Chapter Ten
Ten
FOUR MONTHS LATER
“All right.” Marcel lowered his baton, eyes scanning the musicians in their seats, arranged in a semicircle before his podium, then darting to the back corner of the room, where Von Eberstein was leaning, observing.
He’d been “in the neighborhood” today and dropped by to observe the rehearsal .
. . which started out as unnerving, though Marcel suspected the musicians had eventually forgotten him, much like he had.
The seventy young men ranged in age from sixteen to nineteen, and though there were certainly days when Marcel felt as though he was trying to wrangle a crocodile, for the most part they’d done exactly what he’d hoped they would do and had become a unit. A team. A family.
A family who had been apart from their real families for months now. Given the three days off they were about to enjoy before reconvening on Thursday evening for their on-air concert, he was surprised they’d been as attentive as they had been today.
He grinned. “Well done, everyone. We’ll need to put some more time in on Symphonie Fantastique next week before I deem it ready to perform, but don’t worry about it while you’re all enjoying your holiday. Go, have fun. I’ll see you all back here at five o’clock on Thursday. Don’t be late.”
A stampede ensued, one punctuated by laughter and shouts and the alluring call of freedom, if only for a few days. Marcel chuckled as he tidied up his music.
Von Eberstein followed him to his office, a pleasant smile affixed to his lips. “You’re doing wonderful work with them, Laurent.”
“They’re a good group. Though today was not exactly their best, given the little holiday.
” Marcel grinned. He’d only met with Von Eberstein twice independently thus far, but the fellow had struck him as .
. . relaxed, honestly. Understanding. And ready to be impressed, both by Marcel and his orchestra.
Now, for instance, he slumped into the chair opposite Marcel’s desk with a chuckle and hooked an ankle over his knee.
His hat with its intimidating emblem he slung over his foot, leaving his hair, middling brown shot through with silver, bare.
“I’d say lads will be lads, but we never really outgrow it, do we?
I get a bit impatient before a scheduled holiday myself. ”
The instinct to ask questions rose, though Marcel wrestled with it for a moment. He shouldn’t want to get to know this man, should he? Those black bits of his uniform testified that he was someone to be feared.
And yet . . . did it ever hurt to make a friend? Marcel slid today’s music into the stack he meant to take home with him. “Has it been long since you’ve been home? Have you a family waiting for you? Aside from your cousin, I mean.”
“A wife and three children, aged twelve down to seven. All girls.” Von Eberstein’s smile went soft, yearning.
“I miss them terribly, but it’s likely to be a while before I get home for leave.
And what of you? You’re not married, are you?
I’d have thought it would have been mentioned in the meeting in Vichy. ”
Marcel shook his head. “No. But my family is here in Marseille, and I enjoy spending time with them. My mother, especially, is glad to have me home so she can prod me into coming to a family dinner at least once a week.”
“I imagine. And do you have any concerts scheduled for yourself? I confess I’d love to hear you perform again. Your orchestra is quite good, and I’m glad I’ve caught two performances thus far, but I have been eager for another glimpse of you at the piano, monsieur.”
“Call me Marcel.” Part of him winced even as he said it. But it was habit, among anyone remotely close to his age. He’d put Von Eberstein as much as a decade his senior, but even so.
And he couldn’t regret the invitation when the man grinned as if he’d been given a prize.
“Thank you. And you’re welcome to call me Lothar.
There are few in France who do, given that most of my acquaintances here are other military men.
But I do enjoy a reminder of the life I cherish outside the army. ”
“That I well understand. And to answer your question, no. No current plans for a solo concert, given the brutal schedule of the orchestra, I’m afraid.”
“Ah. Well.” Lothar’s face relaxed, disappointment flashing in his eyes. “Perhaps next time I’m in Marseille, I’ll at least badger you into a private performance.” He winked, snatching his hat off his foot and then standing in one movement.
Were it anyone else, Marcel would have invited him to one of the restaurants he met Zelie at on Wednesday evenings—they always chose one with a piano and he always played a few pieces. Often ones that would lure her into singing.
Not an offer he’d make to Lothar, first name basis or not. “I’d be happy to, when time permits. Do you play an instrument?”
Lothar chuckled and fitted his hat onto his head. “I am ashamed to admit it in your presence, but I too play the piano. Not half so well, and I’m not being modest. It’s the truth. But it soothes the soul, doesn’t it? I try to find an instrument wherever I’m stationed. It keeps me . . . human.”
If only the rest of his military valued such a thing.
Marcel nodded and slid his music into his briefcase.
“That, I understand perfectly. My months in service, with no piano, were more torturous than life in the POW camp, if I’m being honest. Your cousin”—that connection still baffled him—“was always quite happy to provide the musicians among us with instruments. Perhaps that was your influence.”
Lothar laughed and angled toward the door. “I’ll take the credit. But I won’t detain you, Marcel, I’m sure you’re eager to begin your holiday, and I have a train to catch. See you in a few weeks, when it’s time to make your selections for the Christmas season.”
“I look forward to it.” Just words . . . mostly. Though he was looking forward to creating the holiday lineup. What were the chances . . . ? “How do you feel about Handel?” The composer was an Englishman, after all. But he’d had a bit of German blood, hadn’t he?
Half out the door already, Lothar paused and flashed a smile. “Messiah is one of my favorites. I was hoping you’d suggest it.”
They shared one more smile, and then Lothar left, the door from the practice room to the outside opening and shutting heavily a moment later.
Marcel dragged in a breath, let it slowly out.
And debated what he meant to do with his holiday.
He couldn’t go far—he’d have to meet Zelie on Wednesday evening so she could hand him whatever code phrases he needed to include in his introduction on Thursday.
The first time he’d put his mouth to the microphone, nerves had wracked him, especially knowing well that Lothar Von Eberstein would be listening in. He wasn’t sure which nerves were because of the message he recited and which were because it had been his fledgling orchestra’s first broadcast.
No one had ever questioned his introductions, though, thanks to the seemingly innocuous and appropriate phrases Zelie fed him.
Things like I am overjoyed to signal that a drop had been successful or I was moved to near tears to say it had been delayed due to weather.
Some of them she didn’t offer explanation for, and he had to assume they were too sensitive to give him any details.
Fine by him. He had enough to keep up with, with these seventy young men, all the travel, setting up and making meetings with Alliance agents in each of the towns they toured, organizing the intelligence they and his own recruits in the arts sector sent him, meeting with Lothar . . .
He sagged for a moment, overwhelm striking when he considered the reports in his flat that he still had to decrypt, read, encrypt again, and pass off to Zelie, if useful enough to warrant it.
He’d balked, at first, when she told him he had to decide what to pass along and what to deem useless. Who was he to know such things? What if some detail he thought rubbish turned out to be crucial?
But he’d quickly understood her point. If he, who received only a portion of the intelligence that Alliance brokered, was overwhelmed by the volume, how could she, who handled all of it, hope to get through it?
At least it would be entertaining to read Gabriel’s reports. He always included witty, sarcastic observations of the Nazi officers he saw, in addition to whatever plans or developments they spoke of.
He shook himself and left his office, locking it, and repeated the action on the building’s exterior doors.
Then halted when he turned and spotted the black Citroen at the curb and the brunette leaning against it.
Zelie’s face was tilted up toward the autumn sunshine, but he read distress in its lines.
His pulse pounded. She never sought him out on a Monday, not since Navarre’s arrest. She didn’t have time for impromptu visits. They met every Wednesday, and once in a while a note would come inviting him and Vivi out to the villa. But for her to show up here now?
Something was wrong. He forced his pace to remain slow and steady as he adjusted his aim for her car instead of turning immediately down the street with its multicolored buildings and terra-cotta roofs that would lead to his flat, a mere five-minute walk away. “Zelie?”
She lowered her head, opened her eyes, but the smile she gave him was taut and fraught. “Bonjour, Marcel.” Her eyes darted down the street, away. “Lovely company you had today, I see. Was this a scheduled visit?”
He puffed out a breath. “No, he was just in the neighborhood, he said, and wanted to observe a practice.”
She still stared off. “He looked familiar. I think I passed him at the train station on my way to Paris.”
From anyone else, he’d have doubted the memory. Who, after all, could remember every face they’d seen in a busy depot? But he knew the answer—Zelie. Her memory was unrivaled, he’d learned that already.