Authors: Aleksandr Voinov
Chapter 15
He stepped into the hallway of his apartment building, shivering. Water in his hair lay like a ring of icicles around his forehead, and the air in front of his face misted. As he reached for the light switch, the dark took shape and grabbed him. He might have yelled with fear, but a large hand clamped over his mouth.
“Still,” a rough voice said, just as somebody twisted his arm behind his back.
His heart almost jumped out of his ribcage, then fell deathly silent. The man who held him pushed him toward the elevator, and another appeared in the darkness, opening the metal door with a mocking flourish. In the sparse light from the not-yet-darkened streetlights outside, he saw that both men were tall, and one wore a dark leather coat.
The man smiled sharply and lifted the screwed-out light bulb in his gloved fingers. “There’s no light,” he said in French. “We like it that way.”
Yves didn’t think he’d ever heard anything as terrifying after
We’ve been overrun
. And
Paris has been declared an open city
. They pushed him into the elevator cage, closed the door and pushed the button. The elevator began gliding upwards.
Yves gritted his teeth and recoiled against the man holding him when the other rummaged through his jacket pockets and then jingled his keys in front of his face.
The elevator ground to a halt, and the man pushed the doors apart with so much force it rattled the whole cage. They pushed him toward his door, and all Yves could think was that he didn’t want to be alone in his flat with these two. He thought about calling for help, but the neighbors would not get involved. Nobody ever did. They’d pretend nothing had happened. He shuddered, his awareness sharpened by the darkness and the fear. He smelled leather all around; gloves held his mouth shut, a thumb next to his nostrils, ready to close off his air.
The first man unlocked his door, and the other one bundled him inside. The door behind them was locked, the keys jingling against the door. His captor pushed him toward the chair in front of his desk.
“Sit,” he growled and pushed him down by his shoulders.
When the light flared on, Yves blinked and froze when he saw a third man. Von Grimmstein. Where had he come from? He swallowed dryly.
The two thugs stood left and right of his chair in an oddly formal posture. One of them drew a pistol, which made Yves’s heart stutter again.
“Yves Lacroix,” von Grimmstein said from his Aryan height. He held Yves’s head still with one gloved hand, digging into his hair, and with the other, traced the line of his jaw. “Always thought you looked a bit like a Jew. One that’s cleaned up and pretty, but a Jew regardless.”
Yves didn’t fight. These men held all the cards. They hadn’t even chained him— clearly they didn’t expect any resistance, which bit even deeper than von Grimmstein’s fingers. He shook his head once he could, when von Grimmstein pulled his hands back. “I’m not.” The fact that he had to deny anything galled him, but pride wouldn’t get him anywhere with a man who enjoyed killing.
Von Grimmstein smirked wanly. “Not so courageous now, are you? It’s easy being a hero when nobody can touch you. But we can
touch
you.” Von Grimmstein took off his hat and handed it to the thug on his left, then opened his greatcoat, baring the uniform and the medals underneath, and the red swastika armband, before he handed the coat over to the man, too. As if Yves’s furniture was contaminated, and he didn’t want his clothes to touch anything in the flat.
“Nothing to say?”
Yves swallowed dryly. Every instinct shouted at him to attempt to make a run for it. But the front door was locked, and there was no way he could overpower two thugs and von Grimmstein.
He had been able to apologize to Heinrich, who had taken it in good grace, but von Grimmstein was itching for something else entirely. It might be vital to understand what that was. Hunting and killing Jews? Proving that Yves
was
a Jew?
“I’m just a singer,
monsieur
. I know nothing.”
I’m not a resister or a terrorist.
Von Grimmstein pulled his gloves off and added them to the pile reverently held by his henchman. One broad silver ring caught Yves’s attention—a skull. Von Grimmstein caught his glance. “A reminder to give our lives so our race may live,” he said. “A personal gift.” It suited the man, the whole Teutonic terror of him.
Surely, von Grimmstein had to be aware that he wasn’t a worthy opponent. Or an opponent at all. “I entertain people, that’s all I ever wanted.” Yves tried again.
“Oh, but I find you very entertaining,” von Grimmstein said and punched him in the face.
The pain and shock blinded him. Blinded, while that monster could see. Yves clutched his face and doubled over, shuddered violently when somebody steadied him, preventing him from falling off the chair. He heard his own sobs and couldn’t find the resolve to suppress them. Some people might have fought back. There were movies where heroes stoically bore the abuse and ended up wrestling a gun from their torturers, shooting them all down, and escaping just in time to save the day.
He would never have expected how petrifying this would be. He had no idea what von Grimmstein wanted, apart from, probably, putting an uppity enemy back into his place. The best thing he could do was give the man what he wanted. Any show of resistance would only make this worse.
He wiped at his eyes, touched his nose, his lips, but couldn’t see blood, just tears and snot. He stayed bowed over, staring at von Grimmstein’s belt buckle, a square silvery thing with an eagle clutching a swastika, and a wreath around it. The words read
Meine Ehre heisst Treue
, and he knew enough German by now to decipher it.
My honor is called loyalty
. There was no honor beyond blind obedience, then, and that, too, was terrifying.
He blinked and glanced up at the man who regarded him coldly, watching him for any signs of fighting spirit, he assumed, so he could crush it.
Yves shook his head. “I didn’t mean to . . .” What? Making a few jokes was not fighting back. Playing cleverly on words couldn’t possibly be rebellion. Just what were the Germans so scared of? Laughter? “I’m sorry.”
“I bet you are now.” Von Grimmstein regarded his hand, the ring on it. “Does Oberst von Starck know how you really feel?”
Yves blinked. This couldn’t mean anything good. Just
how much
did von Grimmstein know? “About what,
monsieur
?”
Von Grimmstein snarled, then calmed his features disconcertingly fast. “I assumed you were close.”
“It pleases him to spend time with me. We talk about music, art, writing. We were introduced at a literary salon. We never talk about politics or anything . . . dangerous.”
“Do you know what’s dangerous, Lacroix?” Von Grimmstein lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not convinced you do.”
Everything is dangerous.
Being seen. Not being seen. Talking. Not talking. Thinking. Not thinking. Singing and making jokes. “I don’t understand.”
“We don’t care about how decadent Paris is. How soft and effeminate. How corrupt. French decadence has destroyed her strength, so we’re more than happy to let you wallow in that cesspit of moral relativism. Let France perish by herself, brought low by her whole, syphilitic illness. She can, of course, serve a purpose as a fun fair for our soldiers, but France’s greatness is over, choked by the Jewish and moral corruption she allowed to grow out of control. The men we faced were nothing like the men our fathers faced at Verdun and Sedan, and the Führer has foretold this; the Wehrmacht didn’t believe him, but he proved them right. He always proves them right.”
Von Grimmstein again regarded his ring, like it was a marriage token. Married to his superior race. Or, considering his peculiar interests, to death. “France will perish, all we have to do is leave her to her diseases, watching like a doctor who monitors the progress of a patient’s moral insanity. This may be the most
humane
outcome.” He scoffed. “But like with any common syphilitic prostitute, this becomes a German matter if the disease spreads to our own. We will not let your decadence spread to our soldiers. We are locked in a battle of life and death; we cannot allow anything that interferes with the German fighting spirit and combat readiness. Do you understand?”
Yves nodded, struggling against his own outrage and humiliation. Paris as a soldiers’ bordello. That was why the Germans hadn’t torn everything down.
La Grande Nation
—a mere amusement park.
“I said, do you understand?” Von Grimmstein seized his chin and forced him to look up to him.
Yves nodded again, then realized it wasn’t enough for the German. “Yes, I understand. I’m sorry.”
Von Grimmstein’s fingers tightened around his face. An unspoken threat added to the many spoken ones, to crush his skull in his hand. He then stepped back and let him go, wiped his hand on his trousers. “This casts a certain light on von Starck, of course. He’s either a fool to trust you or is overly soft. Or he secretly shares some of your beliefs.”
“What beliefs,
monsieur
? I made a few jokes in bad taste. They have nothing to do with Oberst von Starck. He wouldn’t condone them; I expect he’d be rather shocked.”
“Then he should punish you rather than leave it to me.”
That man was insane. Yves lifted his hands, realized he was about to beg. “I’m sorry. He has nothing to do with it. He’s never said or done anything that would need to be hidden away from his superiors. He’s been an honorable man.”
Von Grimmstein nodded slowly. “You would tell me that.” He regarded his ring with nothing short of tenderness and then backhanded Yves so hard he almost fell off the chair. His ear was numb, deafened, his cheek burning. The terror spread like fire, leaping from muscle to muscle like sparks about to devour houses and streets and memories. He winced, turning away, until one of the goons stepped closer to block his way. He was surrounded and would never make his escape.
“Please, tell me what you want from me,” Yves begged.
Von Grimmstein sneered down at him in disgust. “Tread carefully, or you’ll end up in Drancy. And once there, I will ensure personally that you’ll never be heard from again. If you even think of defying us, nothing will save you; not von Starck, not your pretty voice. This canary is going to sing the songs we want to hear, and nothing more. You will serve and amuse your betters,
Franzose
, but you’ll do it as a slave, not a court jester.”
He backhanded him again, now with so much force that Yves did lose his balance and crashed to the ground. How could one man have so much strength? He cringed and didn’t get up. No resistance. No defiance. Bend in the storm, or get broken. But he hated himself for his own cowardice, even as his mind rattled frantically against the thought that, maybe, von Grimmstein was done with him now. Or maybe he’d pull his pistol and shoot him down. Not much of a challenge after harpooning whales, but the only entertainment Yves could offer in his eyes.
Von Grimmstein barked something to the others, and then their steps faded away. Thank God, they
were
done with him. He sat up, touched his face, which was still stinging and hot. His lips felt swollen. The fear ran out of him like blood, and with it, all strength left. He was numb with horror, with fear, and shame. The only thing he could do was lean against the chaise in the living room and stare at the wall. He couldn’t really formulate a thought, either, couldn’t summon outrage or any impulse to move. If there had been a way, he’d have expended his last remaining willpower to crawl under the rug, pull it up over his head, and hope that the world, and everybody in it, would forget about him.
Chapter 16
It might have been easier if von Grimmstein’s slaps and punches had left bruises. Maybe then he would have felt heroic. Maybe then he’d be justified in running away and hiding here, far away from where he should be.
Regardless of being unmarred on the outside, he was sore on the inside, just beneath the skin; the tissues of his face, even the cartilage of his ear felt raw and swollen. His nose especially hurt, and for a while he’d been convinced that it was broken. Yet, his mother, when she saw him, didn’t remark on it; merely hugged and kissed him and put him up in a guestroom, where he unpacked and went almost immediately to bed.
At times, he felt that if von Grimmstein had actually had him arrested (and he couldn’t quite believe that he hadn’t), at least it would have been over. If that nebulous fear he’d felt since the occupation would have turned into real danger, maybe it would finally jolt him out of that frozen state he found his soul in these days. It might mean shattering it, but he was no longer scared of that.
He slept like a dead man long into the morning and then dawdled in bed, staring out the window. He hadn’t even drawn the curtains the night before.
Paris still echoed through him, even here.
Would Maurice be worried? Harfner? And
Monsieur
Benichou? What would become of the teacher? By now, they’d have met again for lessons.
Just as he was trying to fall back asleep (though he wasn’t tired), he heard his mother’s piano. The windows downstairs had to be open for the sound to travel this far, and it took him back to the first memory he had, his mother practicing her arias.
Her voice carried to him, too, gentle and melodious like a violin, so clear and controlled she’d be able to fill an opera hall without any strain. It struck him how much skill and faith it took to sing like this, whether to Paris’s best and brightest or to the valley beyond an open window. Faith in the voice, the breath, the years of practice, and the ability to hold a crowd with nothing but conviction and grace. Madeleine made it sound effortless, as natural as the rushing of the small river through the valley below.
Her voice had made generals break into tears; poets had rushed out of the auditorium inspired to write; men had fallen in love just with a recording of it and travelled hundreds of miles to see her sing in the flesh. She was a Medusa, a siren, a basilisk, all in sound, her grace sublime and devastating at the same time. And yet so far, no new lyric
mezzo-soprano
had arisen that could rival her.
She’d accused Yves of singing in beer halls because he couldn’t bear to fail in front of a sophisticated audience that would, at length, recall to each other just where he’d made mistakes, whether his range was insufficient or his voice too weak to carry through the entire aria. She’d told him often enough that what he was doing was beneath him and his talent, that he was evading the very real possibility of fame and fortune.
The music roused him, and he washed and dressed while the house filled with her voice, creeping in through every window and passing through every door in half-guessed echoes. Somehow, when she sang, it gave him courage, as if it reminded him that if one person could overcome fear to create art, then another could, too. She’d confessed her own stage fright to him when he’d told her of his own.
He headed down into the kitchen, where he located some bread and cheese. He ate while wandering the house, reacquainting himself with the mood of the place, noticing which items were new, which were moved, and which were gone. Overall, the last five years might as well have not happened—they had barely left any mark on the place.
He proceeded to the piano room and gently opened the door. His mother was finishing an aria, and the notes hung in the air for a while longer. She wasn’t alone. A man sat on a chair, her adoring audience of one. He was a stocky man with tousled black hair shot through with silver, and black eyes set on a swarthy, sunburned face that was more striking than conventionally beautiful.
Madeleine glanced between them. “Yves, this is Vandio; Vandio, this is my son, Yves.”
The man gave Yves a curious smile, displaying good, white teeth. This must be her current lover.
Madeleine had never married, merely took lovers for a while and discarded them as easily. The house was filled with gifts from her admirers, and Yves had always thought it natural that an artist would foremost be married to her art, and periodically choose other people to accompany her on her path. Like Maurice, she was a free spirit, though she had caused quite a scandal when she, allegedly, had been involved with a Russian Count and his wife at the same time.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Yves said.
“You didn’t.” Madeleine embraced him. “I’m so glad you came to visit. It can get awfully lonely out here in the countryside. Come, sit.”
He sat on a chaise, her right next to him, holding his hands, while Vandio slid around on the piano chair, watching them both.
“Come, tell me, how is Paris?”
He drew a deep breath. “Well, the Germans are everywhere. The clubs reopened quickly, so there’s work, and sometimes, it feels all quite normal. But it isn’t, and it might never be again. There’s a lot of Wagner on at the opera, and they do have fine singers.” And yet, he didn’t want to unduly disturb her.
“I saw
Lohengrin
recently, and it was very good, though they used the German libretto.”
“It
was
written in German, after all. The translations came later.”
“But the clubs are open?” Vandio asked.
“Until either curfew or the next morning. Many people have fled: singers, writers, actors . . .” He faltered at the flash of interest in the man’s dark face. “Aren’t you the one they call Milo?”
“Yes, that would be me.” The man smiled at him. No need to spell it out, but Yves had never assumed a jazz singer would be trained in classical piano. Least of all a
manouche.
“I’ve only ever heard of you.”
“Don’t you like jazz?”
“Uh, I have a few swing numbers.” Yves shrugged, apologetically. He’d heard stories of Milo
Le Manouche
causing a sensation. He'd been one of the heroes of the night, assembled a legion of passionate fans, even recorded a number of
records
that were still being played on the radio. All that despite the fact that the Germans hated gypsies with the same technocratic passion they held for Jews.
“Madeleine says you’re an accomplished singer yourself.”
“That’s almost inevitable with the blood in my veins.”
“Yes, it is.” Madeleine glanced at Vandio.
The man smirked. “I’ve known your mother for a long time. Sometimes, after a performance, she’d come into one of the clubs where I was performing, all trembling with that unique energy of a singer who’s sung her heart out, and who needed to refill her soul with sound after having given it all.”
“Oh, we’ve sung some beautiful duets,” Madeleine said fondly. She shook her head. “Do take care out there.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Vandio said. “It will all turn out for the best.”
“It’s just so hard to fathom how it could come to this.”
He nodded. “I’ll return once this is over.”
“Where are you going?” Yves asked. Maybe he should go, too. Maybe Vandio had the solution.
Vandio’s lips tightened. “My record label has arranged papers for me to go to America. I came here to talk to your mother and begged her to join me, but she refuses.”
“I’m a nobody in America, and too old to start again.” She was clearly repeating an argument she was weary of. “I’m not leaving France in the hands of barbarians. My fans will look out for me. The Germans wouldn’t dare harass me in any way.”
Yves cleared his throat. “That might change. I wouldn’t trust them.”
“Then there’s still enough time to run away.”
Vandio didn’t protest, possibly aware that Madeleine’s will was not easily bent. Unlike some of her other lovers, he didn’t pick a fight with her or try to make her concede in public, which she’d never do anyway. Madeleine had a lot of practice being a diva when it suited her, and the men who valued her company usually indulged her, possibly delighting in being her servants and adoring fans.
Yves admired this power. She’d probably even prosper in German-infested Paris, playing officers like Heinrich and his kind as easily as she’d played French politicians and notables during her heyday. She wouldn’t be afraid, not like him. But then again, she’d never seen dead soldiers or what an artillery shell could do to a body when it exploded, or even the madness in von Grimmstein’s eyes.
No, he was glad she was retired and tucked away in the countryside. And he could only hope that the Germans never took a deeper interest in her or pressured her in order to punish him. It would be easier to bear if he knew all his relatives and friends were safe. Vandio had the right idea. They should all run away.
“When will you return to Paris?” Vandio asked Yves.
“Not for the moment. It’s . . . not what it was.”
Vandio gave him a knowing glance, and Yves felt himself relax. He didn’t have to guard his tongue in the presence of his mother and a
manouche
about to flee to America. He still didn’t want to speak about what had happened, so he filled her in on the local scandals and stories that didn’t really feature any of the Germans or censorship. And he left out the swastika flags in the opera.
Vandio excused himself, and Madeleine turned her full attention back on Yves. “How is Édith?”
“Working hard at her studies, though I suspect she’s spending rather too much time in the Café du Flore and where the other revolutionaries meet. Heaven knows what kind of extravagant ideas that’ll breed in her head.” The Germans stayed away from that place, feeling decidedly unwelcome, yet they hadn’t bothered shutting it down. Yves suspected they might have spies and informers in the group—which did nothing to alleviate his worries. Being seen with the likes of Sartre and de Beauvoir might yet end badly. But there was nothing he could do to stop her, short of locking her up in his apartment. And even that was no longer safe.
“Ah, but she’s the wild one.” Madeleine smiled. “While you are the sweet one. Rather like Artemis and Apollo—have you seen them in the Louvre? The short-haired huntress and the poet with the long locks and tender face. What is male in her is female in you.”
Yves glanced away
. His mother likely suspected his nature
, but it still made him uncomfortable. Apollo had had male and female lovers, some of whom turned into trees or were slain at play with a discus. Master of the Muses, lord of prophecy. If only.
“How are you finding your exile from Paris? Away from all your fans?” he asked.
“Oh, the occasional one finds his way even to these remote parts, so I’m not missing much. The trickle of guests is running dry now, though; nobody likes to travel during war times.”
“What about Vandio?”
“He trusts me—when he had to leave Paris, he came first to me, like other friends before him.” Madeleine glanced out of the window. “There is enough food and heat here to be quite comfortable. I believe it is now more difficult to hide people in Paris, but I have enough space on the estate.”
And the surrounding farmers and small-town notables likely adored her enough to not pay too much attention to whether a visitor was a fan or a refugee or a long-lost gypsy lover. Madeleine was revered like a saint, and that halo even extended to Yves, casting a superhuman glow over him when he’d travelled here to visit. People knew him as Madeleine Lacroix’s son, though he looked nothing like her.
“Just be careful.” Yves said. “The Germans are cruel. Some of them will use any opportunity to reveal just what kind of monsters they are.”
Madeleine smiled and leaned over to touch his hand. “But you’re safe now.”
And how had his concern for her betrayed his own fear and shame?
* * *
One morning, he found Vandio gone, as simply and easily as that. He’d gotten used to the man, and his voice. It was the kind of voice that he’d never tire of, and there was a gentle, charming volatility about the man that suited his style perfectly. When Milo
Le Manouche
sang a new song, it wasn’t long until every gypsy in Paris knew it and played it up and down the streets, though nobody quite managed to sing it
his
way.
There was a resonance that drew people to him and made him a big star in the jazz scene, from what Yves understood. Even though he’d only heard the name spoken of, the songs on the radio, he was struck by that same quality that everybody talked of. No matter the lyrics or music—for all he cared,
Le Manouche
could have been accompanied by monkeys banging on trashcans and he’d still have mesmerized his audience.
He searched his mother’s record collection and played Milo’s records in the library to examine that quality, without ever getting any closer just why Milo’s voice had this effect on him. Gypsy magic, some people called it, but Yves scoffed at the idea. There was an exotic coloring to the notes at times, but these were just occasional flourishes where
Le Manouche
playfully paid homage to his roots. The true undercurrent was, undoubtedly, the depth and warmth of his voice, rather than any technical trick or sleight-of-hand.