Songbird Under a German Moon (11 page)

Betty left the others and approached him. He looked sad, and Betty wondered why. Then she noticed the paint can on the floor and the paintbrush in his hand.

“Hey, Oskar, how are you doing today? Busy at work?” She attempted to sound chipper.

Oskar's head jerked up as if surprised by Betty's approach. “Oh, well. I have these old sets and Mickey wants me to—change them.” Oskar's gaze was narrow, and Betty could tell he wasn't happy about it.

“Were these sets used before? For the operas?”

“Ja, Wagner designed them himself. They were for his great
Ring
opera trilogy.”

“Maybe you can talk to Mickey—explain the importance of them?”

“No.” Oskar lowered his head. “It is no use. Wagner is banned, and I see no hope of things changing. Wagner existed before Hitler, but no one remembers. I am afraid there will be no Wagner operas performed here again.” He sighed, and his shoulders trembled slightly. “What is the use of saving what will only become rubbish?”

“How do you know that? Maybe someday in the future Wagner's operas—” Betty's voice trailed off, and she crossed her arms over her chest. She didn't know why she was saying anything at all. She knew very little about Wagner, his music, or this opera house. The one thing she had heard is that Hitler had first gotten some of his ideas from Wagner's work, and he also used Wagner's music in his big rallies and propaganda events.

Oskar opened the can of paint, dipped the brush, and painted a large white stripe down the center of the forest scene with a quick stroke. Betty cringed. If she knew Mickey better, she'd consider talking to him herself, but who was she? She was new—to this place, to this show. What did she know?

“Betty, come over here and look at this white dress with black polka-dots. Kat's leaving it and I think it will look perfect on you.”

“Be there in a minute,” Betty called over her shoulder. Then she turned back to Oskar.

“I'm sure the Germans wouldn't be happy if they knew what will happen to these sets,” she said.

“My father would weep. My neighbors—no, I cannot tell them.”

“Wait, you're German?” Betty took a step back. “But your English is spoken so well. I thought you came with Mickey—from Hollywood or something. I never would have guessed you're—” She didn't know how to say it—that he used to be one of the enemy.

Irene strode up and Betty noticed a belt in her hands.

Oskar offered Betty a soft smile. “Ja, yes. Many tell me I have good English.” He winked at Irene. “I do not know as much as I used to.”

“Go ahead, Oskar, tell Betty the story,” Irene pleaded. She turned to Betty. “He has the most amazing story.”

Oskar waved a hand in the air. “You have work to do. I have work to do.”

Betty looked to Mickey and saw he was still working with the band. “Just a short version then?”

Oskar nodded, put down his brush, and wiped his hands on a paint cloth. “I have lived in this town my entire life. My father
worked with Wagner himself—was a carpenter on the original sets. He also worked on building Wahnfried—the mansion you are staying in. He would be heartbroken to see it in this state.”

“Wahnfried, that's a strange name—at least to me. What does it mean?” Betty asked.

“In German it means ‘Peace from Delusions.'” Oskar rubbed his chin, and though he was looking at Betty, she could tell he wasn't focused on her. His mind was in another place. “
Hier wo mein Wähnen Frieden fand—Wahnfried—sei dieses Haus von mir benannt
,” he said. “Here where my delusions have found peace, let this place be named Wahnfried.”

Betty thought about that for a minute. When she thought about peace, she didn't think about a building. To her, peace was the oak tree in the meadow behind her house. It was there she often took her Bible. Those were her favorite moments, sitting in the sunshine, listening to the birds, reading and praying.

“Yes, things are different now. Our world will never be the same.” Oskar swept his arm toward the band. “The music will never be the same.”

“Did you learn English from your father?” Betty asked.

“Oh no, my father was a good German. He wouldn't think of speaking anything other than his mother tongue. My mother was deaf, you see. She became deaf from an illness right after she was married. She did her best to care for me, but my father didn't think she could take care of me alone. He hired a nanny. She was American, the daughter of one of the American opera singers who lived here for many years. Her native tongue was English—and so mine became.”

“Fascinating. What did your father say…”

“Ladies, ladies, enough of your chatter. We have work to do.” Mickey clapped his hands as he approached Betty and Irene. “Oskar has work to do too. That new set must be ready by tomorrow night.”

Betty excused herself, thinking she needed to pick up their conversation where they'd left off. Then she hurried to where the others were circled. She stood next to Kat. In her hands, Kat held the black and white dress that Irene had mentioned.

“First of all”—Mickey turned to Kat—“I have an idea for your last number. We're going to send you away big, see. Imagine the room goes dark. You move onto the stage, quiet-like, and then you start—just one note—clear, strong. Pretty soon, a single spotlight shines on the stage, lighting your face, and then the orchestra kicks in. It's going to take their breath away. I can see it now.”

“What song, Mickey? What's Kat going to sing?” Irene leaned closer.

“I was thinking of ‘America the Beautiful'—something to really get them feeling all those emotions of patriotism and home.”

Kat didn't look impressed.

“But what about ‘Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy'?” Kat softly stamped her foot. “I've been practicing that for weeks.”

“No problem, kid. That will be in the show. I just wanted something strong for the end.”

“Okay, that'll work, I suppose. But I wish you would have told me sooner, Mick; I need time to prepare. In fact, I'll need some practice time on stage this afternoon. I'd hate to make you look bad by blowing the last big number.”

“Whatever you need, Kat, let me know.” Mickey walked over and placed an arm around her shoulders. “Maybe you should get some rest too—you're looking a little pale.”

Kat glanced at Betty and then back at Mickey. “I'm feeling a little under the weather, that's all.” She stepped out of his one-armed hug. “Thanks for telling me how horrible I look, Mick. I'll make sure I put extra makeup on tomorrow night so I don't look like the walking dead.”

Kat turned to Betty. “Here you go. Irene's right, this will look great on you.” She placed the dress in Betty's hands. Then she turned and stomped to the dressing room.

“Did I say something wrong?” Mickey scanned the faces. “Did I, Dolly?”

Dolly twirled a strand of red hair around her finger. “I don't think so, Mickey. You know how Kat is. I think she's tired, that's all.”

“I don't think that's it.” Irene took the dress from Betty's hand and held it up in front of Betty, nodding her approval. “When Kat planned on leaving, she figured she'd leave a big hole. She didn't think anyone could step in and take her place. But now we have Betty here—and Kat sees that the show's going on without her. I think that's what's bothering her.”

“I don't think so. Maybe it's something else entirely.” Betty took the dress and held it behind her back. All eyes turned her direction, and she felt heat rising to her cheeks, suddenly embarrassed to be pushed into the center of this conversation. “I know I just got here, and I know I've only known Kat one day but—” She glanced around.
“Maybe Kat's a little sad about leaving and she doesn't want to show it. I mean if she gets all of you mad at her before she goes, then there'll be no emotional good-byes.”

“Who do you think you are, kid, Sigmund Freud?” Mickey's voice was sharp, and Betty flinched. But then as she watched, his scowl turned into a smile. “Actually, I like the idea, even if you don't know what you're talking about. I like that idea that we'll be missed—even by someone as famous as Kat. There's only one Mickey, right? Kat's gonna miss me when she's gone. She's gonna appreciate me when she gets around those Hollywood-types. You'll see.”

Frank opened the window and sucked in a breath of cool, fall air. It smelled like rain, and he had no doubt that by this afternoon—or maybe tonight—showers would fall on the town.

At least I have a warm place to lay my head
, he thought, pushing out the realization that hundreds of others around the town didn't.

If there was one benefit to being transferred to Bayreuth, it had to be the house he shared in the nice residential area across from a pretty, walled park. Frank knew the residents who used to live here had vacated their homes for the army's use, but every time he started feeling bad, all he had to do was think of the friends he'd lost, including the crew of the Klassy Lassie. It was war. People died. People were injured. Others were left with memories—and some had to sleep out in the cold for a while.

Frank had already been to breakfast and then to headquarters, only to find the officer he had to report to was out for the day and wouldn't be back until tomorrow.
Maybe I should head back to the opera house—to make plans for tomorrow's shoot.
The sound of footsteps coming down the hall to his shared room interrupted his thoughts.

“How do you like our digs?” Art entered their room carrying two mugs. He handed one to Frank. Frank took in a whiff and
realized there was coffee in those mugs. Honest-to-goodness coffee, not the ersatz stuff that most of the rest of the continent choked down. Frank didn't have to ask to know Art most likely got it off the black market.

“This place isn't bad. Better than the freezing tent back in England.”

Art sat down and patted his mattress. “It's warmer and softer—and I'm not just talking about the beds. The German girls have been purdy friendly with the guys. Not me, of course, nonfraternization and all.” Art chuckled. “I set my sights high—like Magdalena—isn't she a peach? And a girl like that isn't one to lower herself to becoming someone's girlfriend for a can of Spam.”

“Well, at least you have your standards.” Frank glanced out the window at a woman pushing a baby carriage and a small girl walking by her side. There wasn't a baby in the carriage, though. Instead, it held bedding and a few books. He wondered if that was all they owned in the world. He wouldn't be surprised if it was. Again, he thought of the guys—his best friends who lost their lives. It helped to ease his conscience. He grabbed his shoulder holster from his bed and put it on. Then slid his pistol inside. As a soldier, he was ordered to wear a weapon at all times, and now that he was on the ground, the pistol had become his weapon of choice. Not that he wanted to use it, but it was good to have, just in case. They were living in enemy territory after all. And who knew what his true assignment was about? He hoped he would soon find out.

Art took a sip of his coffee. “The way I see it, it serves the Germans right. First we take their country, then we take their girls.
And then—then they'll think twice about trying to pull a stunt like that again. Of course, like I said, you're not going to see me with a German girlfriend anytime soon.”

Frank cocked an eyebrow.

Art cleared his throat. “Magdalena's Czech, remember? I'm not sure I'd trust the Germans. I guarantee most of them were in the Nazi Youth. Not that they'd admit it. Now that the U.S. soldiers are here, involved with the local population, you'd think there wasn't a Nazi in Germany. The people blame the Nazis for their problems, their defeat. Maybe those soldiers were just ghosts, you know. Since they didn't come from these parts. Since no one around here supported them or liked them much—or so they say.”

Frank nodded. “Yeah? Well, I, for one refuse to swallow that line.” He sipped his coffee, feeling the warmth carry down his throat and fill him. Through his time under cover, he'd learned there were few people you could take at their word. Everyone had something he or she was trying to hide. Some of the secrets were small. Others affected many, many lives. The hard part wasn't being fooled by the enemy. The hard part was remembering you could trust your friends.

Art chuckled as he put down his mug and began to pack his camera equipment. “Of course, you don't need to worry about whether or not to get a German girl, you get to spend your time with those beautiful American singers. You should have heard the guys coming back from the concert last night. They went on and on about the show, especially about that new singer—what's her name?”

“Mickey, the stage manager, just calls her Songbird.”

“Yes, well, from what I hear she's a looker—and she sings great too. One guy said he thought his heart was gonna jump out of his chest.”