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Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, and everyone who reads this. :)
This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed.
Many squishy thanks to my beta, Jennyfair.
As I sat at my vanity and began to remove the stage makeup from my face I found myself thinking about how quickly things had changed – a week ago I had received a standing ovation as Marguerite with several admirers wishing to tell me how much they had enjoyed my performance, but with my dressing room now empty and the hallway outside silent, it all seemed like a dream. It was lonely without Anatole here with me; he had called earlier this afternoon to inform me that he wouldn't be able to make it to the Opera tonight, and though I had wanted to ask him why, I could not make myself speak the words because I was unsure if I wanted to hear his honest answer. He had never promised to come to every performance and had in fact already missed a few before tonight, but his absence nevertheless made me feel rather depressed, especially this evening.
La Carlotta had returned to the Opera as soon as she had heard of my success and within a day I had been back in the role of Siebel once more. Monsieur Richard had called me into his office to personally explain why Carlotta had been reinstated, and although I understood his reasoning I had still left our meeting in tears – not because I particularly wanted to be Marguerite every night, but because I was afraid that Anatole would be disappointed in me for being only the understudy again. Even though he had assured me that he was not upset with me, I was well aware that he was irritated with my demotion and that he had spoken with Monsieur Richard about it a few days ago, although I was unsure what either had said. I could not help but wonder if the true reason why he was not here tonight to see me perform was because he was upset that I was not Marguerite. His empty box had only served to reinforce the distress I had experienced when Carlotta had hissed in my ear that I would never be given the opportunity to play the role again.
Dropping the damp rag into the basin of water, I picked up the piece of paper with Anatole's phone number written on it and realized that I still wasn't sure where his apartment was located, one of the many things I didn't know about him. Whenever we were together he was careful to steer the conversation towards music or my own life, never volunteering anything about himself unless I questioned him directly. I sighed and tucked the scrap of paper back into my mirror before staring at the postcard of the Brittany shore and remembering how easy life had been then, with my only worries being an errant wind blowing my scarf into the sea or having sand in my shoes.
I turned away from the mirror and walked over to the lone window in my room, parting the blackout curtains and gazing out at the dark city. The streets were almost deserted now because of the Nazi-imposed curfew and the thought of running into one of the night patrols was enough to make me shiver with dread. It wasn't uncommon for Opera workers to be briefly detained by the patrols after a late night – some of the ballet rats even deliberately dawdled after a performance in the hopes of being stopped by a group of handsome soldiers – but the last thing I wanted tonight was to be questioned by Nazis about why I was out and where I was going.
Eyeing my divan with a sigh as I closed the curtains once more, I decided that it was probably best that I spend the night in my dressing room. Although the managers would most likely chastise me for staying overnight if they knew, I was too tired to make it back to my own apartment and I didn't have enough money to pay for a cab; besides, I had dozed on my divan several times after performances without being caught by anyone, though not recently since Anatole almost always walked me to the métro station now, sometimes offering to pay for dinner at a new restaurant he had discovered in the city if I wasn't too tired.
I frowned as I pulled out a worn blanket from the bottom drawer of the vanity, still fretting over why he had not come to the Opera. At least he had seemed somewhat regretful about not making it, I tried to comfort myself as I fluffed the pillows, hoping that I wasn't reading too much into the abrupt apology he had offered before hanging up the phone. I turned out the light and fumbled with the ties on my dressing gown, finally managing to shrug out of the garment and drape it over the corner of the privacy screen so I wouldn't trip over it in the morning. The air in the room was cool and I burrowed beneath the blanket, wishing that I had brought something heavier than the thin cotton dress I now wore, and I remembered the long winter nights in Sweden when my father had teased me that my toes would be frostbitten come morning if I didn't wear two pairs of socks to bed.
Even though I was exhausted I stared at the ceiling for several minutes, only closing my eyes when I heard the rumble of a truck passing by the Opera. It could only be the Gestapo this late at night, perhaps on their way to another raid, and I crossed my arms over my chest, trying very hard to recall the happier times of my childhood instead of dwelling upon less pleasant things, and eventually I settled upon the memory of my father lulling me to sleep with tales about the Angel of Music.
"I don't understand why we don't do something about it. The Treaty of Versailles clearly states that Germany is not to have a military presence in the Rhineland and yet they admit that they do! We should strike now, or France will be next!" Professor Valérius emphasized his point by firmly placing his fist upon the table, rattling the dishes and causing Mama to frown.
"Jakob," she murmured disapprovingly as she leaned towards me and patted my fingers, "not in front of the child. Now, more holubtsi?" I examined the cabbage rolls with distaste as my father shook his head, coughing into his cupped hand as he turned from the table, and I glanced at him nervously. He had been diagnosed with tuberculosis over two years ago and only grew worse, and though he assured me that there wasn't cause to worry, I had seen his handkerchiefs stained with blood.
We finished our meal in silence, and it wasn't long before the professor and Papa excused themselves to the study to continue their discussion, and I cleared the table as Mama washed the dishes. Even though she was frail and they employed a maid to do the more strenuous household chores, Mama insisted upon doing all that she could for as long as she was able. After she finished I helped her into the parlor, fetching a blanket for her to spread over her lap so she didn't catch a chill, but the whole time focused on the quiet rumbling voices coming from the study next door.
"Won't you sing something for me, dear?" Mama questioned with a knowing smile, no doubt aware of my attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation between Papa and the Professor, although she was too polite to say so.
"Would you like to hear something in particular, Mama?" When she shook her head I began to sing the first thing that popped into my mind, an old Swedish ballad that I could recall my own mother singing to me when I was a little girl. I wished that I had more memories of her, but it seemed the older I became the fewer I could recall.
Once I was sure that Mama was asleep I tiptoed from the room, quietly shutting the door behind me, and crept towards the study. Pressing my cheek against the wooden door, I could hear the two men speaking much more clearly.
"…afraid for what the future holds," the Professor mumbled, and I could almost picture him puffing away at his pipe as he spoke, which brought a smile to my face. "If Ruth were able to travel I would try to take us all somewhere else – Israel, perhaps, or even America." It was strange hearing him refer to Mama by her given name, for even my father called her Mama.
"I don't think that I would make it," Papa said before being overtaken by a coughing spell, and I pressed my hand against my mouth as I waited for it to subside, my insides feeling as if they were made of ice. "Please, if anything should happen…"
"You needn't worry yourself," the Professor replied kindly. "Even if the worst happens – even if the Nazis invade France and we're not able to escape in time – they'll want nothing with your daughter. She's a blonde Swede, the epitome of perfection in their eyes."
"I cannot help but worry – she will be an orphan within a few years, probably sooner." It was the first time that I had ever heard my father talk about his own death and it frightened me, and although I could not help but wish that I had never wanted to overhear their conversation I could not pull myself away now.
"So long as Ruth and I live she will never be alone," he reassured Papa, but it did little to soothe me. "We won't adopt her – I won't take that chance, not with Ruth and I being Jewish, even if the Nazis don't come someone else will eventually – but we will care for her, as if she were our own child."
"I wish that I could take her back to Sweden, but she has no one there. If only Kajsa were alive…" Papa had not mentioned my mother's name in such a long time that I had almost forgotten how it sounded when he said it. Unable to stand it any longer, I opened the door without knocking and barreled towards Papa, wrapping my arms around his waist and hiding my face against the front of his shirt, sure that as long as I could hear the steady beat of his heart that everything would be fine.
The pounding started anew and I realized that someone must be beating on the door below my dressing room. Perhaps I shouldn't answer it, I fretted to myself as I smoothed the scrap of lace that had worked its way loose from the collar that I had not yet repaired. I shouldn't even be here – no one should be, not even that person on the streets…what if he's a Nazi? I stood on the divan and tried to get a better view of the person outside, but it was too dark for me to see much of anything.
The Nazis tend to show themselves inside, I reminded myself bitterly, recalling when they had come for someone in the building next to mine. The sound of the splintering wood as they had rammed in the door and the screams of the man and his family… I shuddered and placed my hands against my stomach, afraid that I would become ill at the memory.
What if the man outside needs help? He has to be desperate, to take the chance of being caught after curfew. I hopped down from the divan, the floor cold beneath my bare feet, and lit the lamp before kneeling in front of the vanity and rummaging for the small supply of candles I kept in the bottom drawer for emergencies. The knocking outside stopped after I managed to light one of the candles without burning myself, and I peered out the window to make sure that the man had not given up and left, but I could see someone standing in the street staring up at my window. I hurriedly shut the curtains, fearful that a Nazi patrol might see the light from my room as well, and raced down the hallway towards the stairwell that led to the side door, careful not to trip over the hem of my dressing gown.
When I reached the door I hesitated for a moment, once again afraid. What sort of man comes to a building that was supposed to be deserted in the middle of the night? Then again, I reasoned as I bit my lower lip, if he intended to rob the place he wouldn't have knocked, would he? I forced myself to unlock the door before I became completely paralyzed with fear, hoping that I had made the right decision.
A burly man in a tattered coat stood a few meters from me on the ramp that Monsieur Richard used to get into the Opera, and though his hat was pulled so low over his eyes that I could not see them, I could still feel him studying me quietly. "Are either of the managers here?" he finally asked in a low voice, sweeping his hat from his head and twisting it in his large hands, a gesture that did nothing to calm my nerves.
"No," I whispered, half-hiding behind the doorframe. "If you need to speak with them you should come back in the morning—"
"I can't wait that long," the man replied, glancing over his shoulder before returning his attention to me. "Who are you?"
"Who are you?" I repeated, more than a little put off by his lack of manners. His lips twisted in what might be considered a smile, but there was no joy in it.
"It is better for everyone, especially you, if I keep my name to myself," he said frankly before taking a few steps towards me, and although my first instinct was to retreat from him I held my ground. "Normally I would bow and wish you a good day, Mademoiselle, but I'm afraid that I don't have that luxury tonight, and I certainly do not have the patience to play guessing games. Now I will ask again – who are you?"
"I'm a singer here," I offered lamely, finally taking a step back from the man whose unnerving gaze was making me wish that I had never opened the door at all. "My name is Christine Daaé – I shouldn't be here, I should've gone home, please, the managers will be here early in the morning, come back then."
I tried to swing the door shut but he was too quick for me, firmly placing his booted foot in the doorway so I could not close it in his face. "Daaé – Scandinavian then?" When I nodded he began to stroke the stubble upon his face thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he continued to examine me. "What do you think about the resistance?"
I opened my mouth to answer but I didn't know what to say. It was not as if I were completely innocent when it came to underground work; I was well aware that Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin were involved in it, often using the Opera to hide people, but I had always carefully averted my eyes from the stagehands who spoke no French, the seamstresses who didn't know how to do anything but the most basic repairs to costumes, and the electricians who knew too much about explosives and not enough about fixing faulty wiring. The most rebellious thing I had ever done was to pretend that I didn't speak French when Nazis attempted to speak to me, and that was to keep them from asking me on dates, not to help the resistance. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said finally, but my voice hardly sounded confident to my own ears.
"You're not a very good liar," he wryly remarked, but before he could say any more the sound of a truck lumbering through the streets caused us both to freeze. "Get inside," he hissed as he grabbed my elbow and pulled me into the building, kicking the door shut behind us and signaling that I should remain quiet before letting me go. I scarcely dared to breathe as I rubbed my elbow and watched my companion pressing his ear against the door and closing his eyes as he focused upon the sound of the vehicle, both of us waiting for someone to notice his idling car.
"I was sure that they were coming down this street," he whispered after the truck was only a faint rumbling sound, cracking the door open and peering outside cautiously. "God must still have a purpose for me yet." He crossed himself quickly before opening the door fully and stepping onto the ramp.
"They're looking for you, aren't they?" I was surprised how calm my voice sounded, even though I still felt rather sick to my stomach; for some reason I was comforted by his spontaneous confession of faith, even though I had not attended church services since shortly after my father had died.
"Yes," he said simply, pulling his hat back onto his head. "I am going to tell you a story Mademoiselle, and then I am going to ask a favor of you – but first, I have something to show you." He gestured towards his car and I followed him down the ramp, puzzled as he opened the trunk and began to toss blankets carelessly onto the street until he revealed a man in uniform at the bottom.
I gasped and took a step backwards. "Is he dead?" I questioned, pressing my hand against my throat.
"Not yet," the man grunted as he pulled the soldier into a sitting position, seemingly oblivious to the uniformed man's groans of pain. "Mademoiselle, I was supposed to be at the safe house this evening at nine o'clock, but on the way there I had a flat tire and I arrived much later than expected. I think now that it was God again, for when I reached the safe house it had been raided by the Gestapo." He began to assist the soldier from the trunk and the soldier whimpered piteously when his left leg, which was wrapped crudely in linen bandages, touched the ground.
"Is there some place where we can finish our conversation privately?" the man asked, and I nodded mutely before scooping the blankets back into the trunk and shutting it. With another grunt he hoisted the soldier over his shoulder and followed me as I led him back to my dressing room, depositing the man in uniform onto my divan. The poor fellow cried out and my heart ached for him.
"I've been driving around for hours, trying to think of another place to take him, but the nature of my work only allows me to know the next link or two in the chain – it's not safe for one person to know too much. Fortunately I knew that the Opera was involved in the network, although it was my last choice. I didn't expect anyone to be here at this time of night, and Monsieur Richard has always insisted that only able-bodied people be brought to the Opera. I hope you can see, however, that this not an ordinary circumstance." The man removed his cap again and began twisting it so violently that I was sure he would rip it apart with his bare fingers.
"Who is he?" I asked, the corner where my divan was located still too dark for me to get a good look at my unexpected guest.
The man shrugged as he continued to crush his hat. "I make a point of not knowing their names – it's safer that way for everyone, especially them. All I know is that he is a downed RAF pilot and that he crashed somewhere north of Paris. If he's still wearing his tags, you can find out his name."
"What's wrong with him?" The soldier was twisting upon my divan as if in agony, small groans of pain escaping from his throat. I picked up the blanket that I had been using earlier that night and carefully draped it over his body.
"Broken leg, fever, probably some cracked ribs – I've seen some in worse shape, but he's pretty bad. Can you take care of him until this morning? Once you can talk to the managers – in person, not over the phone – they'll be able to tell you what to do."
I stared at the uniformed man and knew that I couldn't possibly say no. "I'll do it," I promised, and with a slight bow the man left my dressing room so quickly that I wondered if he thought that I would change my mind and he would be stuck with the soldier after all. I locked the door and turned around to examine the shadowy figure that now occupied my divan. Oh God, I prayed silently, like I hadn't done in years, please don't let him die here. I don't know what to do.
I was well aware that I had crossed some line tonight – it was quite one thing to look the other way when a new stagehand came to the Opera, but it was another matter entirely to hide a downed airman in my dressing room. If he was found here I could be arrested, deported, perhaps even be killed, and all for an unknown man who might not live long enough to see the sun rise in the morning. For some reason that I couldn't explain, however, I felt oddly exhilarated by my actions. I had been living in fear for years for no good reason, at least now I had done something that should rightfully make me afraid.
Completely awake now, I turned on the lights and crept towards the soldier. The poor man was filthy; his hair, which might have once been blonde, was streaked with dried blood and his face was covered in scratches. "Poor boy," I whispered softly, very gently touching his bruised forehead so I wouldn't add to the pain he must be experiencing. "You're so far from home, and there is so little I can do to help you."
I retreated to my vanity and wrung the rag that had been soaking in water all night before returning to his side, carefully dabbing at his wounds. He looked so young, perhaps only a few years older than me, and I could not help but pity him. He deserved much more than to die in a foreign land upon a faded divan with only a stranger for company. I could not give him much – I could not produce the medicine that he needed, I could not heal his wounds, I could not take away his pain – but I could give him the assurance that he was not alone.
"Poor boy," I whispered again as I continued to wipe away the streaks of blood and what appeared to be motor oil from his face. "You are in Paris now – it's a beautiful city, especially in the spring. Have you ever been to Paris before?" I wondered if he would be able understand my words if he could hear them at all, since so many of the British stagehands didn't seem to comprehend anything more than the most basic French. "My name is Christine."
His eyelids fluttered open, revealing bright blue eyes that seemed familiar to me, and for a moment my heart threatened to stop. He looks like someone I used to know, I thought to myself, pausing in my ministrations as we stared at one another. Impossible, I don't know anyone who lives in England, except…no, it can't be. It can't be.
"Lotte?" he managed to croak, his hand brushing aside the blanket and latching onto my wrist before he closed his eyes again with a heavy sigh.
I couldn't push any words past the lump that had formed in my throat, but my lips formed his name anyway. Frantically I began to undo his uniform jacket, my fingers uselessly fumbling with the buttons, and I slipped my hand beneath his undershirt, searching for the tags that would confirm what I believed to be true.
The sea…a red scarf fluttering in the breeze…a brave little boy with shining blue eyes and a cheerful grin rushing into the water to save that scarf…
My fingers closed around the warm metal of his tags and I pulled them out so I could read them, although I already knew what they would say.
Raoul de Chagny.
