A mother’s prerogative... though it was also a young man’s to want to stretch his wings. “Perhaps in Marseille or Toulouse, then?There are wonderful conservatories in both cities. If, that is, youwantto study music.”
“I’ve looked into them. My father wants me to take the entrance exams for university instead.” Definitely not over twenty, then. Likely sixteen or seventeen. René shrugged. “I told him I would, but that I want to apply to conservatories as well. Of course, Paris is the dream, isn’t it,monsieur?”
“It certainly was mine,” Marcel admitted. But Paris then was different than Paris now. “I thought I’d end up in Marseille though, and I would have been happy there. It’s a wonderful city. Have you been?” At the shake of the boy’s head, Marcel smiled. “Marseille is home for me. If you visit its conservatory, I can give you a list of all the best cafés and bistros nearby.”
“We’ll be certain to take you up on that, if it comes to it.” Nicholy sent a pointed look to Edouard and then patted his nephew’s arm. “Thank you for coming, René. We’ll let you get back to the desk now. He works here on Saturdays and a few evenings a week,” he added to Marcel.
René grinned and backed away. “Good to meet you again, Monsieur Laurent.”
“And you, René.” He didn’t know if the little exchange had really proven what Nicholy clearly hoped it would, but when he turned back to the committee, conversation moved to his own education, his career behind the piano, and his single night of conducting the orchestra at the Paris Opera. “That was a dream come true,” he said. No doubt his smile looked, as Raoul would say, dopey. “I love playing, but being there at the front, with the music all around, feeling each of the musicians’ focus upon me... I fancied myself a painter as much as a maestro. With the baton my brush and each instrument a different color.”
Von Eberstein leaned forward, something dancing in his eyes that Marcel would have labeledmischiefin anyone but a Nazi. “And you compose a bit too, do you not?”
A trap, that question. Marcel cleared his throat. “A bit. I’m no Verdi or Debussy, of course.”
The marshal smiled. “We’ve been in communication for some time with the commandant at the camp—our friend here’s cousin, as it happens—as Monsieur Grigoryan negotiated for your release. He mentioned that you were a model prisoner, lightening the burden of your fellow prisoners with music both old and new. I believe you led a small orchestra there in your original compositions?”
Hiscommandant had said that? The same man who’d sneered at him for playing “degenerate” music?
Maybe he’d wanted to get rid of him.
Marcel had to clear his throat of the surprise and sneaked another glance at thesturmbannführer. “I did, yes.”
“Perhaps you could leadouryouth in the same concert,” Nicholy suggested.
The Nazi was silently laughing. Marcel had no idea if it was genuine amusement or the glee of a trap swinging closed. “I... don’t think that would be a good idea,monsieur. It was jazz.”
Nicholy frowned. “I thought you preferred the classical composers and style.”
“I do.” He shrugged. “It was a small rebellion, there at the camp. But not one I would recommend here on the outside, assuming we want to keep the new regime happy.”
Von Eberstein’s laughter rang out audibly now, and he slapped a hand to the table. “Small rebellions are expected of prisoners of war—and I must confess,mon ami, that I found that one brilliant when Horst wrote to me of it. All in good fun. But you’re right about it not being quite the thing for this endeavor.”
“Indeed.” The marshal reached for a cake. “The idea is more to introduce our youth to the greats, especially the German masters.”
Marcel kept himself from going stiff, but only with effort. “I have the greatest respect for those masters,monsieur, I assureyou. Though I would also hope to include France’s approved composers—Debussy, Chopin, Ravel.”
“I do agree with Monsieur Laurent,” Nicholy said, glancing toward the German. “We all know and love Bach and Beethoven and Mozart, Brahms and Handel and Strauss. They would of course be included—but so too must we champion our own musical legacy. After all, the goal is not to make France into Germany, is it? But to show the world that we are a people so rich in the arts that even Germany approves of us and seeks to welcome us into its ranks.”
Von Eberstein gave a hearty nod. “Exactly so. There are many worthy French composers.”
The marshal nodded. “Whoever we choose to lead the youth orchestra will meet regularly with Von Eberstein to have his selections approved.”
He’d have to work directly with an SS officer if he got the position? That was what France had come to? The idea blew fresh air over the coals banked inside him like acon fuocomovement, fanned the flames that had shrunk to a smolder in Zelie’s absence.
Flames that required him to play the part. Like Gabriel, performing with his whole body, not just his voice.
Marcel kept his smile warm. Humble. “Of course, Marshal. I am quite familiar with the list of approved French composers and would be most happy to celebrate them, alongside the German masters. I have no doubt thesturmbannführerand I would see eye to eye on the selections.”
“Good.” Edouard leaned forward again. “Our aim with this orchestra is threefold. First, to provide education and direction to our most talented youth, of course. Second, to have a weekly radio program that will keepotheryouths out of trouble at least one hour a week.” Something about the way he said it, the exhaustion in his eyes, said that those youths were proving plenty troublesome.“And third, to provide live concerts in all major cities, to which the youth will be given free admission.”
Another ploy to keep those rebellious young people out of the Maquis, no doubt.Behave yourself and you get to attend a concert.Marcel nodded. “Fine goals, all of them. Would the radio program go out live each week, or would it be pre-recorded?”
“We prefer live,” Edouard said. “That way you could begin each hour with comments about where you have been and where you’re going next that would include prescient details and connect you more firmly to the audience. Though of course, pre-recording may be necessary on occasion.”
Perfect. Live meant that he could include those messages Zelie wanted him to send in a timely manner... a thought which was suddenly even more anxiety inducing, given the promised overseer. “Excellent, exactly as I would have it. The touring, then, would happen between each recording, returning to our headquarters each week?”
“Precisely. We’re thinking a Thursday evening radio spot, so the orchestra could then travel on Friday for a Saturday concert. Home again by Monday for rehearsals for the next week.”
