed it was something none of the performers knew about.

He watched as Betty scanned the crowds at her feet, of men in olive drab uniforms. He lowered his camera as her gaze found his. When she reached the center where he was seated, she paused on him, focusing on his gaze, and her smile widened.

Frank swallowed hard and smiled back. Then he lifted his hand and waved. He felt like a schoolboy with a crush, but at that moment, with the music and her in that dress—he didn't care.

Okay, maybe there were two things he didn't mind about this assignment.

How could you, Marv?
Frank didn't know if this rush of anxiety was focused on Marv or himself.
Don't give in. If you get involved with a girl, she'll be pulled into your work. You never know what trouble's around here—what trouble you'll get someone into.

“Stormy weather, since my man and I ain't together,” she sang, swaying slightly, with her captivating eyes glancing back at him.

Hearing the song's lyrics, Frank felt as if his lungs filled with lead.

She probably has a guy out there somewhere.
He lifted his camera to take a shot of Betty, while trying to hide his look of disappointment. The flash from his camera brightened the room.

She's a pretty girl.
He thought about the way she'd engaged the soldiers on the airplane too.
Maybe she's already promised her heart away or is engaged. Not that she'd be interested in me even if I could pursue her.

Then again—she hadn't mentioned any guy when they, or mostly Betty and Mac, had chatted on the hour-long drive from Nuremberg to Bayreuth.
She would have mentioned a boyfriend if she had one, right?

New hopes buoyed Frank's heart, even though his mind reminded him not to go there. He took a few more shots of Betty—or Songbird as she was now called. She
was
a songbird too. Her velvet
voice filled the room, and the men around her went silent, entranced by her song.

If Frank hadn't been around her all day—hadn't experienced it—he wouldn't have guessed she'd been singing all day—first on the plane and then on the drive. The song was so pure, so sweet, it seemed as if she'd saved it deep inside, just for this night and these guys.

Betty finished her second song, and the guys rose to their feet, cheering wildly.

Frank couldn't help but join them. He let the camera hang from its strap on his neck, placed two fingers into his mouth, and whistled.

Betty curtsied and then scanned the crowd, her eyes pausing on his.

Frank's heart pounded in his chest in tune to the next song the orchestra started up. He knew the first thing he'd do when he got to his quarters would be to write Marv a note.

How dare you—? Thank you. How could you?

Marv had picked a keeper, all right. And Frank had a feeling he'd like to pursue this one—if only he could.

Even though the music had stopped, sweet melodies continued to replay in Betty's mind.

After her performance, she'd stood on the side stage and watched the monologue, the specialty dancer, the comedy skit, and even listened to the cheers and boos as Mickey related the most
current sports scores. Last of all, Kat ended the night with an amazing performance of Vera Lynn's “We'll Meet Again.” Yet, Betty'd been so tired, so overwhelmed with where she was and what was happening, that she'd hardly taken in any of it.

“Heading over to the soldiers' canteen with us, Songbird?” the trumpet player asked, wrapping an arm around Betty's shoulder. He was her height and thin. So thin, it looked like a heavy wind could blow him away.

“No, I don't think so. Not tonight. Thanks for the invitation, though.” Betty moved toward the dressing room.

Irene strode to Betty's side, slipping her hand around Betty's elbow. “Our job isn't over. Every evening we have our usual post-show appearance at the canteen. All the girls head over there with Wally and the band.”

Betty blinked twice, struggling to keep her eyes open. “I'm sorry—”

The woman smiled. “My name's Irene. Did you forget already?”

Betty forced a smile. “I'm sorry, Irene. I'm afraid my brain has turned to mush. I've been traveling for the last three days straight, and I haven't laid down that whole time. You should have seen my head bob when I tried to sleep on those airplanes.” She reached up and rubbed the back of her neck. “It's gonna take awhile for me to recover.”

“Of course you need your rest. I'm getting carried away with myself. You're right. I'll go back with you—show you around. But I think…” Irene paused. “I think the only bed left, though, is in Kat's room.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Oh no. Maybe not.” The words spilled out of Irene's mouth a little too quickly for Betty's comfort. “I suppose it'll be fine.”

“You don't sound very confident.”

“Yes, well, Kat does like her own room,” Irene said. “She's a professional after all, which is to say she insists on her own wardrobe, her own room, but seeing as she's leaving in a few days I'm sure she'll understand. She'll have to. We can't have you sleeping on the floor now, can we?”