Nightingale (24 page)

Chapter 35

The leaves were beginning to turn when two policemen came to the Palace and took Yves to the
mairie
. He’d been expecting it—almost everybody, apparently, was being questioned about their involvement with the Germans, and a lot of people were arrested. Rumors that they’d cut off Arletty’s breasts for consorting with her German officer lover in the Ritz thankfully turned out to be wrong, but just the fact that many were willing and able to believe it spoke of a new fear. Since the liberation, Yves had felt the sword of Damocles hanging over him, and he was almost relieved when his turn finally came.

He kept to the facts, spoke of the friendship he’d had with von Starck, who, it turned out, was one of the men who’d attempted to assassinate Hitler. How much that contributed to his defense was anybody’s guess. But when one of the interrogators then added that Yves was, in his words, a “well-known homosexual,” he again feared the worst, but that ended up working in his favor, since everybody knew how much Fascists hated homosexuals.

He was still shaken to the core and felt unable to sing that evening, but Vandio assured him that the American troops didn’t know or didn’t care that he was suspected of collaboration, unless he was a raving Fascist himself. And those had already left the country or gone into hiding, while Yves maintained a high profile. And unlike some artists, he’d never received death threats. Still, Vandio promised he’d talk to everybody who mattered to ensure Yves would encounter no difficulties from the Allies. The most important thing was to carry on and put on the right face in public, and any tarnish would soon rub off.

He stepped onstage with the feeling that all of this could be over very quickly—if somebody decided he’d betrayed his country, maybe even in the bed of the enemy or in their embassy and on the radio station they controlled. So he sang every song like it might be his last one, and in that, there was a level of peace. He couldn’t control the world, but he could control his voice and the song.

The next day, he sought out Améry and eventually found him in one of the cellar bars in the Latin Quarter with a few comrades. As he stepped closer, he heard them complain about de Gaulle not respecting how much they’d done for France and Paris. Yves was about to leave again when Améry looked up and recognized him, then stood, placing a hand on the shoulder of a comrade. He said something Yves didn’t understand over the noise, and came toward Yves.

“Should we go outside?”

Yves nodded.

Outside, Yves noticed more clearly than ever the bullet holes in the walls around there. Just down the road had been one of the barricades, but Paris had cleaned up, had almost completely returned to its old self, apart from the remaining food shortage and a continuing anxiety that the Germans might yet return.

“I heard you were in trouble.” Améry stopped and turned to him.

“I’ve been questioned.”

“Will they bring charges?”

Yves shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Améry looked at him, and Yves noticed that in the last few months, Améry had changed. His eyes, always intelligent, now had an otherworldly quality, maybe like those of a blind person who might not see anything in the physical realm but noticed ghosts and phantasms that nobody else could see. His face was sharper, and he seemed gaunt and hungry like a jackal. “Well, if you need help, I can always tell them you were helping us. At least in small ways. I think I owe that much to Édith.”

Yves’s throat tightened with anger. How could Améry mention this so casually, so easily, when it was he who was responsible for her arrest, and ultimately, her death. “You owe her so much more than that.” His voice was rough and flat, strangled.

Améry took a step back, eyes widening for a moment, then narrowing. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t? So where’s the rest of your friends? The ones that played revolution with you?”

Améry shook his head. “They were arrested. With Édith. What are you getting at?”

“You sold them to the Gestapo to save your own skin.”

“I did not!” Améry looked around quickly. “Who told you such a thing? I’d never!”

“Somebody who’d know and had no reason to lie.” Or maybe he had. Maybe that had been the final insult—pitting French against French for after he was gone.

A look of fear crept into Améry’s eyes, and he blinked a few times, then seemed unable to meet Yves’s gaze. “I fought the Germans in the countryside and here in the streets. I’ve made mistakes, but I fought them. I killed some. I can’t fix my mistakes, I can only give my best.”

“So you did it.”

Améry shook his head but remained silent. Around them, people went about their business, entering and leaving the bars. A pair of Black Americans walked down the street, waving at the French youths calling out to them.

“I’m so sorry.” Améry kept his gaze down. “But everybody would have done what I did. It would take a hero not to.” Améry looked up and blinked again.

The anger cooled and turned brittle, then crumbled into ashes. Nothing either of them could do had the power to bring Édith back or change the course of history. They’d all just been washed along, tangled up in circumstances beyond anybody’s control. And what horrors had Améry faced in a Gestapo cell? Von Grimmstein had claimed it had taken nothing to scare him—but in a city strangled by fear, it didn’t take much to break. Considering his own run-in with von Grimmstein, Yves didn’t believe for a moment he’d have resisted.

“I can still help you. Not as . . . an apology, just making sure you’ll get out of it without any further hassle. For Édith’s sake.”

“Don’t ever mention her name again.” Yves gritted his teeth. “Or ever speak to me.”

Améry drew up his shoulders, took a few steps back as if Yves were going to punch him. They faced each other uneasily, while Yves fought a new wave of desperate anger and hurt and helplessness. Who would listen if he did report Améry as a Gestapo stool pigeon? Améry had friends among the FFI, and Yves had no proof, no witnesses to come forward. Meanwhile, Améry might use his connections to cast him in a bad light, though he had no proof either. Neither of them could make the other pay.

“Don’t ever.” Yves clenched his jaw and turned away.

* * *

The hearing, when it came, seemed to be mostly a formality. The widespread anger seemed to have run its course, especially after the execution of a few writers and journalists. Yves almost got the feeling that the new authorities and the public were embarrassed about it and tried to get it over with. He was sternly warned to “mind his company,” but not punished.

The war was far from over, and when news of a large German winter offensive reached Paris, Yves felt the ensuing panic viscerally. Here was what everybody had been expecting—the big reversal, where an enraged Germany again surprised its enemies. A ripple of horror was tangible in the air, and it felt a bit like four years ago, when Paris had been expecting the invaders.

Still, while Americans and British made up a good portion of his audience when he sang in the Palace or similar venues, they seemed to be different Americans and British every time, as units were constantly cycled to the front. The dream of ending the war before Christmas receded and became a fever dream.

He was leaving late one night, trying to get to Maurice’s villa because he had secured plenty of coal to ward off the winter, and Yves hadn’t been quite so lucky. Besides, it was closer to the Palace, and Maurice always did take good care of his guests. Now that Charles had again deployed to fight the Germans, and with no news from Falk, Yves felt it was easier to have some company than sink into isolation, and Maurice seemed to appreciate it, too.

“Hey—you.”

Yves turned around and an American, unsteady on his feet, was coming after him. Yves searched his pockets for a pen while the man came closer, then finally stood in front of him. He seemed quite young but large and muscular unlike just about any soldier Yves had recently seen. This wasn’t a body that had known hunger.

“I heard you sing,” the American slurred.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Yves’s English was still broken, but he’d quickly caught on that the GIs loved his songs much more when translated, and Yves and Vandio had worked together to adapt the lyrics, as well as the rest of the act, for foreigners. It made perfect business sense now, as it had before.

The American pushed even closer. At first he thought that he’d stumbled, given his state, but then realized the man had deliberately pushed into him. “You’re very pretty, too.”

Yves’s blood froze. Had the American seen him at Eduard’s or caught a whiff of the rumors about him? Did he know? Did he guess? Or didn’t he care? “
Monsieur
, I don’t think it’s appropriate.”

“What?” The American breathed in his face. “I’d show you a good time. Been watching you a while.”

“I have nothing more to say to you.” Yves ducked to the side and kept walking but freed his hands from his pockets.

“Hey, I don’t bite!” The American reached for him, but Yves ducked again and broke into a run. “So where were you when we fought to free your lousy city, heh? My friends died for your fucking freedom, you sissy!”

Chapter 36

Vandio hadn’t joined him on the trip back. At the last minute, he’d shaken his head and said he wasn’t ready to return to Europe. It was because of just how many of his, or rather their, relatives had died in Germany or vanished without a trace, but they didn’t need to talk about it. When the reports came with photos and films from the death camps, Vandio sat on the floor of his expensive hotel room wailing until he was hoarse, rocking back and forth, and Yves couldn’t do anything but hold him in his arms and cry with him for men and women and children he’d never met and now would never meet. Then, when Vandio felt incapable of singing about love and beauty and little nonsense that had amused audiences for years, Yves took the stage alone and claimed his father was feeling unwell.

They barely celebrated when Germany capitulated, but were swept up in the festivities when Japan did. They sang at galas and dinner parties, and that long, long tour that crisscrossed America and Canada finally ended with three sold-out nights at Carnegie Hall.

While Vandio found the thought of Europe unbearable, Yves was homesick after three years in America. The Americans loved him enough for his accent and his songs that Hollywood came knocking, and Yves went for a screen test. Whoever made the decisions in Hollywood gave the green light, and Yves received a smallish part where he essentially played himself.

Hollywood regarded him as a “much cheaper, younger Chevalier,” but while Yves was flattered, he didn’t see himself like that—but most worryingly, his French was beginning to get awkward, and he caught himself sometimes thinking in English. Vandio told him that was natural, and he was well fit for America, especially with all the French immigrants in New York City, where writers, sculptors, painters, Jews, and Communists had fled in droves. But while it was very pleasant, especially with money and with some fame, it simply wasn’t Paris.

He crossed the Atlantic on a ship, and people recognized him. Some asked for autographs, others invited him to their table. He rarely, if ever, had to pay for anything now, not drinks or food, and there were presents ranging from letters and recordings to one admirer gifting him a fountain pen made of solid gold.

When he arrived, he took a room at the Ritz—he’d given up his flat and still hadn’t decided where to live. Paris would likely have forgotten him by now, so he’d have to start again, but he had ideas and melodies for new songs. For the moment, he didn’t have to do anything, so buying a place in Paris, where he could listen to the singers who were now famous and then write his own songs seemed like the best idea. There was no pressure—even less since Vandio’s agent had told him he remained in high demand, and more opportunities could easily arise in Hollywood if he wanted them.

After he’d rested and changed, he took a taxi to Montmartre and then walked the rest of the way to get a feeling for the neighborhood. It was still relatively early in the afternoon, so he went to Maurice’s villa. They’d exchanged letters and phone calls, and Maurice had cryptically promised him a surprise when he arrived. That had been almost two weeks ago.

Yves knocked on the door, and one of Maurice’s servants opened. Her eyes went wide and she quickly ushered him to the salon, relieving him of his jacket. In the salon, three men were sitting around a card game: Maurice, who lowered his hand when Yves stepped inside, Charles Gutman, now in civilian clothes and as handsome as a Hollywood actor, with a cigar in the corner of his mouth, and Falk, who turned, stared, and jumped to his feet.

Yves’s heart nearly stopped, then leapt into his head where it began pounding against his temples. Falk looked no worse than when they’d parted—all limbs and everything seemed to be attached. Emotions rushed through him, relief and shock and tenderness and worry that something might be wrong, but just then, he didn’t care about anything else but Falk being here and in one piece.

He started toward him, stopped, then just rushed him. Falk opened his arms, and they embraced.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What do you think he can do, you world traveler?” Maurice stood and pushed his fists into his waist, which was less a visible demarcation line and more a concept.

“I tried to reach you.” Falk’s French was possibly worse now, but Yves didn’t mind.

“I was in America.” Yves felt perfectly stupid saying it and perfectly happy being held like this.

“I know. You were all over the radio.” Falk hugged him tighter, then cupped the back of his head and pulled him against his shoulder. “I heard you sing.”

Yves clung to him, slowly beginning to believe it was actually Falk. And the way he held him, that meant something too, didn’t it? He wouldn’t have come back to Paris if he didn’t care. He hadn’t dared to hope—just that Falk was alive had seemed overly optimistic, but him actually coming back to him, that was a miracle. “How? Where?”

Falk let him go enough that they could meet each other’s eyes. “On the radio. And in America.”

“What? You were in America?”

Falk nodded. “I was taken prisoner in Normandy. Sent to America to a POW camp. Then one day, I heard you on the radio. I . . .” He looked at Maurice and Charles and seemed suddenly bashful.

“You what?”

“I heard that song. It was
My Soldier
. You sound different in English, but I recognized your voice.” Falk drew a deep breath and lowered his voice. “The guards saw me cry.” He shook his head. “They said, ‘Look, damn Kraut’s got a soul after all.’” His eyes teared up, and he hugged Yves closer again.

“Of course you do.” Yves pressed back into him. “I don’t know about anybody else, but I know that about you.” He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “And you came back for me?”

“I was repatriated and went home. But I couldn’t forget Paris. I hoped you’d want to be with me, like we said, after the war.”

“I do.” Yves pressed his lips together to keep himself from crying. “There’s nothing I’ve wanted more. That is, if you can love a coward.”

Falk frowned and shook his head. “You’re not a coward.”

“I didn’t fight. Not like the others.”

“Well, it might be beside the point, and I hate to interrupt you two here,” Charles said. “But I’ve heard plenty of Frenchmen sing your songs, Yves.”

“I still should have fought.” Or gotten involved with the resistance. Maybe he’d have been able to protect Édith that way, or warn her . . . “But instead I played the canary, singing for whoever owned my damn cage.”

Charles stood and took Maurice’s hand. “Between battles, it was important to know what we were fighting for. Without its soul, Paris is just a clutter of old buildings, and buildings can be bombed.”

Yves had no answer for this. He understood what Charles meant and remembered Heinrich’s words about the nightingale,
die Nachtigall
. Singer for the dead. Also, singer for the living, the imprisoned, the fighters, the homesick. He looked at Falk. “Will you stay with me? Please? Forever?”

Falk nodded, again visibly overcome with emotion. “What will I do?”

“Whatever you want. I do need a secretary.” At least that way, nobody would grow too suspicious, and they could be close without raising too many eyebrows. “Please stay.” From the corner of his eyes, he noticed Charles herding Maurice subtly out of the room.

Falk swallowed and nodded. “I should have stayed the first time. I was a fool.”

“It’s forgiven.” Yves heard the door close behind Charles and Maurice and reached up to touch Falk’s face. “Everything will be fine, I promise. I won’t let you leave again. I was a fool too.” He took Falk’s neck and brought their lips together.

The End