Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
Marcel glanced through the glass of the broadcast booth, onto the stage. The seventy chairs usually arranged in a semicircle were stacked in the hallway, so that the floor could be polished before the orchestra returned in January.
It wasn’t odd for him to see an empty stage. But he’d never seen one populated by a little girl having a pretend tea party with her doll, a boy working on a drawing of an airplane with the help of a slide rule, and his own mother, knitting needles in hand and a sock underway.
There had been absolutely no reason for them to come along tonight for the broadcast. But Elise had begged, Blaise had piped in with his desire to come too, and Mère had joined them to keep the children quiet and supervised while Marcel managed both live and pre-recorded segments for tonight’s Radio Paris slot.
He hadn’t argued. When they were around, he could think of something other than worry for their mother, his brother, Gabriel.
Gabriel. Marcel lined up the records he would need, but though his hands were steady, his heart was not.
His best friend had been arrested, and it was Marcel’s fault.
He hadn’t been the one to give the gendarmes his name, no—but he’d been the one to bring him into Alliance.
He’d been the one to mention it over the summer in his cousin’s hearing.
He smoothed down the sheet of paper with his introduction written out, but he scarcely saw the words.
No, he saw Anne’s tearful face as she met him where her brother should have been, the horrible news on her lips.
Gabriel had been arrested. Gabriel was in prison.
Gabriel’s future was still unknown. Would he be held? Executed? Sent off to a camp?
His pulse thudded, slow and sorrowful. Doloroso.
They were going to try to find a way to sneak messages in and out of the prisons, but thus far they hadn’t hit upon a way that would work.
Certainly they had no hope of helping anyone escape prison.
Once an agent was in the hands of the Nazis, they were well and truly at their mercy.
A check of his watch told him it was nearly time to begin. He switched the On Air light on as a signal for his mother. Usually, he’d say his introduction and then hustle onto the stage, stand before the podium, and raise his baton.
Tonight, after he spoke he’d lower the needle onto the record he had queued up. The whole thing would also be recorded and rebroadcast at different times over the next week.
He prayed Zelie was somewhere she could hear it, at least one of those times.
Either this week or next—he’d volunteered to run the program on Christmas Day as well.
Vichy had been only too happy to let him, with the promise that they’d rebroadcast throughout Christmas week.
Plenty of opportunities, then, for her to get his message.
At six o’clock, he sent power to his microphone, leaned close, and smiled, so that his audience would hear it in his voice.
“Good evening, and welcome to the youth orchestra hour. This is Marcel Laurent, conductor of the orchestra, and I am excited to bring you a few special holiday programs over the next couple weeks. Our talented young men have worked hard to brighten your Christmas with some of our favorite pieces, both old and new. And we would also like to take this opportunity to extend our own holiday greetings to family we won’t have the pleasure of seeing this year. ”
He had a list of greetings from his musicians, and he read through a portion of them now. “From Pierre Archambeau, happy Christmas to Grand-pappa and Grand-maman Archambeau—do you remember the year I ate all the almond cookies? The taste of them still reminds me of you. From Etienne Aubert . . .”
He’d selected five messages to read this time and would do another five next time, ending both with his own.
“And to my own special someone, as I was visiting my mother tonight, I thought of our favorite quote from Pascal: If one does not love too much, one does not love enough. Happy Christmas, mon amour.”
It would sound like a sweet nothing to his sweetheart—but he prayed she’d see the meaning.
Zelie would know she was the one he was trying to get a message to, and mentioning Pascal—Blaise Pascal—would tell her what it was about.
The reference to visiting his mother should tell her where Blaise and hence Elise were—the two people she loved most in the world.
“Next week we’ll be bringing you Bach’s Christmas Oratorio, Corelli’s Christmas Concerto, Saint-Saens’ Oratorio de Noel, and other festive pieces, so be sure to tune in at your usual time.
But for now, I am honored to present to you the youth orchestra’s recording of Handel’s Messiah.
” He lowered the needle onto the record.
Would she hear it? Would she understand? Father God, wherever she is, please give her peace. Reassure her that they’re all right. Wherever she is, help her to have a good Christmas.