Authors: Denise Kahn
CHAPTER 20
The American troops arrived in France at the end of June of 1917. By then the Allied soldiers had been fighting for three years and were exhausted by years of trench warfare. During the hot summer of 1918 Nico and his unit returned to their trench and gave their superiors the information from their mission.
“Major, the Gerries know we are going to charge the hill and they plan to use mustard gas,” Nico said.
“Why in God’s name can’t men fight clean? Why did they have to invent these horror chemicals?” The major seethed.
“The war has been raging for four years. The enemy is being defeated. They’re desperate and using every resource they can think of.”
“It’s inhuman!”
“This entire infernal war is.”
The American Marines were ordered to put their gas masks on and take the hill. They donned their elongated face gear and headed up. It was a hot summer day and they sweat profusely. The Germans watched them come closer. They saw the Marines advancing like a pack of mad dogs, growling and killing everything in their way, their eyes bloodshot and their mouths foaming inside the snout-looking mask as they recklessly and courageously scrambled on all fours up the steep hill.
“Teufelshunde! Teufelshunde!”
One of the German soldiers yelled as he retreated in fear. Under his mask Nico had to grin. Yes, his beloved American buddies were ‘dogs from hell” indeed, Devil Dogs extraordinaire.
The Doughboys—a nickname for the American soldiers acquired from the unique globular brass buttons reminiscent of dumplings—and the Marines, baptized Devil Dogs by the Germans, pushed forward to stop the advance of the German forces. They were greatly outnumbered. With the information supplied by Nico’s unit, and the spirit of the fresh men on the battlefield, they held their ground at Belleau Wood and Château-Thierry. At St. Mihiel Nico and his men joined the push as troops drove the Germans out of the Argonne.
It was still impossible to get any real sleep. Nico was resting in the trench half dozing. His missions were night missions and when they returned it was continuous noise—from machine guns, shellings, explosions, rifles, and the screams—the last sound of dying men. Nico had recurring nightmares, especially the one of that day in Oniraki as a boy when he woke up surrounded by death. Here, it was the same. He was constantly in a mass grave, but this time he saw them die.
“Look! Up there!” A soldier screamed. The men looked up to see a squadron of German fighters. They were in formation led by a red Fokker three-winged plane.
“They’re going to drop bombs on us!” Another cried.
“No! Wait! There’s an Allied squadron, ready to meet them,” another cried out, pointing toward the heavens.
“Damn. This is going to be bad,” Nico said, “there must be about thirty planes up there. The skies are going to get ugly and bloody.” No sooner had he finished his sentence did the men see the red plane dive—a crazy dive, a killer dive.
“That bastard Richthofen. That’s why he’s got eighty kills, he has no mercy,” the first soldier said.
“Wish he was on our side,” the other grumbled.
The planes on both sides broke out of formation and performed a magnificent and unique impromptu sky ballet. But as beautiful as the start was, the continuation, as Nico predicted, was brutal. One by one and several at a time, the flying machines caught fire, exploded and broke apart. The distorted pieces of fuselage, wood, and steel left ugly trails of smoke that crisscrossed crazily in the sky, and then plummeted down to earth toward their final explosion and the horrific sound of finality. The men watched in dismay, their eyes glazed, angry and tearing.
“The poor bugger doesn’t have a chance,” one of the soldiers muttered, looking at a dogfight.
“Wait, no! Look at the Camel, he’s chasing the Red Baron! He’s really good, look at him chasing the Fokker with his Sopwith!” The men followed the bickering planes. Both flyers were brilliant, outwitting each other over and over again, dancing through the skies above Amiens, relentlessly vying for the kill or for their survival. Abruptly their tango came to an end as pilots and men from the ground watched as the red Fokker was hit and trailed smoke. The Allies shouted with enthusiasm as the Red Baron went down. Their morale was boosted to new heights. The German icon broke up and finally crashed into its final resting place. Nico was shaken and couldn’t help but wonder how much longer his own luck would hold out. Von Richthofen had a long run. How long would his be?
A couple of days later Nico was summoned to the officers’ dugout. The major, now a colonel, addressed the group in front of him: “Just wanted to let you know and you can tell your men, that after the air battle we witnessed the other day, the British Royal Air Force confirmed that Canadian Captain Roy Brown shot down Germany’s greatest ace, Baron Manfred von Richthofen. In a gallant gesture,” he continued, “a British pilot flew over the baron’s base and dropped a photograph of Richthofen’s funeral with a note advising them that he had been buried with full military honors.”
The troops moved on to Verdun. They hadn’t had a break in months, and they were exhausted. The soldiers from both sides could see each other across No Man’s Land. They all wanted this insanity to stop. The ground was covered with torn pieces of weapons and machine guns, dead bodies and craters—holes blown up time and time again. One of the soldiers from the German side, a sniper, aimed his rifle at the Allied soldiers. He took his time and then he saw his target: A distinguished man, an American Captain. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger. Out of the corner of his eye Nico saw a muzzle flash… just a little too late.
♫
CHAPTER 21
At seventeen Valentina had performed at the Liriki Skini, the Opera House in Athens and at the Herodus Atticus Theater, the ancient marble amphitheater at the foot of the Acropolis. This was definitely her favorite, with the amazing acoustics and the Parthenon majestically looking down on the performers from above. It was also the most prestigious and by invitation only. But as acclaimed as she was in Greece, Valentina needed to venture out and tour the great opera houses of Europe or her magnificence would go unnoticed. WWI had been raging for over three years and Valentina felt helpless. Greece had joined the Allies and she wanted somehow to do her part.
“Mother, there must be something I can do to help the war effort.”
Sela looked at her daughter. She was just as antsy, and hadn’t been out of Greece since before the war. “There is,” she said simply.
“Go on, tell me!”
“I’ve been invited to play for the wounded troops in Europe. I was thinking it is time to give you some European exposure, although the venues will surely not be in any of the great opera houses.” Sela looked at her daughter. “You want to come?”
“Oh, Mother, that would be wonderful!”
“I don’t know if
wonderful
is the word I would use. More importantly, can you handle it? Tough venues, horribly wounded soldiers, terrible tragedies all around… What do you think?”
“When do we leave?”
♫
CHAPTER 22
Nico slowly opened his eyes and saw angels, beautiful women only half robed, skies of baby blue and Cupid, who was ready to release his arrow into a man’s shoulder. Nico winced and moaned as the arrow landed into
him
. He realized he was staring at a painting on a ceiling and that his shoulder was throbbing. He was lying on a cot, one of many, neatly lined up on either side of him in a very large hall. Then he remembered… Verdun… the sniper. But where am I now? As if reading his mind, the man in the bed next to him answered: “
Bonjour
, I am Gaston Laforet, welcome to the Château de la Cocorgnoc, your friendly hospital away from home. Looks like you got one in the shoulder, eh. Me, one in the leg. I was lucky they didn’t cut it off. What’s your name?”
“Nico.”
“Please to meet you, Nico. Let me give you the grand tour.”
“The tour?”
“Sure. Come on, get up.”
“Get up?”
“Why not? You have anything better to do?”
“Uh, no, I suppose not. Are we allowed to get up?” Nico was impressed at this man’s energy.
“Of course. They like it when we walk around, good for the circulation, you know.”
“I see.” Nico sat up slowly and looked around. He marveled at the chandeliers hanging above them, the Aubusson tapestries and the portraits on the walls, the parquet floors, the paintings on the ceiling and the velvet Venetian curtains that hung on the windows and kept in the light at night. The great hall must once have been superb. Now it was crammed with beds, lined up side by side and every one had a patient in it. Some were moaning, others were immobile. All of them in pain, from wounds and scars, or from emotional trauma.
“Come on, up you go,” Gaston coaxed, reaching for his crutches.
“Here, let me help you,” Nico said, getting out of bed. His arm was in a sling.
“Thanks, but no need. I’m used to these,” he said, hobbling along. He motioned for Nico to follow him. “Come, I’ll show you around.”
Gaston introduced his new pal to all the patients, chatted with each one for a bit and tried to make them feel at ease and a little more comfortable. He patted their heads, put a hand on their shoulder or gently on their face, lit a cigarette for them and always gave them encouragement. Nico liked this man; he had heart.
“There is one more thing to show you, my friend, the best thing!” Gaston exclaimed.
“There is something like that in a place like this?”
“Of course! You must always think positively!” Gaston said, putting an arm around Nico. How superbly French, Nico thought, smiling to himself. He’s right, where else in the world could one be in such a hospital.
Vive la France!
And then his eyes glazed over and he started to fall. Gaston caught him just before he hit the floor. “Nurse! Nurse!” He yelled, as he tried to do a balancing act to hold Nico up with one arm, hold on to the crutches with the other, stand on one leg and try not to fall or drop his new buddy. Two
infirmières
were immediately at their side.
“Ladies, how lovely to see you this morning! This is my friend Nico. It seems he’s trying to faint on us,” he said, grinning.
“Gaston, you are incorrigible! I just know you made this poor man get out of bed too soon. He lost a lot of blood! He should be resting,” the head nurse said impatiently, “now move out of our way.”
“Of course,
anything
you wish. You need just ask,
Mademoiselle
,” Gaston answered charmingly. He loved annoying the nurses. Some played along with him, others didn’t. He of course tried it out on all of them and was thrilled that there were women running about. He had missed them so, out there in the cold, on the battlefield, only seeing men for weeks and even months. He looked at Nico. “
Ça va?
” Are you alright? He mouthed to him. Nico winked as the nurses took him back to his bunk.
Gaston followed and plopped down on his own bed. The nurses left.
“What was this best thing you were going to show me, Gaston?”
“Ah, my friend, you old fox, you discovered it yourself!”
“I did?”
“Bien sûr!
The
infirmières
, of course! And without my help—they were all over you.”
“That was a fluke, but really very wonderful! Maybe I’ll try it again sometime.”
“You could, but they are on to us. You must find a way to do it without them realizing it.”
“I’m sure to try. I’ve been known to have a little success with the ladies.”
“I’m sure you have, you
beau mec,
handsome guy.”
The men laughed, more than they had in many, many days. Among the misery surrounding them, they managed to infuse it with a little humor to heal their souls.
Several nights later Nico was restless and couldn’t sleep. He got up, walked around the ward, talked to some of the men who were still awake and looked for the nurses. To his chagrin they were in another room and didn’t come in unless there was an emergency. Nico’s arm was healing nicely but he didn’t know when he would be released and sent back into the field. He looked around some more, inspected the Aubusson tapestry hanging behind his bed. He caressed it. The workmanship was superb, the colors bright and vibrant and the design depicted the grounds around the château. He lifted it slightly and looked behind. To his surprise he saw a gap. He went back to his bed, picked up a lighter from his night table and returned to the opening. He squeezed himself behind the carpet and flicked on the lighter. To his amazement there was a little door. He tried the handle. It turned and opened. He quietly pushed the door and followed a little path. He arrived at a dark room and Nico lifted his lighter above his head. He sighed with delight. “There is a God and this must be his basement!” He thought, with possibly the biggest smile he had mustered since the beginning of the war. He found a treasure: The château’s
cave
. The wine cellar was immense. Nico grinned like a Cheshire cat in front of a mouse. He was surrounded by hundreds of bottles. He chose a couple, brushed off the dust and went back to the great hall of the château. He slid into his bunk and quickly opened them with a pocketknife.
“Hey, Gaston, are you awake?” He whispered.
“Yes.”
“I have a gift for you.”
“What is it?” He said, turning to his side and faced Nico.
“With my compliments,” Nico said, handing Gaston a bottle of fine red wine
.
Gaston sat straight up. “You old fox, where did you get this?”
“Ah, I cannot divulge all my secrets.”
“No matter.
Santé!
”
“
Yassou!
” Nico whispered back. The men drowned themselves in the exquisite wine, hid the bottles and fell into a blissful sleep. The next night Nico brought out enough bottles for the entire ward and the men drank to their heart’s content. Nico and Gaston went up to the severely wounded and helped them swallow some of the wine. Nico saw the joy in their eyes and almost cried. Why can’t people realize that with peace and a little joy the world can be such a wonderful place? Why did grown men have to act like mean boys and bullies and show off by conquering others? Why couldn’t misunderstandings and disagreements be worked out with kind words, with diplomacy, with understanding, with fine wine? Would humans always act like this? Would future generations be wiser?
In the morning all the men in the ward were drunk, but kept quiet. They had to keep the wine a secret or the doctors and nurses would surely confiscate it. They didn’t care where Nico was getting the bottles from—as long as he kept bringing them—and bring them he did. Every morning it was the same thing and the staff couldn’t figure out why or how—no one was talking. The men had been in a war and they knew how to keep their mouths shut. It seemed that somehow they were smuggling in alcohol, but they never saw an empty bottle. They figured a mission of this caliber was probably child’s play. But they also noticed that the patients’ morale was much better and they were improving physically. They liked the results. They just pretended to be exasperated and a little severe. They decided not to ruin it for the men. The liquor and the camaraderie worked better than any medicine.
The men were in high spirits. The nurses came in and led them out of the big hall and into the gardens of the château. Some walked out on their own, others were pushed in wheelchairs. They all helped each other, as only comrades who become lifelong friends and who fought in a war could. The sky was perfectly clear and powder blue, the sun warm and comfortable and the anticipation high. Chairs were placed on the lawn and the men sat down. In front of them stood a lone piano. The head doctor came out accompanied by an elegant woman holding on to his arm. She was wearing a long mauve fashionable silk dress with a closed collar and a matching big hat full of lavender feathers. She was a glorious sight and the men clapped and whistled at the attractive woman.
“Gentlemen,” the doctor said, “I am indeed very pleased to introduce you to
Madame
Sela Vidalis. She is surely the greatest concert pianist in the world, and she honors us today with her presence here at the Château de la Cocorgnoc.” The men clapped and whistled again. This was such a wonderful treat for them. “To us she is a hero,” the doctor continued, “she graciously donates her time for the war effort and for your pleasure.”
“I’ve seen her before,” Nico whispered excitedly to Gaston, “in Athens at the prestigious Herodus Atticus Theater. She’s absolutely incredible.”
“Of course, she’s Greek like you,” he chuckled.
“I meant her playing!”
“Yes, yes of course.” Gaston grinned.
Sela looked at the men. Her glorious smile was enchanting. Without taking her gaze off of them she played Rimsky-Korsakov’s exotic Sheherazade. Other than the piano there wasn’t a sound in the air, not even a bird, although many were standing on the branches in the nearby trees, perhaps spectators as well. The men were completely quiet and seemed to melt into the soothing serenity of the music. The piece was sensual, mysterious and yet very powerful. The men related to it completely. It reminded them of their own lives—before the war and during their recent battles for survival. Sela finished the long piece and slightly nodded her head on the last note. Her audience cheered her, some were crying, some shouting their approval and bravos and all hoped
their
concert would never end.
“Alright, gentlemen, let’s get down to business!” Sela said. The men stared at her and at each other. What did she mean? She answered them by taking the large pin out of her hat and flung it toward them with great flair. The men screamed with delight. Sela very slowly unbuttoned her collar, just enough to show a little of her bust. “It’s such a lovely warm day!” Sela said, “don’t you agree?” The men were now howling. “Could one of you handsome gentlemen provide me with… a cigarette?” Sela asked sensually. Almost all the men tried to oblige her, those on crutches and even the ones in wheelchairs. One fell out and landed on the grass. The men roared. The doctors and nurses ran to calm the men down, put them back on their chairs and help them up off the ground. It seemed they had completely forgotten their pain. Others who had anticipated what would happen just watched and laughed at the men acting like young teenage boys.
One of the ablest young men, wearing a bandage around his head, opened a cigarette case and offered it to Sela. She delicately took one.
“Thank you, young man. What is your name?” She asked with her trademark perfect smile.
“Vincent,
Madame
, it is an honor,” he said and kissed her hand. He stared at her, not moving.
“Vincent, may I please have a light?” Vincent blushed and the crowd once again roared with laughter. The young man was trembling and quickly produced matches from his pocket. He tried to light it but failed miserably. His hands were shaking too much. Sela held his hands. “Try again, young man. You can do it.” He tried again and this time he was successful. She held his hand in hers and brought the match to the cigarette and inhaled. The crowd clapped. Sela, still holding his hands, blew out the match. She looked into his eyes and kissed him on the cheek. The men cheered their young comrade. “You are a very brave man. Thank you for all you have done. Now, go enjoy the concert.” Vincent bowed and returned to his seat. “Is everybody ready?” Sela shouted.
“Yes!” They shouted back. Sela nodded, put the cigarette between her lips, placed her hands on the piano and flowed into a very American jazzy tune.
“She is amazing! I’ve only heard her play classical pieces,” Nico said.
Sela continued into another song until her cigarette burned out. Immediately another man ran up to her and offered her another one.
“
Madame?
” He asked.
“Why not? How could I refuse such a handsome man?” He beamed and lit her cigarette. “
Merci
. Now go. I have an announcement to make,” she whispered. The man did as she asked, feeling as if he were guarding the war’s most precious secret. “Gentlemen, I have a surprise for you!” The men cheered. “I am honored to present a young lady…” The men cheered again, not letting her finish her sentence. Sela chuckled. “As I was saying: This young woman is very special,” she raised a hand anticipating their reaction. “She is perhaps one of the best opera singers that you will ever have the pleasure to hear and I am very proud to say that she is my daughter… so be nice.” She said grinning and shaking her index finger. The men applauded, this time with great respect. Valentina came from behind the seated men and walked down to the piano. She gently put her hand on the instrument and turned around. The men stared at her, gaping. Sela Vidalis was beautiful and charming but they did not expect Valentina, the daughter, to be even more exquisite in her own right. She had her mother’s perfect smile and the deepest blue eyes every man present wanted to drown themselves in. She bowed to them and without a moment’s hesitation started to sing an aria from Madame Butterfly. Her spectacular voice soared above them, around them and into each of their hearts. They stared transfixed. Not only was she stunning, her voice was more powerful and more beautiful than the birds’ on the branches. Never had they heard such a perfect voice with the greatest range and demanding drama of the piece. When she finished everyone was silent, immobile, hypnotized. Every man felt that she was singing just for him—she had reached them.