Wild Lavender (57 page)

When Madame Goux announced that the rehearsal pianist from the Adriana had arrived, I was shocked to see Monsieur Dargent walk into my drawing room.

Nothing about him had changed since the last time I had seen him at the Le Chat Espiègle
,
sixteen years before. He was wearing a white suit with a pink carnation in his buttonhole and his curlicue moustache was as stiff and black as ever.

‘Monsieur Dargent!’

‘Look what has become of you!’ he said, holding out his hands. ‘The funny girl who danced like a savage!’

‘I tried to get in contact with you a few times,’ I told him. ‘To thank you for giving me a start. But I have never been able to track you down.’

He laughed his wild man laugh. ‘I have been travelling,’ he said, hiding his mouth behind his hand. ‘Avoiding debtors!’

There was something in his manner that made me uncomfortable. I guided him to the drawing room. ‘So you are my rehearsal pianist?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I am the new director of the Adriana. These days I am Maxime Gaveau.’ He bowed and made a flourish with his hand.

My heart sank. He was a collaborator. The rightful holder of that position was Minot, and he would still have had it if not for the Nazis. But I reminded myself that it would not do the Resistance any good to show my anger.

Monsieur Dargent straightened himself again and handed me some sheet music. ‘These are songs from your previous shows. I thought we could do a retrospective set. I am having some new numbers written for you too
—I’ll get them to you early next week. They have to be approved by the Propagandastaffel first. That will give us a few days to rehearse them before the performance.’

I didn’t warm to that news. It was humiliating enough to be singing for the enemy high command, but it had never been my intention to perform German propaganda.

When the package of songs arrived several days later, I opened it up with grim foreboding. I carefully read the words to each song. Much to my relief, they seemed harmless enough. But one stood out to me as mysterious:

When my love cools

I’ll leave you for the heat of Africa

You’ll look in the East, the West and the Centre too

But you won’t find me in the darkness of Africa

Unless you bring me the light of your torch.

I had learnt over the years how to read music and played the melody now on the piano with one finger. It was a mellow tune. The Germans did not permit jazz; they called it ‘nigger music’. The verses were haunting. I tried singing it through, working out what I would emphasise or sustain. I picked up my pen and changed ‘Unless you bring me the light of your torch’ to simply ‘Unless you bring me your light’.

Monsieur Dargent came to rehearse with me the next day. He flicked through the music sheets and frowned when he saw the Africa song. ‘Mademoiselle Fleurier, didn’t I say not to change any of the words?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t I say that the Propagandastaffel had cleared them?’

I couldn’t understand why he was getting worked up. Nothing I had altered made any difference to the meaning of the song. I couldn’t remember him being so precious before.

‘Surely the Propagandastaffel couldn’t object to those slight changes?’ I said. ‘I changed the words to fit the way I want to sing them.’

A look passed across his face. I couldn’t interpret it, but it seemed more like worry than anger. He said nothing more, but when he left after the rehearsal I barely heard his goodbye.

Monsieur Dargent’s reaction disturbed me so much that I rehearsed the songs again that night on my own, making sure I did not change a thing. With the concert so close, and with Odette and Petite Simone’s lives in the balance, I did not intend to antagonise the Nazis—or their collaborators.

My final rehearsal at the Adriana took place on one of those gloomy Paris days where the cloud cover turns everything a funereal grey. I cast my eye over the theatre’s velvet curtains and Art Deco furniture, at the glass and steel doors. The first time I sang there, I had been shaking with nerves. Back then I had thought the most important thing in the world was to be a star. Now I could not concentrate on anything except how quickly I wanted the evening’s ordeal to be over. And if I had asked myself whether I was pleased to have become famous, I would have answered that I wished I was anybody but Simone Fleurier, ‘the most sensational woman in the world’. My stardom was a weapon the Germans were going to use against France.

I stayed only to rehearse my songs. Monsieur Dargent showed me the program but I was not interested in what the other acts were going to do. There were some Austrian trapeze artists—‘world class’ according to Monsieur Dargent; an opera singer—‘the best in Germany’; and a troop of cabaret singers and dancers from Berlin. It was ironic that I, with my dark Mediterranean looks, was going to star among such fine specimens of the Aryan race. But that was the incongruity of fame in Europe: I was better known—and more venerated—than any of them.

Before the performance that evening, I sat in my dressing room listening to the creaks of the floorboards from Monsieur Dargent’s office upstairs and the orchestra
warming up below. There was no Kira with me to be my good luck charm, no Minot to send me a bottle of champagne. I was alone. Sitting in the star’s dressing room brought back memories of ‘
Bonjour Paris, C’est Moi!
’ It had been the most dazzling show Paris had ever seen. The sets and the costumes had been sumptuous and all the chorus girls had been blonde, so that I, as Minot had put it, would ‘stand out like a gorgeous black pearl’. Now the black pearl would be standing in front of the Nazi flag. I rested my head in my arms and wondered where Odette and Petite Simone were. Did they realise that tomorrow they would be free? Roger, with his green eyes and sense of purpose, would be treasured in my heart for ever. But tonight I had to push thoughts of him to the furthest corners of my mind so I go could through with what I was about to do.

There was a knock on my door. I knew it wouldn’t be a dresser; with only one black dress, I didn’t need one. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me, Gaveau,’ answered Monsieur Dargent. ‘I need to speak to you.’

I hadn’t put on my dress or done my hair yet. I wrapped a kimono over my underwear and opened the door. Monsieur Dargent pushed straight past me and sat down on my make-up stool. His hands were trembling and his face was pale. I wondered what he could be so agitated about. It wasn’t as if anything could go wrong with my performance, unless the Germans didn’t like it. There were only a few new songs, no dancing, no scenery or props and no costume changes. I wasn’t even going to make my usual entrance down the staircase, balancing an elaborate headdress on my neck. My damaged knee had put an end to that. And if something went wrong with the recording for Radio France, that wasn’t the responsibility of either of us.

‘What is the matter?’ I asked, pouring him a glass of water from the pitcher on my table. Perhaps Monsieur Dargent was feeling out of his depth? This was the first major production at the theatre in years and, fond as I was of him, he was no Minot.

‘I didn’t have permission to explain our position to you the other day,’ he said, sipping from the glass. ‘But I do now. You sang the songs perfectly during the rehearsal but I am worried you will change something in the performance. I have to reiterate to you that you must sing the Africa song exactly as it is written.’

I leaned against my dressing table. He was placing far too much emphasis on the accuracy of the lyrics, which to my mind was not as important as the music to anyone except the songwriter. I was singing alone, so it wasn’t as if I was going to put out back-up singers if I changed a word here or there.

Monsieur Dargent noticed my frown and let out a sigh. ‘It could ruin everything,’ he continued. ‘That is why we have decided it is better to tell you. The words to that song are of prime importance to the war effort.’

I straightened. Now things were making sense. I recalled the lyrics, trying to work out what they could mean. They weren’t specific enough to be any kind of propaganda. When I thought over them, they sounded more like strategic locations. Or a code.

‘Whose war effort?’ I asked. ‘I don’t intend to help the Germans in any way.’

Monsieur Dargent’s eyes flashed. ‘What are you talking about?’ he whispered. ‘We are on the same side. When you sing the words to the Africa song you will be informing the Resistance that the Allies and de Gaulle’s Free French are about to strike. The Resistance must be ready, because when the Allies attack, the Germans will occupy the south of France too. Through Radio France the word will pass from the radio operators to the
maquis
.’

I eyed him suspiciously. He was a collaborator. I found it easier to believe that any message in the song had been put there by the Germans to confuse the Resistance, not to help them.

‘You are using me,’ I spat.

‘
Mon Dieu!
What do you take me for?
’
cursed Monsieur Dargent, standing up. ‘We are working for the same
network.’ He finished his water in one gulp and shook his head in disgust. ‘Clifton said you might be difficult.’

A chill ran down my back. At first I wasn’t sure that I had heard him correctly.

‘Who? Who said that?’ I demanded. I tried to keep myself calm but it did not work. My hands shook. Perhaps Clifton was a common British name.

Monsieur Dargent swallowed so hard that his Adam’s apple slipped from his chin to his neck and back again. ‘I wasn’t supposed to tell you. It just came out.’

I rushed at Monsieur Dargent and grabbed his arms. ‘Captain Roger Clifton? Code name: Delpierre?’

Monsieur Dargent squeezed his eyes shut. I dug my fingers into his skin. ‘Captain Roger Clifton? Code name: Delpierre?’ I repeated, my voice rising.

Monsieur Dargent pushed me away. ‘He said you could be stubborn, Mademoiselle Fleurier. And he was right. It is as much for your own safety as for his that I don’t tell you any more.’

My skin prickled. In my life there was only one person who had referred to me as stubborn. I was suddenly yanked out of the darkness into the light. I rushed at Monsieur Dargent again. He retreated but was trapped against my wardrobe. ‘Roger is alive!’ I cried. ‘How? Where? How did he escape the Nazis?’

‘He was never caught,’ relented Monsieur Dargent. ‘He heard of your capture and came to Paris to find you. The double agent spread the rumour of his arrest and execution to confuse the network.’

‘Is he still in Paris?’

Monsieur Dargent shook his head. ‘He is leaving on a plane for London tonight.’

The German stage manager knocked on the door. ‘Ten minutes to curtain call.’

Only ten minutes? I hadn’t put on my dress or done my hair. But Roger was more important than the performance at that moment. I was about to ask Monsieur Dargent if he could get a message to Roger before he left Paris, but he
put up his hand. ‘Enough, Mademoiselle Fleurier. Hurry and get dressed. If you upset the Germans, that won’t get us anywhere.’

I turned to my mirror. Happiness bubbled up in me. Roger was alive! I drank in every sensation from the pins and needles in my toes to the blood rushing through my veins. I wanted to throw my arms out and sing the good news for everybody to hear, though of course I couldn’t. Roger was alive and he had given me a gift—I was about to help the Resistance, not betray it!

‘
Bonjour Paris!
’ I sang out and waved my hand, entering the stage from the wings. The Germans applauded. Beyond the floodlights I could see rows of black SS uniforms rising up to the balconies, like hundreds of spiders waiting in their holes. But the repulsiveness of my audience and all that they stood for couldn’t stop the light that was shining in me. It ran up my legs and spine. The joy was so hot that I thought I might burn up with it.

‘
It’s me. Tonight of all nights the stars will come out and shine. Shine for the whole of Paris to see.
’

The recording technician for Radio France was sitting in the orchestra pit. I sent him a smile, the biggest grin I had ever given to a collaborator. He and I were comrades tonight. Unknown to him, we were singing out good news to the Resistance.

The Germans liked what they were seeing so much that they clapped again. Despite the residual pain in my ribs from my Gestapo beating, my voice had never been so powerful. My soul was singing within me. It was the pinnacle of my life; one of those moments when the curtain opens and you suddenly know that you are doing what you were born to do, that you are fulfilling your purpose on earth. At that moment I was glad to be Simone Fleurier and thrilled that the Allies were able to use me.

Colonel von Loringhoven was sitting in the balcony with Karl Oberg and Camille. The orchestra slipped into ‘
La bouteille est vide
’, and I directed my voice to them.

The more you get

The more you want

You want and want

And then it’s all gone.

Karl Oberg smiled and gave a self-satisfied laugh. Von Loringhoven glanced at him, then looked back at me. He shifted in his seat, pleased with himself. Smile while you can, I thought. It is going to be over for you very soon.

La! La! Boom! Here comes Jean

In his new Voisin.

La! La! Boom! He asks, ‘What are you doing?’

What am I going to tell him?

La! La! Boom! That I’m hanging out the washing?

I wanted to laugh with the comedy of it. During the Voisin song I became so giddy that I had to remind myself not to seem too pleased because that might raise von Loringhoven’s suspicions. I sang my tango songs with all the tragedy and soulfulness they deserved, but the only way I could sound authentic was to think of what had started my work with the network in the first place: the massacre of the Belgian children.

But it was the finale that was my greatest moment of all.

When my love cools

I’ll leave you for the heat of Africa

You’ll look in the East, the West and the Centre too

But you won’t find me in the darkness of Africa

Unless you bring me the light of your torch.