From the other side of the velvet curtain, they could hear the orchestra tuning up, various instruments doing scales, the violins performing a snippet of melody only to stop and repeat.
“I didn’t know Babilee was a Jew,” one coryphée whispered to another as they dipped their feet into the rosin box. “He seems so nice.” Around them, stagehands, burly men in black trousers and chunky black turtlenecks, adjusted lights and double-checked props.
Sarah stood at the barre, her feet in fifth position, the dance bag nearby. She did grand pliés deep and slow with her feet tightly tucked toe to heel—head up, shoulders down, neck long—all the while keeping an eye on the bag.
“All dancers to the stage, please,” came the booming voice of the manager. “All dancers to the stage. Positions for the prologue.”
With the other members of the corps who were ladies-in-waiting, Sarah made her way to the “throne room,” standing still, waiting for the music to begin. This was the one time she had to take her eye off the bag, praying no one would take any notice, no one would look through for a pair of scissors or a skein of thread. Together, she and the other dancers stood in position as members of the royal court for the prologue, the “Entrance of the Fairies.” They waited under the hot lights, staring out into the darkness, for the conductor to give the signal for the triangle to begin.
The Ukrainian Lifar had starred in Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes in the twenties. In 1929 he took over the Paris Opéra Ballet as premier danseur and choreographer. The company had been on tour in Spain when the German Army had invaded Paris. When they returned, Lifar was confirmed as ma?tre de ballet by French authorities to prevent German interference with ballet. Somewhere in the theater, Serge Lifar watched.
However, Lifar was rumored to get on well with the German overlords, including ballet aficionado Joseph Goebbels, and no one was quite sure if he was a collaborator or not. Regardless, the dancers, musicians, and everyone at the theater were relieved that the Paris Opéra Ballet was still under French control and they still had jobs. They practiced an ironclad ambiguity in order to survive.
Sarah gazed out across the stalls of the main floor, up to the four rows of balconies, a world of glitter and glamour. She knew Hugh was down below in the orchestra pit with his cello. She found that she danced better knowing he was playing. Hugh Thompson, with the French identity of cellist Hubert Taillier, was her “husband” as part of their disguise. During their SOE training in Scotland and England, they’d fallen in love.
Still, keenly aware of the dance bag left in the wings, Sarah could feel her shoulders inch up and her hands tighten. With the mission of the evening on her mind, she wasn’t dancing her best. She took a deep breath, pushed her shoulders down, and unclenched her hands, trying to listen to the music, to dance, and to forget everything else for the moment.
Finally, Lifar clapped for them to stop. “Are you Arabians or Clydesdales?” he mocked. His jeer echoed through the empty theater.
Sarah thought they were in for a tirade, but he added only “All right, that was better. Rest now. Then get ready. It’s a big night for us.” The ma?tre de ballet relaxed, shifting his weight to one side, a hand placed elegantly on one slim hip. “Merde to all,” he said, the ballet world’s age-old shit for good luck—just like spies—waving them offstage.
As they all trailed offstage, Sarah heard chatty Daphné Gilbert’s unmistakable nasal voice. “You know Hitler blames the sinking of the Titanic on us?” she told Babilee, who’d been watching from the wings, warming up. He was playing Prince Désiré.
He had a towel around his neck, dabbing at the sweat rolling down his face. “Really?”
“Because it hit an iceberg!”
Sarah grabbed the bag, releasing a quick, grateful breath, then made her way to the orchestra pit.
Hugh was putting his cello back in its case, waiting. He smiled, green eyes bright, when he saw her. At the sight of him, her heart leapt for joy.
“Hello, my love,” he said, kissing her full on the lips. “How was the tempo?”
“Fine.” Sarah hadn’t even noticed. “Fantastic.” She looked around to make sure they were alone. “Here,” she said, handing over the black bag.
“It’s heavy.”
“The less we know, the better.” She took another glance at him. “You’re wearing glasses,” she said, finally noticing his silver frames.
“As it turns out,” he said, slipping them into his jacket pocket with a disarming grin, “I’m a bit nearsighted. It helps, even though I know most of the music by heart now.”
“Wherever did you find eyeglasses?”
“The conductor got them for me,” he explained. “Where they came from—well, I try not to think about that.”
Hugh looked down at the bag, then pulled on the zipper to reveal the contents. Inside, he rummaged through to see geological reports with readings, measurements, detailed field sketches of stratigraphic sections, and notes with drawings of various beaches and rock formations. Adding to the bag’s weight were a compass and glass jars, neatly wrapped in layers of tissue paper. Moving aside the tissue, he could see each jar contained sand samples, neatly labeled: BARNEVILLE-PLAGE, CABOURG, GRANVILLE, ?LES CHAUSEY, PORTBAIL, TROUVILLE. All beaches in Normandy.
Like Orpheus, he couldn’t look away. His eyes widened, as he realized the implication. “To see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wild flower—hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour,” he muttered.
“Put it away!” Sarah cautioned, refusing to look. “We don’t need to know what it is—we just need to get it back to London.”
She pulled away, then gestured for him to follow her. He acquiesced, and they walked backstage, where Sarah pulled him into a janitor’s closet, tugging at a string to turn on the bare bulb.
“You make everything romantic,” Hugh teased, closing the door. He lowered the bag and bent to kiss her. But Sarah was in no mood. Their mission after the evening’s performance was simple—and yet not.
Since their arrival in Paris three months ago, Sarah and Hugh had been cultivating a relationship with Reichsminister Hans Fortner, a German ballet aficionado, although whether Fortner truly loved the dance or just liked watching girls in tutus, Sarah didn’t know. Or care. What was more important was that he was the head of the Reich Ministry for Armaments and War Production in France. He would have the latest files on which French companies—such as Peugeot, Renault, Avions Voisin, and La Licorne—might be working with the Germans in violation of the terms of the armistice, aiding in the development of weapons. Once their collaboration was confirmed, the factories would be targets for RAF strikes or for SOE sabotage. Their mission—hers and Hugh’s—was to photograph the precious papers so SOE would have the concrete evidence they so desperately needed to bomb the weapons factories.
They knew from a fellow Resistance worker, a woman who worked as a maid at Fortner’s hotel, that the Reichsminister kept all of his files in a safe in his suite. Sarah had learned the safecracking skills needed to get the safe open and shut. Now she just had to get into his heavily guarded suite.
Through postperformance parties Lifar threw for the occupiers and collaborators who were ballet aficionados, Sarah and Hugh and Fortner had been introduced, then had become friendly, going out for drinks and for dinner, where Fortner flirted shamelessly with Sarah.
And tonight, after the party at Maxim’s, they would make sure they were invited back to his hotel. There the plan was for them to get drunk, or at least seem to. Hugh would pretend to become ill and need to return to their flat, and then Sarah would seduce Fortner, drug his wine with the sleeping pill hidden in the base of her lipstick, and then, while the Reichsminister was unconscious, break into his safe and photograph the plans with the tiny camera hidden in her cigarette case.
Sarah pulled away, Hugh still clasping her waist. “I’m worried, Hugh. I might have to, you know—”