Songbird Under a German Moon

by Tricia Goyer

  They exited the stage. Betty was about to sit down in one of the stage chairs when Dolly approached. “Mickey said to find you. He said be prepared to sing if Kat can’t make the last song. He says you’ve seen her practice and that you’ll know what to do.”

  Betty’s eyes widened as she thought through the words to “America the Beautiful.” She didn’t have too much time to think, though, because Kat’s “Bugle Boy” number was coming up next, and Betty wanted to be standing on the side, cheering her on.

  Kat paced the side stage, dabbing her eyes, her jaw set with determination. Then, as the curtain went up, she hustled out with a huge smile. If it wasn’t for the obvious puffiness around Kat’s eyes, Betty was sure that no one would have noticed anything was wrong.

  Kat paused in the center of the stage and then gave a half-salute. At the same time, Mickey entered from the other side and addressed the crowd.

  “Listen guys, we want you to know that tonight is Kat’s last night in Bayreuth. She’s flying home tomorrow.”

  “Hey, Kat, take us with you!” one young soldier called out.

  “Yeah, Kat, I’m short enough to fit in your suitcase,” another called.

  Laughter filled the room.

  “Don’t worry, boys, even though I’m flying home, I’ll always carry you right here.” She pointed to her heart, just as she’d rehearsed.

  Then, on cue, the music started and Kat began to sing. She sang loud and clear, and Betty prayed a silent prayer that she’d remain strong. The soldiers got into the music. Many jumped to their feet, boogying with the music, and then more joined them. Soon everyone was standing, dancing, and clapping along.

  Kat had made it halfway through the song when Betty saw her exterior start to crumble. First, her eyes widened, as if the reality of the news hit her. Then her feet stopped moving. Her chin trembled as large tears filled her eyes.

  “He’s the boogie-woogie bugle boy of—Company B. And when he played—” Kat’s words caught in her throat, and she placed her hand over her mouth. The bandleader instructed the band to replay the lead-in again, but Kat shook her head. The music stopped, and then the clapping. Silence filled the auditorium. Betty wondered if she should go to Kat, help her off the stage. While everyone watched, it looked like no one knew what to do.

  “I can’t do this. I don’t want to live like this—” Kat turned and left the stage, pushing through the huddle of performers who’d assembled in the wings to watch. Billy, the drummer, jumped from his stool and was right on her heels. As he passed, Mickey grabbed his arm.

  “Let her go.”

  “But she’s so upset.” Billy looked down at the drumsticks still in his hands. “Everyone can’t just stand here and watch her leave.”

  “Yes, they can. Kat needs time. Give her a few minutes to get some fresh air.” Mickey combed his fingers through his hair, and then he set his chin in determination.

  “All of you,” Mickey called out so loudly Betty was sure the audience heard. “No one goes anywhere.” Then he lowered his voice. “The show’s going on. There’s nothing we can do for Kat now. Nothing anyone can do.”

  With slumped shoulders, Billy trudged to his drums. The band waited, and the soldiers started to murmur, as if they were trying to figure out what had just happened.

  “Who’s up next?” Mickey asked.

  “It’s us, Mick,” Irene said. “Our second number.”

  Betty felt Irene grab her arm. “Okay, get out there and smile wide. We’re not going to let this change the show.”

  Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, and they knew everything had already changed.

  Betty rushed out onto the stage and took her place with Dolly on one side and Irene on the other. Her hands started to shake and she placed them behind her. Poor Kat. How is she ever going to deal with this? First Edward and now the show. She knew Kat. Knew how she liked to do everything well. Word would get out about this performance. Another thing to burden her as she returns home.

  Five seconds later, the music restarted, interrupting Betty’s thoughts, and she opened her mouth and let the words flow out.

  Their song was a slower melody that seemed to fit the crowd’s mood. No doubt everyone wondered what was wrong with Kat. Maybe they thought she was just emotional about leaving. Betty hoped that was the case.

  This time when she sang, she made better eye contact with Frank. She saw him snap a few shots, and then he lowered the camera and smiled at her. It felt good, knowing he was there—knowing he was cheering for her, supporting her, maybe even loving her just a bit.

  It wasn’t until the second-to-the-last song of the night when Betty remembered what she’d been told earlier. “If anything happens to Kat, you need to take over her solo.” She looked down and realized she was still wearing the same dress, and she hadn’t even thought through all the lyrics in her mind, but as the last note ended on the jazzy number, she knew she was up.

  Betty placed her hands over her stomach and took a deep breath. The lights went out and as quietly as she could, she walked onto the stage. She paced herself, guessing where the center was, and hoping the spotlight could find her. Finally, reaching what she thought was the middle, she turned toward the crowd. They were silent, almost as if they weren’t even there. Betty drew in another deep breath and then started with one single note.

  “O—.” She held the note, feeling it fill the room, sweeping over the heads of the audience, reflecting off the wood-paneled walls, and returning to her once again.

  In an instant, the spotlight hit her. It was slightly to her right, but the technician quickly adjusted. Two seconds later the band picked up the same note. Then Betty let the first syllable, the first note, develop into the beautiful, heart-felt song.

  “O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain.” She scanned the crowd but this time she didn’t look at Frank. She could only think that this was Kat’s song—a song Edward would have loved to hear. “For purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plain—.”

  Betty sang, and thankfully, the words came. Before she knew it, the song ended, and the soldiers were on their feet once more. She smiled and waved, and was walking off the stage when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. It was Oskar. He was standing on the opposite side of the stage from everyone else. And he was weeping—his hands covered his face and his shoulders shook. Betty didn’t know if it was because of the music or because of Kat’s news. She imagined both played a part.

  Frank took his time exiting the auditorium with the other guys, each one engaged in conversation with friends. All of them wondering what was wrong with Kat.

  He was about to exit through the lobby when he noticed someone he recognized. It was the woman—that singer—from the cafe the other night. What did Art say her name was again? Magdalena—that’s right.

  Frank approached and he saw the woman’s face was pale—even more so than the first night he’d seen her.

  “Magdalena, it’s good to see you.” Frank extended his hand. She looked at it, and the look on her face said that shaking it was almost too much work, but then—forcing a smile—she extended her hand.

  “Hello. I am sorry. I do not remember your name. So many men I have met, but I know you are Art’s friend.”

  “Frank. My name is Frank. I’m a photographer, like Art—in fact that’s what I was doing here tonight.” He wiggled the camera back and forth in his grip.

  The woman nodded, but she seemed lost in her own thoughts.

  “So—” Frank tried to fill in the conversation. “Did you see the performance tonight?”

  The woman lifted her head as if realizing he was still talking to her. “No. I mean, yes. Just last song. That woman at end—she has very beautiful voice.”

  “I think so too.” Frank smiled. “Her name is Betty, she’s a friend. Would you like to meet her? I can take you backstage.”

  The woman took a step back. “No. Not tonight.” She looked down at her blouse and skirt
. “I am not dressed for it. Another night perhaps.” Then she took two more steps back. “I will see you another time. I must go.”

  “Sure, see you later.” Frank ran a hand down his cheek, wondering what that was all about. The night was filled with mystery, but tonight of all nights, nothing could hinder his excitement.

  Tonight I’m going to get Betty to agree that we should spend more time together.

  Frank’s mind told him he was doing it for work—to ensure he was invited to the performers’ inner circle. Only then would he be able to keep an eye on what was happening at the Festspielhaus.

  But his heart—well, his heart told him something completely different.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The mood was sober as they wrapped things up after the show. Betty hung up her gown, put her USO uniform back on, and approached the others circled by the back door.

  “So what’s the plan?” she asked, scanning the others’ faces.

  “We’re trying to decide if we should head over to the canteen or back to the house to check on Kat. We assume that’s where she went since she’s not around here.”

  “I know what my vote is,” Betty said, slipping on her jacket. “I think we should go check on Kat. Maybe she needs some company—a shoulder to cry on. Besides, it’s her last night. We should be around to tell her our good-byes.”

  “Do you really think so, Betty?” Dolly took her elbow and held it. “It’s Kat we’re talking about. She likes time alone. She’d probably think we’re invading her privacy.”

  “Yeah—if you think she’ll want us to cry with her, you don’t know Kat very well, kid,” Irene added. “She only lets people get so close. She’s a real star, and she knows it.”

  “I don’t know. She was very kind to me my first night here. Very open. We lay on our beds and talked about a lot of things.”

  “And last night?” Irene asked.

  “Last night she was really different,” Betty admitted. “You’re also probably right about her not needing us there—or wanting us there—but it doesn’t seem right, our going to the canteen and her being home alone. Maybe we can cut out early.”

  “Okay, agreed.” Irene wrapped an arm around Betty’s shoulders. “We’ll try not to stay out too long.”

  Betty nodded and followed everyone outside. It wasn’t until she spotted Frank, standing at the bottom of the stairs, with a wide smile and bright eyes, that Betty remembered—seeing him in the rain, their brief talk, their promise to talk further. She forced a smile. “Hey, Frank.” The others continued on, but Irene remained at her side.

  “Hi, Betty, that was a great show tonight. I really liked your songs.”

  “Thanks. That last one was supposed to be Kat’s song—her last solo.”

  “What’s wrong with Kat? Is she okay?”

  Betty felt Irene touch her elbow.

  “Um, Kat—she was upset about leaving. Overwhelmed with emotion—she really doesn’t want to head back and do that next movie.” Even as she said the words, Betty felt a heaviness pressing upon her chest. More than anything, she wanted to tell Frank the truth, but she also knew what Mickey had said.

  Frank’s eyes reflected concern. “That’s too bad. I’m sorry. Is she going to be okay?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Frank looked to Irene, obviously confused that she was hanging around. “So are we still going to talk tonight?”

  “Betty said she’s coming to the canteen with us.” Irene wrapped her arm around Betty’s. “Right, Betty?”

  “Just for a little while,” Betty said. “Do you want to come with us?”

  Frank’s eyes studied hers for a moment, and then he offered a soft smile. “Yeah, sure, okay. Do you want to ride with me, Betty? I have my own MP—a nice guy named Howard—and jeep tonight.” He winked.

  “Every soldier needs his own MP,” Betty quipped.

  Twenty minutes later, Frank and Betty were seated at a round table in the soldiers’ canteen with the other USO singers and dancers, some of the band members, and a few soldiers. A phonograph played Benny Goodman, and around the room, more soldiers sat in small clusters while a few German women served drinks.

  Betty looked around the table. From the look on everyone’s faces it was clear that even though they were pretending that everything was the same as yesterday, nothing was the same. For Kat, nothing would ever be the same again without Edward.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Frank touched her hand.

  “A cup of coffee, please.”

  “Sure.” He stood and walked across the room to the small counter to place the order.

  “So, I was walking back from town today, and I got caught in the rain,” Betty said, trying to help the mood around the table. “You should have seen me by the time I got back to the Festspielhaus. I was a mess. Tell them, Irene, what my hair looked like.”

  “It was a mess all right. Slicking it all back was the only thing I could do with it.”

  “Your hair looks good like that.” Billy nodded. “You’re brave, Betty, for going down there.”

  “Brave?” She palmed her hair, making sure every strand was still in place.

  “I don’t like hanging out around town too often.” Billy flashed a knowing look around the table. “There are too many sad people. They come, they go. Every day there’s a new group. I don’t like seeing them without homes, without hopes. If anyone needs a concert to help get their minds off things, it’s them. And seeing all those bombed-out buildings really puts me in a sober mood.”

  “Are you saying you don’t like what had to be done?” Frank approached. He placed a mug of black, steaming coffee in front of Betty. “I know a lot of guys who risked their lives, and some who died, on those missions.”

  “I’m not sorry that we had to do that. We were out to win a war, right?” Billy shook his head. “But I can’t be glad, either. I’m human. Sad stuff makes me sad. I just hope we can all forgive and forget.”

  “I don’t know how I could forget. I was on those front lines,” one soldier commented. “I can tell you that I cheered for every one of our planes flying overhead. I knew that the harder they hit, the easier things would be for me—although in the end things weren’t easy.”

  “Tell these folks about what you saw in Berlin,” the soldier’s buddy commented.

  “Berlin?” Frank leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “When was that?”

  It pleased Betty to see Frank’s interest in her friends, in the conversation. He really cares. She scooted closer to him.

  “Just last month,” the soldier continued, “my friend and I wanted to check out the Russian zone, and, boy, were we in for a surprise. While I was there I gave my watch to an English-speaking Russian commander, and he gave me a tour of Hitler’s personal air-raid shelter.”

  “You did what?” Dolly gasped. She patted her chest as if trying to still her racing heart. “You went where?”

  “You’re joking, right?” Irene piped in.

  Betty glanced at Frank, waiting for him to crack a smile. She was sure this guy was joking, and she was waiting for someone to make him admit it. Surely you can’t be serious, buddy.

  “So what did you see?” Frank asked.

  “Well, first of all, I couldn’t believe it was right there, in the middle of town. It was just a few hundred yards from the Chancellery in a garden. My friend and I followed the Russian down a hundred steps—or so it seemed. And when we got inside it was like stepping into a mansion or something. There were kitchens—more than one—a huge library, servant quarters, and a room for Hitler’s girlfriend.”

  “Did you go into the room where Hitler—you know—” Irene ran a finger across her throat.

  “No. The Russian didn’t show me that, and I didn’t ask. I did learn something there, though, something that’s tied to this place. Did you know that when Hitler killed himself, one of the Wagner operas—an original—was in his possession?”

  “Really?” Betty’s
brow furrowed. “Which one?”

  “Rienzi.”

  Betty felt chills travel up and down her arms. “Well, I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Do you know that opera, Betty?”

  “I don’t know it, but I’ve heard of it before. I heard about how Hitler first got his ideas for ‘German freedom,’ if that’s what you want to call it, after listening to that opera. I heard about how he used the music from it for his rallies and such.”

  Betty didn’t tell them that she’d heard all this from a driver. She didn’t tell them that before coming over here she didn’t know a place called Bayreuth existed, or that Wagner’s music was such a big deal to Hitler.

  “Did you sing in the opera, Betty? Have you sung professionally before?” Billy asked.

  “I sang at the Douglas factory—at the Santa Monica canteen, actually.”

  Eyebrows lifted as the other singers glanced at each other. She could read on their faces that being a canteen singer did not impress them. She thought about asking where they’d all sung before their stint in the USO, but she was almost afraid to know. She hadn’t thought much about her musical experience—or lack of it. From the looks on their faces, it mattered more to them than she realized.

  “Sounds swell,” Dolly said.

  “Sounds easy to me.” Billy rested his chin on his hand. “Sounds easier than traipsing all over Europe in the middle of a war, like us.”

  “Well, I did other work in the canteen too. It wasn’t just about the singing. I helped wherever I was needed. It wasn’t that easy—we’d get an express telegraph saying three hundred men were on their way. After that, you should have seen the blur of cotton aprons as we fixed up sandwiches and orange squeezers—the guys always appreciated those on a hot day.”