Songbird Under a German Moon

by Tricia Goyer

  Suddenly, she was more nervous about tonight—about performing—than she had been in a very long time.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was an hour drive to Bayreuth, and Frank knew there was nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the ride—and the view. He especially liked the way Betty’s dark hair bounced on her shoulders as the jeep jounced over potholes, and the way she tilted her head back as she laughed. And it wasn’t a girly laugh either, but one that came from her belly and poured out, a musical laugh, carrying on the fall air blowing through the jeep.

  They drove off the airbase and down a country road that looked as if it had seen better days. Beyond the airfield, he scanned what was once the stately city of Nuremberg. Derelict buildings’ jagged remains clawed the skyline, suggesting Roman ruins or some warped impression of church spires. From the vantage of rumbling B-17s during the war, he’d often photographed Allied bombs reducing the once-beautiful, classical architecture to the mockery that remained today.

  It was not far from here, in fact, where he’d taken some of his best photos. That day was clear—too clear—with the German antiaircraft batteries targeting them like ducks in a shooting gallery, blasting shards of flak within twenty yards of their planes. He’d never seen the Germans so accurate with their gunfire, yet he’d done his best to focus on his task—to take photos of what happened in the sky outside the window without worrying if the next hit would be a direct one.

  On film, he’d caught the ground artillery exploding in the sky all around—and in the middle of the B-17 formation—yet the black puffs of smoke that appeared in the photos gave no hint of their destructive powers. The flak hitting the plane sounded like metal baseballs batted at them by Babe Ruth. Despite the near misses, all of the planes had made it back, and only one guy—a waist gunner in the lead plane—had been lost.

  Of course, later missions had received far worse damage.

  Frank shook his head, willing the memories to dissipate. He didn’t need to think about that. Not now. Not here. There were more beautiful things to focus on. Take in.

  As they neared the wooded countryside, the afternoon sunlight brightened the fall colors that made their appearance in full array. The trees were concentrated in the hills, leaving the valley bare and open, perfect for farming. Frank sniffed the air. The strong sent of manure told him the Germans were already preparing their fields for the spring. If nothing else, they were efficient.

  “So what are you doing in Nuremberg? Is this your typical work—driving around very important singers and their tagalongs?” Frank asked the MP.

  “Oh no, I’m usually stationed over at the Palace of Justice. Or at least I will be. The trials are supposed to start in a few weeks. I’ll be one of the lucky jokers who’ll be transporting prisoners back and forth from their cells to the courtroom each day.”

  Frank felt a slight wind blow in through the side of the jeep. A cold chill climbed up his arms, and he wondered how many of those guys he’d helped to put in prison. A number of them, he supposed. But it wasn’t the ones who were locked up that frightened him.

  “Do you mean Hitler’s key men?” Betty asked. “I read about that. I heard they were being held there.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And the Nazis involved with all the death camps.”

  “Are you guarding them so they don’t escape?” she asked.

  “Well, less of that and more for protection from those who would want to hurt them.”

  “It sounds dangerous,” Frank commented, leaning forward in his seat. His face was close to Betty’s shoulder, and he noticed she smelled of some fancy perfume that reminded him of his mother’s rose garden. “I’m sure there are those who’d like to assassinate those guys themselves instead of having them go through the process of a fair trial.”

  “Yes, it seems strange to me. You know, to protect the guys who killed millions so we can see that they pay for their crimes—”

  “It doesn’t sound like my cup of tea at all.” Betty shivered. “I’m glad I’m here to sing—no danger in that.”

  The MP turned and glanced at Betty, and Frank noticed Mac had a wary look on his face—as if he disagreed with her words.

  “You know, sometimes it’s easier to work with the Germans than the GIs,” Mac said with a chuckle. “I’ve been patrolling the Occupation Zone since the war ended, and I feel like a tattletale, or worse, a goody-two-shoes, always trying to keep the guys in line.”

  “Yeah, it was the same way in France,” Frank said. “It’s hard for the guys to obey a set of rules when they can hardly believe they’re alive and want to really live.” Images of the GIs loose on the Paris streets flipped through Frank’s mind—the champagne, the girls. He’d kept far away from both.

  “In Germany, we’re telling them who not to date, where not to go, what not to do. I’ve heard GIs say they feel as if the Germans are free, and they’re the ones locked up by all these rules. We like to think we’re here for protection, but sometimes we’re viewed as babysitters.” Mac shrugged. “And then there are those who love that role—being the boss, putting everyone else in their place, being the final say because they wear this.” He patted his MP armband. “It might as well be a swastika.”

  “But enough of that talk. Have either of you been to the Festspielhaus?” Mac asked, briefly looking over his shoulder toward Frank. The MP’s eyes were wide, almost fearful.

  “Can’t say I have,” Frank answered. “Opera really isn’t my favorite thing.”

  “I like opera—or I think I would if I ever had a chance to go to a real one,” Betty said, “but this is my first time in Germany. My first time away from home, in fact.”

  Frank noted color rising on Betty’s cheeks.

  “Listen to me, I sound like a country bumpkin.” She clasped her gloved hands on her lap and turned her attentions to the Bavarian landscape.

  “Oh, you’re going to love Bayreuth. It’s an interesting place to visit for your first trip.” The driver jutted his chin and took on the tone of a tour guide. “It’s formerly part of Bavaria—the Saxon region. It was favored by the royals, and around the turn of the century, a lot of people flocked there. You’ll see their influence in town. It’s royal, Baroque, and basically gaudy.”

  “It sounds great.” Betty smiled.

  “Yes, the town is,” Mac said. “Of course you couldn’t get me within a mile of the Festspielhaus. It’s too close to evil if you ask me.”

  “And this from a man who guards the men who designed and manned the death camps.” Frank smirked as the wind whipped his words.

  “The enemies I guard are men—disillusioned men who invested their souls in the wrong religion, the wrong cause. It’s the forces I can’t see that I’m more worried about.”

  Frank eyed the driver and felt the muscles in his stomach tightening.

  “What do you mean?” Betty turned in her seat. “I can see from the look on your face there’s a story behind those words. An interesting story, perhaps?”

  “I’m not sure how interesting it is—”

  “Well, you can tell us, and then we can judge. ‘Unseen forces’ have to make a good tale,” Betty said.

  Frank eyed Betty, and he couldn’t tell if she was just being nosey or if she truly was interested in the story behind Mac’s words.

  “Well, I’ve never told anyone before—mostly because no one seemed to care or ask—but my mother was an opera singer. She used to travel Europe before things got bad. I must have been twelve or thirteen, and I remember waking up one night and hearing the sound of paper tearing. I went into the kitchen, and there on the table in front of her were bits of paper. She wouldn’t speak of it at first, but I saw that they were the music sheets for Wagner’s operas.

  “After one of her concerts, she had met a man who’d been a childhood friend of Hitler. The man, August, had attended an opera with Hitler when they were both in their teens. It was Wagner’s opera Rienzi. It’s the story of a man who wrests authority from a corrupt, Roman
ruler. After the performance—so August told my mother—it was as if young Hitler had been overwhelmed by something beyond himself. He spouted his plans under the stars. He wanted to do something to make Germany great again. He claimed he would be the one to wrestle it from the oppression placed on it after the Great War. It was as if Hitler had transferred Rienzi’s complete mission onto his own shoulders.”

  “And what was Rienzi’s complete mission?” Frank dared to ask.

  “To lead his people out of servitude to the heights of freedom, which Rienzi did, until nobles and the church schemed and conspired against him. Every time my mother read about another horrible thing Hitler did, she reminded me of the opera, especially when Hitler used the Rienzi overture as the musical theme for all Nazi Party rallies. Yet while Rienzi had good motives, Hitler’s were far from that.”

  “So did Rienzi achieve what he desired?” Betty asked.

  “No, in the opera’s finale the conquering Rienzi—the historical hero—is overthrown by the mob.”

  “Maybe Hitler should have taken note of that.” Frank chuckled.

  “I wouldn’t laugh too hard if I were you. And I’d keep a watchful eye. My mother doesn’t think it’s over yet.”

  “What do you mean?” Betty’s face paled at Mac’s words. “Hitler is dead, and all the guys who can cause trouble are locked up. You, more than anyone, should know that.”

  Frank tried not to react to her words. Tried not to reveal that he believed nothing could be more wrong. He wouldn’t still be around if that were the case—if all the bad guys were locked up. He’d be home, preparing for his future and looking for a girl to spend his life with.

  “I don’t know enough about these things to make heads or tails of it, but I received a letter from my mother just a few weeks ago. She warned me to stay away from the Festspielhaus, especially in the month of October.”

  “Why would your mother warn you of the month of October? What does she know, what has she heard?” Frank rubbed his jaw, wondering if Mac was making the whole thing up to get Betty’s attention. He wouldn’t put it past him. She was nice, and pretty too.

  “I’m not sure. She didn’t say, but she still has a lot of friends in that circle. I just assume she’s passing the warning on from something she’s heard.”

  “But it’s the fourth of October now,” Betty said.

  “Exactly, and I’ve decided to break my own rule not to go within a mile of the place. I’ll slow enough for you two to jump out.” Mac chuckled, but Frank could see from the look in his eye he was partially serious. “Then, as soon as I drop you off, I’m heading back to Goering and Hess, where it’s safe.”

  “Well, I have to say, I’ve never had a tour guide quite like you before. I would tell you that your horror stories are going to keep me up all night, but after this long trip I don’t think that’ll be the case.” Betty’s voice sounded tired, and Frank could see she was trying to suppress a yawn. “Still it was a great story. I’m glad I asked.” She winked.

  “I imagine you’re exhausted, miss. Do you want me to drive you to your quarters first?”

  “No, no, straight to the opera house, please. I know you’re trying to get out of going there, but it’s not going to work. I’m supposed to perform tonight, and I’ll barely get there in enough time to get ready.”

  “Can you give me a preview, seeing as I’ll most likely never get brave enough to attend and see it for myself?”

  “Sure, soldier—I mean Mac,” and then without batting an eye she broke into “That Lovely Weekend” by Vera Lynn. “—I haven’t said thanks for that lovely weekend, those two days of heaven you helped me spend—”

  Mac asked her to sing song after song: “I’ll Walk Alone,” “The White Cliffs of Dover,” “Long Ago and Far Away.” Appearing glad for this chance to warm up before her performance in a few hours, she sang until they approached Bayreuth. Then Betty paused as the driver stopped the jeep at the bottom of a hill. From the look on her face, Frank could see she was enraptured. He couldn’t help but be too, but not entirely because of the view outside the jeep.

  Sloping gardens swept upward, and a large building rose—seemingly from the top of the hill—like a modern castle ready to lift into the sky.

  It was a colossal structure. It was far from beautiful, but beautiful didn’t matter any longer. It stood, and realizing that impressed him.

  “Much of the town was bombed,” Mac explained. “Over a thousand people from Bayreuth were killed. Half of the buildings were destroyed, but not her. She still stands. It’s as if she has supernatural protection, or something.”

  “Or maybe bombing an opera house wasn’t the Air Corps’s main priority,” Frank quipped.

  The jeep drove up to the Festspielhaus, and to Frank it looked like a giant turtle on the hill with stucco and wood finish. His favorite part, he supposed, was the green arbor and patio off the front entrance. He could almost imagine the horse-drawn carriages lined up there as they dropped off their important passengers. There were no fancy carriages around here, but there was a long line of jeeps driving up from town, and a group of GIs already lining up at the door.

  “I can’t believe it.” Betty’s voice was no more than a whisper from the front seat. “Pinch me, Mac, pinch me hard. This has to be a dream. Some of the most famous singers in history have sung here—I can’t believe I will too.”

  “Sorry, miss, but I won’t pinch you. That’s not gentlemanly. I will say, though, that this isn’t a dream. I mean, if you were going to dream something up, you most likely wouldn’t include someone like me in it.” Mac pointed his thumb behind him toward Frank. “Him maybe, but not me.”

  Mac drove around back and parked the jeep by the back door. Mac jumped out. But before he could walk around and help Betty from the seat, Frank climbed over the wheel-well and offered a hand.

  “Miss, watch your step.”

  Tears of joy rimmed her eyes, and she looked at him and smiled.

  It was a lovely smile, sincere.

  “Thank you.” She placed her hand on his. “It looks like a perfectly safe and wonderful place, no matter what your mother says, Mac.” She chuckled. “I never expected this. I still think I must be dreaming.”

  She scanned the huge opera house behind Frank, and he knew she was talking about the building, but he didn’t mind. His heartbeat hammered at the touch of her hand, and he wondered if he should reconsider his stance on waiting to find a girl.

  I never expected this either, sweetheart, not in a million years.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Had her dreams come true?

  One look at the immense, beautiful Festspielhaus—even while wearing a droopy uniform—made Betty feel like a princess. She held her breath as she entered the back doors. I can’t believe it, they’ve invited me to sing—here.

  She followed the festive sounds of voices down a long hall. Mac and Frank followed with her luggage, setting it down as soon as they entered the backstage area. Around them, people fluttered in motion and sounds—musicians tuning their instruments, singers chatting and adding last-minute touches to their costumes, dancers stretching out long limbs. Betty turned to the guys, noticing their wide-eyed gazes, and knew hers matched.

  A man approached in a gray suit and red tie, with brownish gray hair slicked back, and a wide grin. Betty could tell he was the stage manager from his commanding style. He glanced at his gold watch. “Listen here, my little chickadee, I wish we had time for you to rehearse, but we have some very important guests tonight—all of them. These GIs have seen the last show a few times, so I’d like to work in some new acts. The stuff around here is as stale as day-old bread. You got anything for me?”

  “Are you—?” She scrambled through her memories trying to recall the name her recruiter had given to her, but came up blank.

  “Mickey. Mickey Bench at your service.” He took her hand and kissed her middle knuckle and then swept his arm around the room. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew l
ater. So you got some songs, kid?”

  Betty straightened her shoulders and took in a deep breath. A dozen songs spun through her mind, and she tried to remember which ones the crowds back home requested most. “I can sing Lena Horne’s ‘Stormy Weather’ and ‘Silver Wings in the Moonlight.’ Does the orchestra know those?” She turned to a man standing next to Mickey. He wore a light blue suit and held a baton in his hand. She guessed he was the conductor.

  “Know them? My orchestra plays those numbers better than you’ve ever heard, kid.”

  “Great. You’re gonna sing those numbers after the Johnson sisters do their little dance act.”

  “But that’s my spot. I always sing after the Johnsons’ jiggle.” A woman with jet black hair done up in a tall pile stepped forward.

  “Irene, Irene, don’t spin yourself into a tizzy. Tonight I’m putting you with Esther and Trudy. The duo is now a trio.”

  Irene’s gaze widened. “She took my spot? What are you going to do, give her the shirt off my back too?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “No, but now that you mention it, I think the dress will work. You two look about the same size.”

  “I don’t think—” Betty started, but Mickey’s sharp look silenced her.

  “Sure, Mick, but you better have this thing worked out tomorrow. I’m my own act—not a trio.” Irene turned, stomped two steps, and then paused. “You coming, kid, or are you going to strip right here?”

  “I’m coming.” Betty bit her lip.

  “Hey, either of you Captain Frank Witt?” Mickey called to the driver and photographer who still stood there, as if waiting to be dismissed.

  “Yeah, I’m Frank.” The handsome photographer removed his cap and stepped forward.

  “Great. Ready to go? I’d recommend finding a seat front and center—best place in the house, if you ask me. There’s a media box, but I thought you’d like to be with the soldiers. Maybe to be part of the experience.”