One of the men at the table stood upon catching sight of them, a wide smile under his white mustache—but it was another who caught his eye, made his breath catch.
The gray uniform of a Nazi officer—but worse. A black tie, black skull and crossbones on the hat that rested on the table...SS. He’d never actually met one, but he’d heard of them. They were the most powerful and fearsome branch of the Nazi military.
And yet this man was smiling.Beaming.
The mustachioed gent moved toward them. “Ah, Areg! Right on time. And this must be Monsieur Laurent.”
Marcel shook himself and smiled, nodded at each of the men as they were introduced—Nicholy was indeed one of the six, and Marshal Pétain himself another. Ordinarily, those two should have been the ones he had to impress.
But then the older man motioned to the Nazi, who stood, hand outstretched and smile still bright. “SS-Sturmbannführer Lothar Von Eberstein,” the officer said in perfect French. “What a pleasure to meet you,monsieur. I saw you in concert in Paris several years ago.”
Nicholy’s lips twitched. “Thesturmbannführerhas been good enough to offer us his expertise on what the Reich expects of this endeavor.”
Von Eberstein waved that off with a good-natured laugh and sat again. “Not as though I’d be needed, I know. But I’ll take any excuse to meet my favorite musicians.”
Just a man,he told himself. A music lover. Marcel sat too, along with Grigoryan, a waiter appearing as if by magic with a steaming teapot and cups for them both. Marcel met the young man’s eye and smiled. “Thank you. And your name is?”
“Max,monsieur. May I bring you anything else?”
“No, thank you, Max. But I do appreciate the tea.”
Max nodded, returned his smile, and moved to refill other cups.
When Marcel turned his attention back to the table, everyone was staring at him.
Nicholy grinned and took a sip from his own cup. “It’s been several years, Laurent, but I assured our friends here that you arequite qualified to run our little endeavor. I was always impressed not only by your talent but by your ability to relate to whomever was in the room with you. Always a key quality with young people. Do you believe me now, Edouard?”
Edouard was the white-mustachioed gent. He lifted his snowy brows. “Talking to a waiter doesn’t mean he can relate to the youth.”
Grigoryan chuckled and reached for the sugar bowl. “Perhaps you ought to ask the young man at the front desk.”
“A good idea. You, boy. Go bring René in,” Edouard said to Max, who was refilling the marshal’s cup.
Heat crept its way up his neck, and Marcel suddenly wished he’d left his hair long enough to cover his ears, which were sure to turn red under the scrutiny of all these high-ranking officials.
Nicholy, at least, gave him a pleasant smile. “That young man is my nephew, as it happens. A big fan of yours.”
Marcel cleared his throat. “So Grigoryan informed me as we left the lobby. I didn’t realize you had a nephew—nor, frankly, that you would be here,monsieur. Though it’s a pleasant surprise.”
“I wanted to be here to meet the three prospects we have for the position. I was glad to hear Grigoryan managed to get you back to France. We were all terribly distressed to learn you’d been taken prisoner, you know. Set the whole musical world rocking.”
Marcel sincerely doubted that, but he wasn’t going to call the fellow on the exaggeration here and now. “I missed that musical world deeply, I assure you. Though I cannot regret serving France, and I am, of course, eager for a new way to serve—and I daresay I would make a better conductor than I did a soldier. I’m afraid these hands are more suited to a piano or a baton than a bayonet.” He held them up and wiggled his fingers, as if that would prove it.
An obliging chorus of chuckles worked its way around the table. Even Von Eberstein laughed.
“Was your time in the camp very difficult?” Marshal Pétain wascertainly the oldest man here, and by rights he ought to have been the one with the most power. In Paris, Marcel had seen everything from posters to scarves with Pétain’s face on them. From what Zelie and Grigoryan had told him, however, the marshal was a mere figurehead. His job was to parade to church with his wife on Sundays and kiss babies.
Puppet or not, he had been a hero in the World War. Had helped them win a decisive victory at Verdun. That alone meant he deserved respect. Marcel considered his words. “Food was scarce, sanitation lacking. But we had more kind guards than cruel, and there was a piano. So I can’t complain.”
Von Eberstein tilted his head, approval gleaming in his eyes. “Such camps are always difficult, no matter which side claims them. But I’m glad to hear my cousin is running his as well as he can, given the resources allotted to him.”
“Your cousin?” As in... the commandant? Marcel’s throat went tight.
Before the German could reply, René and Max appeared. Nicholy greeted his nephew with a smile and waved him closer. “There you are, René. I wanted to introduce you to Marcel Laurent—I know you’re a fan of his.”
“I am, Oncle, yes—and we’ve already met. In the lobby.” René angled himself toward Marcel, smile beaming. “I’m looking forward to auditioning for you,monsieur. But even if I end up in the audience instead of the orchestra, it’s like you said. The love of the music is all I need. And it will be an honor to play for you. I listen to your records all the time.”
“I can vouch for that.” Nicholy grinned. “René is humble, but he’s also talented. I keep telling my sister she needs to let him join me in Paris to study, but she’s hesitant to send him into occupied France.”
