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Intrigue! Romance! Glamor! All in one movie! Not from watching it... but making it! |
| [Introduction]
This campfire story is intended for anybody who enjoys drama, love, espionage, but ESPECIALLY old films! Rather than explain to you what my story is about, I'm going to start it! This little prologue should explain everything: * * * * * Paris, France. June 1940. The rest of the world generally regarded Paris as a city full of romance. From the first minute of the day to the last hour of night, the city simply seemed to ooze l'amor--especially when the full moon was up. The full moon was up in Paris now. But Serge, watching from the balcony of his apartment, did not feel in a very romantic mood at all. There was nothing beautiful or sweet about the way France was now infested to the brim with Nazis. The doorbell rang, and Serge, sighing with exasperation, left his empty glass o the railing of the balcony, and went inside. The American was at the door, with a bottle of champagne in one hand and an uneasy smile on his face. Serge grunted. "Come on, get in, you fool. Don't waste time." The young man stepping into Serge's apartment, up close, didn't look at all Jewish. In fact, he barely looked American. How could Serge be sure he wasn't a spy? "Have you thought it over?" the man asked. Serge nodded. "And?" Serge sighed, then nodded again. He still had no idea why he had ever agreed to this. "Great!" said the American man. "A toast, then!" He cracked open the champagne and immediately a jet of foam shot everywhere. Serge muttered and pushed him out to the terrace. "Outside, you fool. Open it outside." "Sorry, Bradot." The man removed the cap fully, and started pouring into two glasses that Serge had supplied. "So tell me," Serge asked. "Where's the script?" The man stopped pouring. His face fell ever so slightly. The American, Sam Weylund, was a dark-haired, bespectacled young man, not dressed quite the way Serge expected American men to dress. He seemed to mean well, and certainly didn't exactly look like a Nazi. Of course, that didn't stop him from being infuriatingly difficult. "You don't even have a script yet!?" shouted Serge. "Do you even know what you want this movie to be about?" "Shhh, shh, don't make so much noise!" whispered Sam sharply. The Frenchman remembered that he was now officially a wanted man and quieted down. When Serge was silent, Mr. Weylund continued: "Listen... I know everything I need to know right now about the movie. It's going to be a romantic adventure with some comedy and drama thrown in. It's going to be huge... authentic! It's going to have magic and fairytales, and, and circus performers! It's going to be the best film ever made! And when the war is over, and the Germans leave France for good, we'll show it to the world and make history!" Serge grumbled. He should never have trusted this fast-talking American. He should have gotten out of the country, to Australia, where his sister lived. Staying here was suicide for a Jewish person. It didn't matter how many famous movies he had made; they still wanted to kill him. Sam noticed this and took something out of his pocket. It was a death threat scrawled in German, written on what appeared to be official SS stationery . "I, too, am a wanted man in Nazi territory," he said, chuckling. "I'm taking a risk staying here as well. But, don't worry. They'll never find us." He didn't look like he was really taking the situation seriously. He handed Serge a full glass. "Call all the blacklisted actors and actresses you know. Over the next few days we'll be preparing our underground hideouts, creating a script and choosing a cast." The glasses clinked. "Here's to cinema." At least the champagne was good, thought Serge. * * * * * And there you have it! A partnership is made, and an adventure is beginning! Late in Spring of 1940, just after Hitler has invaded France, two blacklisted film buffs will come together to make the ultimate film! My character: Name: Samuel Weylund Age: 28 Gender: Male Occupation: Has made money as a caricaturist, pulp magazine writer and journalist Contribution to film: Creator/screenwriter, wants to act in it also Country of Origin: USA Languages he speaks: English, Spanish. A little French Favorite film icons: John Ford, Fritz Lang, the Marx Brothers Favorite films: Metropolis, Stagecoach, Young Mr. Lincoln, A Night at the Opera, Les Vampires, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, The General, The Adventures of Robin Hood Religion: Jewish Other notes: A dedicated escapist and devoted film lover, Sam's dream is to create the perfect movie. He is determined to see it through, no matter how dangerous it gets. Despite this seeming naivete, however, he is a very sophisicated and business-savy man who knows what risks to take and what risks not to take. A fanatical reader as well, he often carries several books around with him everywhere he goes. Other characters (you don't have to pick one of these characters if you don't want, but it would really help). Please fill out their remaining data as closely as possible to the way I did mine: -Serge Bradot: Experienced Jewish-French filmmaker, and the director and producer of the movie. Age: 39 Country of Origin: France Languages he speaks: English, French -Francois: An eight-year-old delinquent Serge has taken under his wing and taught all the secrets of the movies to. Francois now works for him as a sort of understudy. TAKEN! Age: 8 Country of Origin: France Language he speaks: French -Val Perry: A newly-emerged young actress from America, recently moved to France and good friends with Serge, who thinks very highly of her despite the fact that nobody knows who she is. TAKEN! Age: 25 Country of Origin: USA Languages she speaks: English, a little French -Jenny Renoir: An actress already known in France for her resounding success in stage performances. Since the Nazis invaded France she has gotten involved with the Underground Resistance and has been forced to go into hiding. TAKEN! Age: 27 Country of Origin: Monaco Languages she speaks: English, French, Italian -Marcel Lencelot: A hearthrob and rising star in French cinema whose adopted father is Jewish. He could stay out of the hands of the Nazis if he so desired, but will he abandon his father? TAKEN! Age: 23 Country of Origin: France Language he speaks: French -Jean-Paul Cordeau: A youthful hotel security guard whose large size, strength and good looks have led many passers-by to comment on his cinematic potential. Could he be a star someday? Age: 30 Country of Origin: France Language he speaks: French -Robert Bascoumb: A bitter, hard-drinking Englishman of French background, suffering terminal cancer and with four years to live at most. He is a famous writer of children's stories, and has written almost all of the fantasy films made in France for the past decade. TAKEN! Age: 56 Country of Origin: England Language he speaks: French, English. All other characters are left to your imagination! I may decide to add some more myself. Just remember what other kinds of people you need to make a movie (producers, cinematographers, stagehands, understudies, technicians, makeup, etc.). One more thing: this is not just about a bunch of guys who make a movie. This is about the ultimate movie-making experience! Try not to focus so much on the film, and more on what happens to the people as they make the film. Obviously, I'll expect it to have all the elements of a classic drama film: peril, tragedy, emotional struggle and, of course, love! Don't be afraid to interact with the other characters and go out on a limb (just nothing too far-fetched, please)! Remember, when the story begins, nobody knows about the film yet. So the first several additions will center around the recruiting of cast and crew, the fleshing out of the movie script, and the preparations for making the movie illegally. Remember to begin with both your character info AND a first addition... And now, lights, camera, action! |
| Sam Weylund loved films. That was simply his way. He had grown up with it. It was his world. Maybe this was due in part to the fact both his parents were film lovers, or that his grandfather had claimed to personally know Buster Keaton. Or it could just have been that it was a wonderful, wonderful medium. One of the first films he ever remembered seeing was Les Vampires, the famous French serial. A series of short installments detailing a riveting battle under the streets of Paris, between the brave policemen and the reclusive outlaw group known as the Vampires. Right from that moment he had adored especially films packed with thrills and intrigue, especially crime dramas. Little did he know that one day he would be the subject of his very own crime drama, and moreover, he would be the one on the wrong side of the law. It was almost idiotic to think that he had accepted such danger just to film a movie, but it was true. When the final chance came to walk away, he had boarded the boat to France without a second thought. He knew France would fall to the Nazis, and, moreover, knew exactly what the Nazis did to Jews, but he had never once been worried. He still wasn't. It was the darnedest thing. Well, it was too late to back down now. He had already secured an apartment in a sleazy French neighborhood, where no questions were asked. He had tracked down Serge Bradot, famous Jewish filmmaker, and persuaded him to stay on in Nazi territory to make the film. There was no option now but to make the film. Sam was spending most of his time now hunched over his desk, clacking away at his typewriter. Serge was expecting a marvelous script, and he had every intention of delivering such. He reviewed every movie he loved, and some he hated. Michael Curtiz's The Adventures of Robin Hood. Fritz Lang's Destiny. Leo McCarey's Duck Soup. D.W. Griffith's The Birth of A Nation (this was the one he hated). What would this ultimate screenplay be like? It would have romance, definitely, and adventure, excitement. Would it be fantastical, or grounded at least partially in reality? Would it have swordfights? Would it be funny? What directors would he borrow from? Lang, certainly, and Frank Capra, Buster Keaton again, and John Ford, of course. This was a lot to consider when writing a single story. Late one night, about a week after sealing the deal with Serge, Sam decided he couldn't do it on his own. He would ask others for advice. Serge for instance, and Robert Bascoumb, the famous screenwriter. But starting the next day, he would start looking for two things: locations and actors. And, content with this, he went to sleep. |
| Val Perry stepped down from the train, surrounded by tourists lost in France's romantic air. She smiled to herself, seemingly forgetting her first visit to the country, seventeen months ago. How independent she had felt in that strange place. At the same time, she was frightened, since she had no profession and just enough money for six weeks of rent. Her heart had been in her throat when she looked around her, wishing she knew where she was. It had ended well, though. She met Serge at an audition and was able to earn a steady income through the roles he offered her in his musicals. Now she was an established actress, even if she could still walk the streets with hardly any recognizing her. She was content with this life. Her career of acting had not been entered into for fame or fortune. She was one of the few who actually enjoyed bringing the audience into the story, commanding their emotions, leaving them with hope. But the Nazis had taken all that away. She was forced to return to America and leave that life behind for plays that did not do her talent justice. As an American, it was foolish for her to return. But there was only one man that could bring her here. Serge Bradot. |
| (I thought we were supposed to show our character's profiles!) Name: Francois Age: 8 Gender: Male Occupation: Volunteer stagehand and moviegoer, formerly student and juvenile delinquent Contribution to film: Behind-the-scenes, may end up having a tiny role as well. Country of Origin: French. Languages he speaks: French. Favorite film icons: Howard Hawks, Musidora, John Wayne Favorite films: Scarface, Stagecoach, Les Vampires Religion: Catholic family, but doesn't practice or believe in God. Other notes: Were it not for the movies, Francois would have a very unhappy life. His mother did not want him; she was unmarried when he was born and later married a man to give him a last name; Francois has no idea who his real father is. Unwanted at home and misunderstood at school, Francois became a rebel, running away frequently and getting into all kinds of mischief. He met Serge Bradot when he was caught by the director sneaking into one of Serge's films. The two became fast friends and Serge began bringing Francois along to help out on the set, teaching him about the art of film. Francois' parents don't mind; they never even seem to notice that he is gone. * * * * * Francois' route home from the cafe was a long one, but he traveled it quickly. It involved ducking into alleyways, climbing over fences, even running through the houses of people he didn't know (Thank god they could never catch him). It was tiring, but he wanted to get home before dark. Twilight was already upon Paris when he got in. He and Serge met at the cafe several times a month. Today Serge had dropped exciting news. They were going to make a new movie. And Francois could work on the crew. It was the first time he had ever been allowed. It was thrilling. Of course, Serge was now wanted by the Nazis, and meeting with him would probably put Francois in danger, but who cared about that? As he climbed the stairs to his apartment, he noticed footprints on the stairs. They looked as though they came from boots, but his stepfather didn't wear boots. His mother was entertaining a guest. That was hardly news. She was always taking a new lover when his stepfather wasn't looking. And she never failed to make Francois miserable for being born and forcing her to marry the man. As soon as Francois opened the door his mother snapped at him. She was in the living room with her new boyfriend. "So you're home. About time!" she yelled. "It's late. You should already be in bed!" Francois moved swiftly to his bedroom, stifling a gasp as he did. The man eating at the table with her was a young blonde German officer, still dressed in full Nazi uniform. |
| Name: Kal Unger Age: 24 Gender: Male Occupation: Understudy Contribution to film: Is the replacement for the main role if the person cannot or is unable to perform his duties. Country of Origin: Russia, but moved to France when he was two. Languages he speaks: Russian, German, Greek, French, English, Italian(Traveled a lot) Favorite film icons: No real favorites, but enjoys most Favorite films: Enjoys most of them Religion: Spiritual, not religious. Non-denominational Christian Other notes: Being of Russian descent, he is looked down upon by many Germans and Italians. Upon finding a job as an understudy in a Parisian theater, Kal worked hard to keep his family (mother and father) fed. He usually keeps to himself, but loves to flirt with the beautiful actresses. **************************** Kal had just finished helping the stage-hands out when his boss, Mr. Weyland, approached him. "Miss Perry needs help with some things, and requested you," he said. Kal simply nodded and headed towards Val's room. He lightly knocked on it. "Come in," she said. Kal opened the door and waved at Val. Val smiled and got up to hug him. "Val, it's been awhile," she said. And indeed it had. They had last seen each other six months ago, in Munich. And when she had heard the Val was understudying at the Parisian theater, she had to see him. |
| (Jason Simmons, don't get too far ahead of us. The movie hasn't gotten started yet!) The theater was small, somewhat poorly lit and very dusty. It was also halfway underground, known of by very few people and well hidden. It would be a perfect place to hold auditions for the film. "Why all this preparation simply for auditions?" asked Serge, as he and Sam walked around the theater and glanced at the stage. Stagehands were busy setting up lights and scenery. "In fact, how are we going to hold auditions when the movie doesn't even have a script?" At that moment, a door slammed and everyone stiffened slightly. Then Francois, panting, made his way out of the darkness and everyone sighed relief. Serge was astonished. "Francois, what are you doing here? How did you find this place?" Francois sat down on a chair and said nothing while he got his breath back. He had obviously been running very fast. "I came to your house and let myself in with the key you gave me. I saw on your desk that there was a map to this theater, so I came here." "But why? You're early," said Serge. "I was going to come to your house and get you, like always." "NO! You can't come by ever again," cried Francois. "My mother has taken a new lover--a Nazi officer!" Serge's eyes went wide. "Hell." he growled and turned away. "Well, Weylund, you didn't answer my question. How the hell--?" "We're going to use this," Sam waved some sheets in his face. Serge grabbed the papers and looked at them. "Shakespeare?!" "Why not? If they can read this well, they can read just about anything well." said Sam. "Get your first actress ready. She'll read a segment from Hamlet and one from the Taming of the Shrew--what did you say her name was again?" "Val Perry," said Serge. "She's American, like you, and she's very good. But, since it isn't exactly easy for a Jewish director to find his way around now, I haven't gotten in touch with anyone else. I thought Marcel Lencelot might want to join, but it's been hell getting a message to him." "Well, get Val," said Sam. "If she's as good as you say, she's hired." He was actually looking very forward to meeting this lady. |
| "Miss Perry? They will see you now." To be honest, Val was happy to leave the room. Ever since Kal showed up, the remiscing had become too much for her to handle. They hadn't even finished half of the work that needed to be done. She sighed and followed the boy out to a larger room. They were holding auditions in an old rundown warehouse, since a theatre would attract more attention than they could deal with. She hoped that they would find a better place soon, since the rats made her a little skittish. Once she entered the room, it was easy to see Serge and his companion. She smiled and bowed her head professionally. Serge smiled back, but the other man appeared more skeptical. They handed her a script and she scanned the page she was to read from. It was a simple scene, yet dramatic. She took a moment to capture the emotion of it and fill her soul with it. A tear came from her eye as she began to perform. She loved Shakespeare and was familiar with the play. Her reading went flawlessly, and when she was finished, even she could feel the tension in the air. She wiped her cheek and shifted her attention to the man, who was scribbling furiously in his notes. Serge, however, gave her a look that told her that she had gotten the part. |
Name: Robert Bascoumb Age: 56 Gender: Male Occupation: Renowned children’s author, lone scriptwriter for French fantasy movies in the 1930s. Contribution to film: Screenwriter Country of Origin: England Languages he speaks: English, French Favorite film icons: None, does not think very highly of most current actors. Favorite films: The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Faust Religion: Atheist, born into a Protestant family Other notes: Dying of cancer, and with a drinking problem to boot, Bascoumb isn’t exactly a cheerful, charming person. Bitter and sardonic, he respects few people, though he is generally courteous, albeit in a frosty, distant way. Thanks to his books and films, he has managed to save a tidy sum of money, so he doesn’t really need to work in the last few years of his life. ********** Sam Weyland paused for a moment – then, with a decisive shake of the head he rapped twice on the door of the apartment. No one stirred. More nervous now, Sam knocked again. Suddenly, the door flew open. A pair of bloodshot eyes glared at him from under a thick shock of unruly hair. “Er…Mr. Bascoumb,” stammered Sam. “G-good evening, I’m Samuel Weyland.” The imposing figure did not reply. “I..er…have a proposition for you…sir.” Robert Bascoumb raised his eyebrow and surveyed his visitor with a cynical eye. “Indeed? And what might that be, Mr. Weyland?” With an inward sigh of relief, Sam said, “Well, to put it in a nutshell, I’m making a movie, Mr. Bascoumb. I’d really like to have you on the team as a scriptwriter.” Bascoumb gave a short chortle. “Why don’t you step inside, Mr. Weyland.” “Oh, you can call me Sam,” said Samuel, now quite at ease as he followed Bascoumb into the living room. “Well, Mr. Weyland,” said Bascoumb dryly. “It seems to me a trifle inopportune to be making a movie in times such as these.” “That would be part of the adventure, sir,” replied Sam eagerly. “Though, believe me, I would only take calculated risks.” Bascoumb made a sound that sounded rather like a snort. He reached out for his glass and paused. “Would you care for a whiskey, Mr. Weyland?” “Oh, no thank you sir,” replied Sam. “Please call me Sam.” “So what is your movie all about, Mr. Weyland?” “Well…” began Sam. “You don’t really know, do you?” Bascoumb interrupted him. Then, taking a gulp of his drink, “I have no need to work – as you may know, I have sufficient resources to support myself till the end of my days, which, as you Americans say, are numbered.” “Perhaps not for the money, Mr. Bascoub, but you might take an artistic interest in the venture,” said Sam persuasively. “It is to be a grand film – with all the elements of drama and fantasy and comedy…something that will jolt people…strike a chord in their hearts…thrill and excite them…” Sam lit up as he began to talk about his favorite subject. Bascoumb listened in silence, his face a mask of impassivity. Finally, Sam drew to the end of his monologue. There was a moment’s silence. Then he stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Bascoumb,” said Sam, trying to sound cheerful. Bascoumb inclined his head politely and Sam walked to the door. We shall just have to get along without him, thought Sam as he exited the apartment. “Mr. Weyland!” exclaimed a familiar crusty voice. Sam turned. “If you would be so kind as to give me your address, I shall call upon you and your entourage tomorrow,” called out Bascoumb. Sam grinned and hastened to give the address to Bascoumb. “We shall meet tomorrow, then sir!” waved Sam. “Tomorrow!” replied Bascoumb politely, a barely discernable ray of excitement fleeting through his cynical grey eyes. |
| It was later that night, after Sam gave the address to Robert Bascoumb--which, in Sam's own opinion, was a major breakthrough. Everything seemed to be coming up in roses. Not only would Sam be working with a master screenwriter whose work he respected infinitely, but the casting choices had been fabulous. Sam was thinking of the first actress selected a few days ago to star in the movie, Val Perry. He knew nothing of her prior to this, only that, as Serge said, she too was American. Nothing had prepared him for the audition, though. What was it like? She reminded him of Kathryn McGuire, the female lead in Steamboat Bill, Jr. That was the first Buster Keaton film Sam ever saw, at the age of 12, and he had thought that Kathryn was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It had seemed to him that the lack of dialogue made Kathryn even prettier; as if she was so beautiful, she didn't even have to say a word. Val Perry had read from Shakespeare, but she could have merely stood there and smiled, and still Sam would have given her the part. But, even the best screenwriter and the most wonderful actress could not make a movie WHEN THERE WAS NO IDEA WHAT THE MOVIE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT! So Sam had spent the whole night racking his brains, thinking about the kind of movie he wanted to make. This was what he had come up with: Like Duck Soup, it would be a political comedy, and so there would be a pompous villainous dictator in the film, chiefly as a way for Sam to make fun of that Jew-hating German butcher, Adolf Hitler. Like Cinderella (not a film, but his favorite childhood story), there would be a romance involving a girl who was poor, but kind-hearted (presumably, this would be Ms. Perry's role). Like Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin, the hero would be lovable, goofy and good (but NOT silent!). Finally, there would be at least one swordfight or gunfight, as any good movie should have in Sam's opinion, and lots of slapstick comedy. Tomorrow, he would work out the first very important point with Robert: where would the film take place? The mystical dreamlands of the past? The industrialized cities of the future? Or, simply, the present? Once that was answered, it would be easy to work other things out: robots or monsters? Guns or swords? Evil magicians or scientists? They would do all that tomorrow, as well as hold more auditions and cast more actors. Also, Sam reminded himself before falling asleep, he would find out what kind of flowers Val Perry preferred. |
| Name: Val Perry Age: 25 Gender: Female Occupation: Acting, and has sold her photographs when she needed extra money. Contribution to film: Actress Country of Origin: USA Languages she speaks: English, a little French Favorite film icons: She has learned from many, though she can't seem to pick a favorite. Favorite films: None in particular, but like every other girl she's a sucker for a good romance. Religion: Protestant Other notes: She loves being behind the camera almost as much as she loves being in front of it. Also, she took up violin as a pastime, though she isn't on a professional level yet. -- Val stood in the middle of the bare wood floor of what would soon be her apartment. She picked up her bow and plucked the strings of her violin. Once they were tuned to her liking, she began to play. Her hair glittered in the candlelight as she swayed back and forth in time to the music. Scenes began to flow into her head, and she entertained them as scenes from a movie. They combined with memories of her hometown, before she left. Fishing with her brothers. Saving her pennies to go to a weekend picture. Her first kiss under the pear tree. A tear slipped across her cheek. She had learned a hard lesson that day. His parents never approved of their friendship, but they tolerated it until it bloomed into romance. When they found out, they threatened to send him to a boarding school in Europe if he ever saw her again. She expected him to run away with her, but apparently a father's switch is more convincing than a young girl's love. He came out the next morning, his face cold and hard, and bid her goodbye. She saw him a few times after that, though he pretended not to see her. So, at 16, she learned the pain of a broken heart. After that, she put all her passion behind her acting and told no one until she met Serge. Exhausted from reminiscing, she set the violin down and blew out the candle. She had an early day tomorrow, and directors didn't like puffy eyed actresses. |
| "Interesting," said Mr. Bascoumb, reviewing the notes that Mr. Weylund had given him. Francois had no idea what was written on them, but apparently it was important. Sam Weylund had come in that morning and handed a copy to Val Perry, Serge and to Mr. Bascoumb, and the four of them were now looking at it together. "Not bad for a basic plot. Not bad at all." "So, I would play the poor girl?" asked Val, who was already seeming happy at the prospect of playing a starring romantic role. Sam nodded. "Yes, her name is... her name is... well, we can work out names later. Right now, we need to cast the rest of the characters." "Which, as I have explained, is not the easiest thing to do right now," said Serge. "I have secured a few auditions, but no big names. We'll be seeing some of them later today. But I could not find any children for the role of the young helper." The four of them walked away, lost in discussion. Francois and the other children working in the crew had instructions to move boxes, replace chairs and basically put eveything that had been moved in the last few days back in its original place. They had to be ready to leave this theatre at a moment's notice in case Nazis came in, and it could NOT look like anybody had been here recently. Straining under the weight of a particularly heavy box, Francois staggered desperately towards the door to the closet in which it belonged. However, when he was seconds away from entering, his entrance was blocked by a bigger boy, about thirteen. This boy was tall, with scornful eyes and an absolutely atrocious hat, and he smoked a cigarette as, slowly and unhurriedly, he entered the closet and emerged a minute later, carrying out a small chair at his own leisure. Francois shifted the weight of the box and gasped. "Excuse me, can you please MOVE out of the doorway?" The older boy stopped, put the chair down, removed his cigarette and flicked it towards Francois. "Don't order me around, kid. Who the hell do you think you are? I grew up in the theater and I've been working backstage all my life. I was conceived in the bathroom of the Cinémathèque française!" "Well--" said Francois, shifting the box again and looking him straight in the eye. "I'm here with Serge Bradot." The boy smirked before sitting down in the chair he had been carrying a moment ago and lighting another cigarette. "Don't you go dropping names around me like a fancypants. I don;t even like Serge Bradot and I wouldn't even care if he was here to hear me say that. Because of him, I'm stuck in this stupid dark barnyard that stinks worse than a rat's breath. All because he's nothing but a rotten Jew..." With that Francois threw the box at him, knocking him straight off his chair, and laid into him like an animal. The boy was fast, and he recovered quickly, and soon Francois was receiving blows with equal or greater force than his own. They rolled on the floor, collecting dust from the long-unwashed tiles, not caring where they rolled until they hit a table and heard the sound of glass breaking. Francois felt himself being pulled off and heard Serge's angry voice. * * * * * Not long after, Serge came to have a talk. Francois turned away from him and faced the corner of the room so he wouldn't see the tears. "What the hell was that all about?" Serge demanded. "Don't you realize how dangerous it is to make noise? I'm surprised that we aren't up to our neck in police by this time? Can't you keep the misbehaving limited to when you're in school?" He came closer. When he saw that Francois was crying, however, he softened. "What the hell happened?" he asked again, more gently. It didn't take long to explain it to him. Serge looked dour and jotted something down in a notepad. "I'll fire that little brat. You'll see. He'll be gone by the end of the day." Francois smiled a little at that. "But you have to do your part as well. This is pretty serious stuff. Sneaking into theaters is fun, but this is the kind of thing where if you get caught--" he drew a finger across his neck. "Val Perry is one of the best actresses I've ever seen, and Robert Bascoumb is a writer we both love. Plus, this American guy Sam Weylund is actually pretty good. Don't tell him I said so, but maybe he's got the right stuff. Don't embarass yourself around them, okay? Leave that to stupider kids." Francois' tears were gone by now. Serge sat down beside him and put his arm around the young boy. There was denying they were like father and son. Serge had no family of his own, and Francois never knew his real father, and his mother wasn't worth knowing. Serge and Francois had been through a lot together. Suddenly Serge got an idea. He whispered something to Francois, who nodded ecstatically. Then Serge called into the other room, "Sam? I think we have our young helper!" |
| Kal had heard the commotion and was the second on he scene to it. Serge had Kal take the older boy away. Which Kal was all too happy about. He didn't like this bullying boy, either. Reminded him of the bullies that picked on him. Of course, they never touched him, because he was actually bigger then a lot of them when he was a kid. He hoped Serge would do something about this one. He was the worst thing next to Nazis. He even supported Hitler's motive's. This kid was a Jew hater, through and through. "Take your hands off of me, you damn Russian Jew," the boy said, struggling in Kal's grip. Kal gave him a 'soft' palm to the back of his head, quickly shutting him up. "You may think you can speak to others like that, but as for Mr. Bradot and myself, we do not take hateful little maggots like yourself lightly. Now stay here until Serge has decided what to do with you." And with that Kal left the boy there and was met along the way by Serge. "Get rid of that boy," was all Serge said. And it was all Kal needed to hear. |
| Robert Bascoumb glanced unconcernedly away from the door, from where sounds of some commotion could be heard. “Excuse me,” he murmured to Val Perry and Sam Weyland, and strolled to the window at the end of the room. He pulled out a flask from his coat pocket and downed its contents. Gazing out of the window, he appeared to be lost in thought. Suddenly he turned and shot an intense look and Val and Sam. Almost as abruptly, he turned back to the window and ran a gnarled hand through his unruly gray hair. Val whispered to Sam – “I’ve heard that Mr. Bascoumb is highly regarded, but truly Mr Weyland, he does seem a little…strange at times.” Sam smiled at Val. “Don’t worry, Ms. Perry, he’s just a little eccentric that’s all. Oh, and do call me Sam,” he added hastily. Bascoumb strode rapidly towards Sam and Val. “Well, now, let’s get down to business. Your script shows a great deal of potential, Mr.Weyland. However, I do believe there is a danger of going ‘over the top’, so to speak. It is my opinion that we reign it in a bit, give it more focus in specific areas, rather than trying to fit ten stories, six genres and the kitchen sink into one movie.” Sam blinked. “Er…well certainly, Mr. Bascoumb, I do intend to go over the script with you. Those were just my initial ideas.” Val spoke up. “That’s not very fair Mr. Bascoumb, the script might not be perfect at this stage, but I for one thought it was very good – definitely not anything that has been attempted before. And Sam did mention that it was the initial draft.” A wide grin spread over Sam’s face. Val continued. “I have an idea. For the part of the poor girl, if we could try to…” “I beg your pardon, Ms. Perry,” said Bascoumb grimly. “I was under the impression that you were an actress who was to enact a role in this film?” Val frowned, puzzled. “Yes, of course. That’s why I’m suggesting…” “I believe it is the responsibility of the screenwriters to develop the plot and storyline of the film in all its aspects,” said Bascoumb, coldly. Val opened her eyes wide in surprise. “And I believe, Mr, Bascoumb,” said Sam in a diplomatic tone. “That there is no harm in listening to a suggestion. At least, it has always helped me look at my work from another perspective.” There was a short silence. Then Bascoumb turned to Val and bowed gallantly. “My apologies, Ms. Perry. I can be a cranky old man at times. I assure you that I shall be more than delighted to hear your suggestion and any others you might come up with in the future.” “Oh…er…I…” stammered Val, quite taken aback now. “And Mr.Weyland,” said Bascoumb, heartily. “Let’s prune and develop your inimitable script!” |
| My character: Name:Marcel Lencelot Age: 23 Gender: Male Occupation:Actor and waiter Contribution to film: acting Country of Origin: France Languages he speaks:French Favorite film icons: not that many for now Favorite films:The Adventures of Robin Hood Religion: Jewish Other notes:A hearthrob and rising star in French cinema whose adopted father is Jewish. He could stay out of the hands of the Nazis if he so desired, but he would have to abandon his father. He is very Charming and talkative.He has a smooth evan voice. He grew up in a wealthy family and has a nice apartment. ------------------------------- Marcel was sitting on the balcony of his apartment when he had heard someone knocking. He rushed into the living room. His father was sitting on the couch. They had gone through this many times. His dad would have to run up into the attic and Marcel would shut it behind him. After a minute of doing that Marcel went to answer the door. It was a french man delivering a message.He said "Thank you." It said'we would like to invite you to an acting audtion.' Attached to it was a map to the theater. Marcel was interested.He had not had a job in years. Marcel went up in the attic and said to his father."You need to stay up here until I come back.I am going to an audition." ------ Marcel arrived at the theater half an hour later. When he went in someone was arrguing about the script and a women was on the stage. He took a spot behind the two argueing men. |
| Samuel's first draft had been composed of this: "In the present day an unnamed country is taken over by a tyrannical dictator. This dictator is a hateful, power-hungry egomaniac whose ultimate goals are to both control the world and have the poor become the servants of the rich. He sets out to conquer the world with the help of his two generals, a villainous knight who leads the Royal Cavalry and a treacherous, elusive gun-toting magician who leads the Secret Police. Meanwhile, life for the citizens is hard under the rule of this dictator. A poor young man who has lost his family farm prepares to commit suicide, but is saved at the last minute by a poor serving girl. This poor serving girl works to support her entire family, currently runs the risk of being sold off by her cruel aristocratic employer, and finds her only comfort in watching stage performances in the theater. Unfortunately, the dictator wants to tear the theater down to make way for his grand palace. Hence, the serving girl and farm boy team up with several others--including a wise-cracking theater comedian, a courageous young orphan and his gang of orphan boys, and a young incorruptible lawyer steadfastly opposed to the dictator--to foil the dictator once and for all." Val Perry was, predictably enough, the serving girl, which she seemed happy enough about, and as for the role of the young orphan, Serge had already assured him he had that under control. Frankly, that was a relief to Sam; any boy chosen for this role would automatically be wanted by the Nazis if his participation was discovered, and Sam was glad he didn't have to decide which boy to give that fate to. Nonetheless, there were still some gaping holes that needed to be filled. Sam was even now discussing that with Serge and Mr. Bascoumb. "I finally managed to send a message to Marcel Lencelot," said Serge. "He'll be here soon." "Good," said Sam, who was most concerned about finding someone for the role of the dictator. "Is he, by any chance, good at playing villainous roles, or comedic ones?" Serge shrugged. "As far as I know, he's only ever played heroic young men--he's the kind of actor who is popular due to his good looks and youth. Simply putting him in our movie will increase viewership tenfold. I believe your American actors Douglas Fairbanks, or--how do you say his name--Errol Flynn would be the most similar. But maybe he could--he's very talented, you know." "Errol Flynn isn't American--he's Australian," corrected Sam, who made it a point to know his film stars. "Anyway, Serge, where can we film this?" "Where indeed?" laughed Serge. "You know how hard it would be to shoot such a movie outdoors? A group of wanted fugitives outside in the middle of Nazi-owned France? It would be idiotic?" "What if we were to do it at night?" "Perhaps. But it would be much easier to film it in hiding. Perhaps an underground scene--there is a huge network of tunnels under the city used every day by the Resistance to--" "Let's develop the script first, Mr. Weyland," said Mr. Bascoumb. "then we'll worry about where to shoot it." "Wey-LUND," corrected Sam timidly, but loud enough so that Val Perry and Kal--who were nearby--could hear. It wasn't their fault; he had been so nervous when he introduced himself he had actually mispronounced his own name. But he felt like a fool already and wasn't going to say that out loud. "Oh. I am sorry. Mr Weylund," said Robert. "Perhaps we should adjourn to develop the script more fully." Sam quickly produced a hidden role of film. "Then perhaps we should see this. This theatre DOES have a film-viewing room, am I right?" It was a copy of Buster Keaton's film "The Navigator", and Sam had had the devil's own time bringing it into occupied France. "This movie will give us a feel for the kind of stunts and visual gags that should be in our film. Um..." here Sam had to work up his courage. "Ms. Perry, will you join us? It may be a valuable influence in developing the character of the heroine." To Sam's delight Val agreed, glad to be a part of the development process for her character. At that moment, Marcel Lencelot came in and Serge assured them he could handle his audition himself. |
| Val sat down in the folding chair, tucking her skirt neatly beneath her. She was excited to see the movie, as she always was. Perhaps if she saw this, her ideas would not be shot down so quickly. She still recalled with embarassment the earlier event. She had just finished reading the script, a rough draft of what looked to be an exceptional work. Parts of it reminded her of her own childhood, so she knew she could play it well. But there was something missing. Where was the family? Perhaps in her character's life, family didn't play an important role, but she knew there had to be someone. An older brother, maybe, or at least a mother. Family influenced decisions, and they would shape her role. She sighed and turned to Bascoumb, hoping she could help somehow. However, the way he reacted to her suggestion made her feel like a nazi in the film industry. So now she kept her ideas to herself. If she was lucky, she could subtly work them in later. For now, she was content to even be attatched to this project. |
| Francois was going to be late coming home, but he hardly cared. His mind was awhirl with crazy stunts and daring rescues. He had snuck into the theater and stopped all work to see the movie with Robert Bascoumb, Mr. Weylund and Ms. Perry. It wasn't easy, sneaking into a theater where only three people were watching, but when it came to such acts of juvenile delinquency, Francois was a pro. It was well worth it, too. Francois had never seen anything quite like Buster Keaton. He had never put too much stock in silent films before, always opting to sneak into a talkie whenever he got the chance. But when he was sneaking in to avoid work it didn't matter what the film was, so long as he wasn't caught. And, indeed, he wasn't. It was late when the movie finished. Robert Bascoumb left immediately, but Sam and Val stayed behind to read a letter left by Serge. It said that Marcel Lencelot had, of course, passed his audition and was interested in any one of a few roles, including the comedian, the dictator and the evil magician. Nobody else was in the theater and it was up to Sam and Val to lock up. Serge also added that apparently Francois had decided to duck out early and he was a little disappointed about that. Francois had quickly exited the theater right before the lights went on and ducked into a coat closet, so, of course, he heard every word. Mr. Weylund and Val, however, seemed nonchalant at this, and instead they focused on locking up. First, Mr. Weylund, most courteously, handed Val Perry her coat and bid her a good evening (the man's fondness for her was so obvious that Francois had to wonder if anyone else could see it). Then, when the the theater was completely empty and the room was dark, Sam went to the closet to get his coat. Unfortunately, Francois came tumbling out, and nearly scared Sam half to death. After a minute, though, Sam recognized Francois and sat watching him intently. Francois wasn't sure if Mr. Weylund would chastise him for being late or simply ask him to come in early the next morning. As it turned out, Mr. Weylund did neither. In fact, he could barely speak any French. Instead, he grabbed a pen and paper and quickly sketched a picture on it. It depicted three stick figures sitting in a theater, and a fourth hiding behind them, eyes on the screen. Mr. Weylund pointed to the fourth figure, then to Francois, who nodded timidly. Mr. Weylund paused. Then, he held up the film canister. "Did you like it?" The words were English, but the meaning was clear enough. Francois nodded again, more enthusiastically. "Well then," smiled Sam, and ushered Francois out of the theater. He grabbed his own blue coat and brown cap and shut the door. "Bonsoir, Francois." Francois ran off gratefully. It was night now, and his mother and stepfather were probably wondering where he was. Not that they were worried, or would do anything like, say, call the police. They'd just go to bed complaining to each other about how he didn't respect them at all. Francois' thoughts were interrupted by a cry for help. He drew closer to the cry and heard sounds of thrashing and angry threats. Then he realized there were three figures up ahead. Two of them were Nazi soldiers, and, to Francois' horror, the third, their victim, was a man in a brown cap and blue coat. "Monsieur Weylund!" yelled Francois running closer. The two Nazis looked up and saw him, and their victim screamed for help again. It wasn't Sam Weylund, but someone different. It wasn't his voice. "Get out of here, kid!" shouted the Nazis. Terrified, Francois fled, leaving the two with their doomed prey. It was dark in Paris, and the Nazis were everywhere. |
| Being a Christian, Kal knew he was safe from the Nazi's persecution. But being Russian, that was a different story altogether. Luckily, Kal could speak any language necessary to survive. He was in France, so French was his best option. After all, a non-Nazi German in France seemed inappropriate. He was stopped only once on his way home. They should have asked for his papers, instead of asking him a question until it reached French, in which case Kal acted as if he finally understood them. Kal got back to his house a little after ten o'clock. He knew he had to be up early in the morning. But he would wait until morning to do that. Until then, he needed some good sleep. He just hoped Mr. Weylund was OK. |
| Robert Bascoumb hadn’t been able to pay much attention to the ‘The Navigator’. It wasn’t a lack of interest, but a more pressing affliction that had been the cause of his distraction. He stifled the involuntary gasp that fell from his lips as his body was racked with pain. Hadn’t he taken his medicine in the morning? Well there were other ways to assuage the pain. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out his flask of whiskey. Empty. As the comic movie drew to a close, Bascoumb rose and with a mumbled farewell to his companions, hurried home. There was a sense of uneasiness and menace in the streets, but he reached his residence without any untoward incident. There, he stumbled to his bedroom and pulled open the bedside drawer, rifling through its contents. He withdrew the once abandoned bottle of medicine and took the required dose. It would be torturous sleepless night as he fought the agonizing pain, but it would make him strong on the morrow – albeit for a short while, before the pain returned with an increased intensity. Tomorrow…tomorrow he would return to the theater…there was much work to be done…the script had to be developed further…actors had to be assigned their parts…he must sit down with Samuel Weyland…no it was Weylund, wasn’t it? Robert Bascoumb fell into a slumber where his bodily pain transmuted into strange, eerie dreams. Sam Weylund and Kal Unger sat at a table with Val Perry, laughing and drinking coffee, while Serge Bradot strode up and down the stage, muttering to himself. The little boy Francois ran up to Serge and pulled open a small door by the stage, to reveal a Nazi soldier. Bascoumb shouted to the others but they all ignored him. Francois punched the soldier, who fired at Serge. But Serge just continued pacing and the three seated at the table laughed louder as Bascoumb screamed… |
| The next day both Kal and Francois were both visibly nervous on arrival and appeared exceptionally relieved when Sam walked in without a scratch on him, and looking for all the world very happy indeed. Francois mumbled something in French. Several people moved to translate quickly, but Francois was the fastest. "Francois says he's glad to see you are all right, Mr. Weylund." "Well of course!" said Sam, brightly. "Why wouldn't I be?" After a moment's thought he regretted that last question. Their concern wasn't entirely unreasonable; indeed, he could begin to see that others were beginning to feel the same way. It was no secret that the Nazis were constantly tightening their stranglehold on the city. "All right," sighed Sam, resigned and suddenly feeling just that little bitmore dismal. He sat down wearily at the desk beside Serge, and was quickly flanked by Francois, Mr. Bascoumb and Val, who (thank heaven for small kindnesses!)pulled up a chair directly beside Sam. During the night, Serge had begun work on a list of problems with the execution of the film, and the obvious danger and lack of cast and crew were only the beginning. There was also the fact that there was barely any money at all, and no equipment, and no contacts. "Frankly, Mr.Weylund," concluded Serge. "If I had ever before faced a situation like this on the studio of a major film company, I would have spit in the producer's face by being so careless and walked out." His comments struck a definite chord. Indeed, Sam had often thought to himself previously, how strange it was that nobody yet had approached him in frustration and anger over the obvious irrationality of the situation. Still, he couldn't let himself get worried or depressed about it. Pretend he was at the movies, that was Sam's answer. Imagine he was watching the Marx Brothers. Stay hopeful. "First things first," said Sam, pushing some papers aside. "Well, since we obviously have more parts than we have actors, it's time to turn to the understudies. Mr. Unger, would you be available for an audition today?" |
| Val timidly raised her hand. "Mr. Bradot, if it isn't too much to ask, I have another suggestion." He glared at her, but with a look from Sam, nodded. "Well, Mr. Weylund has been kind enough to instruct me in various dialects and-" "Is this going anywhere, Miss Perry?" "I can play multiple roles, if needed." She sat back in her chair, feeling her cheeks redden. It was hard to be a woman in a man's world. |
| For the next week everything was moving quickly. Serge did not call on Francois,so he was left to his own devices. But, as he soon found out, life without Serge was painfully boring. Francois did all the items of his usual repertoire: skip school, stay out late--he even snuck into a theater, desperate for something to occupy him. But even the movie failed to distract him; Francois spent every other second looking around the theater to see if Serge was there. His mother finally found out about the school he had skipped and gave him the scolding of his life. She stormed out on him then, perhaps simply to buy cigarettes and pace around the block a few times,as was her way. Francois watched her go from a standing position, but, as soon as the door slammed he was drained, and slumped into a chair. At that moment, her lover came in. The young Nazi captain had been sleeping in her roomand was now walking out in nothing but a T-shirt. When he saw Francois he stopped with a start and ran back into the room, emerging a few minutes later fully dressed. Francois glared at him contemptously. This was not a man, Francois knew, merely a habit of his mother's which had to be satisifed often. He was merely a quick fix for her. Then the man sat down beside Francois and took out a pulp magazine. Francois had never seen an adult read one, much less an adult who didn;t think of all such literature as "drivel". It wasn't until the man brought his chair closer and introduced himself (Lt. Karl Muller of Nuremberg), that Francois realized maybe he was more of an interesting person than Francois had thought. He liked the same pulp magazines, the same serial movies. He disliked the same subjects in school and the same teachers. Andyes, Francois reminded himself, he WAS also a Nazi. It felt good to see his mother walk in and register shock at the boy and the man, sitting at the table together and howling with laughter together. But Francois couldn't sleep that night. And, of course, the next day, Serge sent for him (not in person, of course). Francois could barely look Serge in the eye the next day, but thankfully he seemed too distracted to notice. To Francois' surprise, they did not go back to the old underground theater; that, apparently, had been abandoned forever. Things had changed now: they were all congregating in an apartment, belonging to an artist who was Serge's friend. All the parts had been assigned. And they would start filming very soon, come what may. As Francois entered the apartment for the first time, he was relieved to see two familiar faces almost immediately: Val Perry and Sam Meylund. Mr. Bascoumb was in the corner taking notes, and as Francois entered the room they allturned to say hello. |
| Kal was late getting to the new meeting place. He had heard of Serge's friend, the artist, but not so much as needed to be a worry if the Nazis ever thought of him. They would be safe there, for now. As he walked in, he accidentally bumped into the boy, Francois, who had apparantly just arrived himself. He quickly apologized, and noted that the boy was shocked to see a grown man apologise to him. That would fade. He was greeted by the others and offered a seat. He sat down to where he was looking directly at Val. She smiled and nodded a gretting. He returned it, and everyone began a long conversation pertaining to the play. "So, even though you are able to do multiple parts, Miss Perry, we have decided to use Kal in it anyways, just in case," Serge was saying. She politely bowed her head in acknowledgement as he continued. "Now, we know the Nazis are everywhere now, so we have to be extra careful. After speaking with my contacts, I found out that our young bully, whom I had Kal show him the door, ratted us out. But not to worry, we are safe here, for the time being." |
| Robert Bascoumb cleared his throat. “I think this would be a good time to summarize the script,” he said, glancing from Serge to Sam Weylund. “It is still quite incomplete,” said Serge, with a faint look of dissatisfaction. “I suggest we start filming the parts we are sure of,” replied Bascoumb. “It is about time we got down to work. The forces that be are breathing down our back.” “I agree that isn’t the ideal way to begin a project,” Sam put in. “But these aren’t ideal conditions either, so maybe we should consider the idea.” “Maybe we could vote on it?” suggested Val, noticing that Serge still didn’t seem convinced. “Very well, but first let us have Mr. Unger audition for us,” snapped Serge. Bascoumb bowed his head in acknowledgement to Serge. “What is my role all about?” asked Kal Unger. “I hope everyone remembers the initial draft that I had passed around?” said Sam. “Well, just to summarize, we have a dictator who, does what dictators do, and sets out to control the world with two of his assistants. We have a small group of people, initially weak, but who join forces to overcome the dictator.” Everyone nodded. “Ms. Perry will be playing the part of a poor girl, one of those who rise against the dictator, later in the story. Francois plays a young orphan who is head of a gang of orphans, who also unite against the dictator. Unfortunately, those are the only roles we’ve finalized,” continued Sam. “So, we need people to play the dictator and his two henchmen?” asked Kal. “Yes,” replied Bascoumb. “As well as the young farmer, a theater comedian and a lawyer – all of whom team up, so to speak, with Ms. Perry’s and Francois’ characters, against the dictator. And we might have the farmer and the lawyer compete for the affection of the girl.” Serge spoke up – “Well enough now, let’s have Kal audition for us. Give him some of the dialogues of the farmer and the lawyer.” |
| My character: Name: Adelaide Farber Age: 23 Gender: Female Occupation: writer/saloon singer Contribution to film: her books are used in films Country of Origin: Germany (but moved when the Nazis came into power) Languages he speaks: German, English, Frnech Favorite film icons: ...she's too busy reading... Favorite films: Gone With The Wind, Casablanca, etc. Religion: Christian Other notes: As a writer, Adelaide is always sure that the movies that use her books stay true to her message. Most of her fame within the German-speaking countries, she must be careful of her own fate while working for the Allies. Her goal is to have her book "The Bringer Of Reality" in movie form for all the world to see. However, her main goal is to help the Jews find their way out of German-occupied Austria. |
| My Character... Name:Nani Okelani Age: 14 Gender: Female Occupation: Teen music sesation/teen fashion designer Contribution to film: Designs costumes and sings some of the songs in the film. Country of Origin: USA Languages she speaks: Hawaiian, English, French, Spanish, Italian. Favorite film icons: She looks up to several actresses, but doesn't know who's her favorite. Favorite films: Anything with romance and action in it. Religion: Christian Other notes: Nani has been singing for her whole life long, and designing clothes since 9-years-old. She's a little boy crazy, but she sometimes finds a girl that she might be interested in, too. She's unsure if she's a bisexual or not, but she says that she's straight. She's really nice, and a really easy person to talk to. Her life long dream has been to be a world renound singer, which she has finally made come true, and she's also full-filled her dream of becoming a designer. All she wants now is to find the right guy, buy a nice mansion in California, and have the most adorable twin girls, and her life will be complete. Oh, and she really wants to publish a book, too. |
| (All right, since the roles of the film-within-a-film are being assigned and filming will soon begin, I am going to quickly introduce our two newest characters to the story next time. For the two new characters--welcome! Just remember the story is set in 1940, so keep your details consistent with the time period. For example, fadingmemory, the movie Casablanca has not been made yet. Also, Pixie234, I can think of a couple of reasons why it might be hard at this time for a 14-year-old to be famous internationally as a pop star and fashion designer, you may want to rethink some of the details. Other than that, you're both good to go.) Suddenly, Marcel Lencelot stepped into the partment, and yet again all heads turned to the entrance. Marcel's face was completely white, and he held a single piece of paper in his hand. It appeared to have just been ripped off a wall. He handed it to Serge, who took it and walked into the center of the room. It was a flyer printed in French and German, and Serge translated it for everyone. As he did, many faces went as white as Marcel's, including Serge's: "ATTENTION: This neighborhood is now officially on surveillance by the French State and our allies in the German government. The Police Department had recieved evidence that unregistered Jew and outlaw maker of anti-France propaganda, Serge Bradot, is conducting illegal meetings for purposes of sedition and treason against the French people. If you see this man, or have any information leading to his capture, contact the Police. REWARD." Serge crushed the paper bitterly and tossed in into a corner. Sam stood up and clutched his hands together in tense exasperation. "Damn it!" There was silence for a moment, as everyone weighed their options. Finally, Sam started. He walked to the center of the room and, with one revolving glance, took in everyone in the room. He paused, then took a deep breath. "Everyone..." he paused again, then nodded to Serge, who repeated the word in French. Then Sam continued. "You've all been invaluable to the movie and I thank you for that. I apologize for increasing the work you have had to do by failing to come up with a script faster. Even after we have been working for a month. But now, it will not just be slow, it will be very dangerous. The Nazis know we are here and we cannot let our guard down for a second." Serge continued to translate. "I would like to say everything will be fine, that there will be a happy ending--" how desperately he DID want to say that, and how hard the next sentence was for him to admit "--but I can't. All the forces of Hitler are after us now. It is, I think, very likely that some of us, if not all, could be caught, arrested, jailed, or, worse, killed." Serge paused this time around, and, after a minute, lost his chance when Val Perry stood up and translated it instead. "So I can't ask you to stay if you don't want to. If you want a realistic chance of staying alive and free, I advise you walk out that door right now. Thank you for everything you've done so far." There was a pause. Then, nearly half the film crew stood up and headed for the door. After they were gone, Sam turned to everyone still in the apartment. It was hard for him to leave the matter at that, when many of the crew members, as well as Francois, Val, Kal, Marcel, Robert and Serge were all still there. Sam was incredulous. "You all want to stay?" Francois merely took hold of Serge's hand and held it tight. Kal shrugged. Nobody was going anywhere. Even the crew, as it turned out, were loyal collaborators with Serge Bradot and would not desert him in his time of need. Val smiled at him. "Are you going, Mr. Weylund?" Sam's brow furrowed. "Of... of course not." Suddenly he became aware of how idiotic he sounded, saying that. He really wanted this movie, it was all he ever wanted. Now he was going to commit suicide for it. Idiot. Dreamer. Child. As Serge gently nudged Sam aside and took the center stage once again, it suddenly occurred to Sam that all he had ever really had going for him in this project was his irrational optimism. He had known for some time that he would be working right under the noses of the Nazis. He knew that making a film was a lengthy, complicated and expensive process. But somehow he had just ignored the reality and focused on the fairy-tale aspects of the situation. He had not even been bothered by the fact that his constant procrastination failed to produce a script, although it quite clearly bothered Serge. Serge Bradot, a director whose films Sam had always admired, whom Sam had always dreamed of working with! Sam opened his mouth to say something again, but realized that everyone was now filing out the door. That was it, then. He didn't blame them. "See you here tomorrow, everyone!" called Serge cheerfully. He turned to Sam now that the apartment was almost empty. "Well, Mr. Weylund, it seems all of them are--how do you say it--in this for the long haul. And, I must admit, I'm looking forward to working with you." "Thanks," said Sam, cautiously accepting this wonderful compliment. "But I thought I was a lazy idiot." This is what Serge had first called him in the early days of their partnership, when all Sam had were his ideas, his ambition and his lack of a script. Serge laid a hand on his shoulder. "And you are. You're a lazy, foolish man with his head in the clouds. All writers are. Most of them also have no consideration for the crew. You're going to do all right." "Oh, and Sam," said Mr. Bascoumb, as he locked up and left with Serge and Sam. "Bring me a rough script for the first few scenes tomorrow--the dictator's meeting and the poor girl's introduction. Just write down what you want them to talk about. I will refine it for you." "Thank you, Mr. Bascoumb." Sam said, with deep gratitude. For the first time he really had a genuine, appropriate feeling of respect and awe for the people who were so willing to work with him. "And thank you for continuing to work with us." As Mr. Bascoumb walked off, he muttered something under his breath that could have been, "What can the Nazis do, kill me?" During the walk to his flat Sam gathered his thoughts as solemnly as he could. He would really have to give it his all, now. He would have to stay on the task of writing and managing the film, and be extra, extra careful not to get caught. And above all, he would ALWAYS have to maintain his newfound admiration and respect for the others, because only then, he felt, would they continue to show him such amazing patience and loyalty. Most stories DO have a happy ending, Sam thought suddenly. If the writer is willing to spend time creating it. When he got home, Sam sat down and began to write as he had never written before. |
| Val hated walking in the shadows, but she didn't want to chance being recognized as American. So she clenched her fists inside her pockets, set her jaw, and travelled the four blocks to her apartment. Kal had offered to walk her home, but she turned it down. Idiot! she cursed herself. It's your bloody pride always holding you down. And now you're alone in the dark with the nazis and criminals. Happy? She sighed and quickened her pace. What was she even doing here? What did she hope to prove. But she knew that she could not leave such a noble cause. She was tired of the cliche movies and wanted to do something new, that meant something. Oh, good. She was finally home. But something seemed out of place. She dropped back and held her breath, squinting at the building. There, at the door, was a nazi soldier. |
| Serge came for Francois two days later, at 4 in the morning. He threw a stone at the window pane of Francois' apartment, already knowing that Francois' cot was located right by the wall. Francois had awoken and opened the window, shocked to behold Serge standing there, bundled in dark coats and only dimly visible n the lamplight. Five minutes later he had tied the sheets together and the two were now sprinting away from the building. Francois was so relieved that Lieutenant Karl hadn't been awake to see them that he easily forgot how tired he was. There were only a few people at the apartment currently gathered today--Robert Bascoumb, Sam Weylund and Henri Widel, Serge’s cinematographer. The group of them had congregated early to decide what was going to be filmed today and where they should film it. The other actors for today’s scene, who would be arriving soon, were Val Perry, Kal Unther (who, it had been decided among Sam, Robert and Serge, would be playing the lawyer) and several extras who would play as-yet-unnamed characters, including passers-by in the street, stage hands in the theater and the cruel wealthy couple to whom Val Perry was a servant. All of the extras were Jews on the run from the Nazis, who were participating in this film in order to afford passage out of France via the underground movement against the Nazis. Of course, nobody was actually told any of this, but Francois had known Serge long enough to tell. Sam and Robert had finished the scene long before the others had arrived, with Sam writing up the basic outline and Robert writing the specific dialogue. In this scene, Val’s character would be introduced, as well as Kal’s, and Francois would make his first appearance as well. So, for the time being, everyone was busy with something: Francois reading lines, Henri visualizing camera angles, Robert pouring himself a drink at a corner table, Serge walking back and forth to discuss things with them all, and, finally, Sam Weylund, who paced the length of the apartment, looking very excited, and, at the same time, quite nervous. This, of course, was natural, but Francois didn’t realize how nervous the man really was until Serge explained, in a hushed tone, that Sam had considered the possibility of himself having a role in the film, even though he had never acted before. After an hour, everyone had arrived except for Val. It was now dawn, and soon the city would be at its busiest time in the morning. Never a more dangerous time to go outside and film anything. By this time, Sam, Serge, Robert and Kal had all begun to look worried, having realized that nobody had heard from her yesterday either. Their anxiety was quite infectious, as Francois could feel himself sinking into it. “Perhaps we should go to her house,” said Kal. Sam agreed to this immediately. “NO!” Robert Bascoumb yelled with the ferocity of a lion, so loudly that everyone jumped. “Don’t you see? This could only mean that something has happened to her, and we are all dead unless we…” When this matter had been brought up Robert had seemed to be in some form of pain, and now his face was a mask of barely-betrayed agony—mouth slightly agape, eyes red and bulging, neck muscles turning—then suddenly, his face smoothed out and his voice became quieter. “…I am sorry.” He coughed. Serge was glaring at him. “I did not mean to sound so harsh. But coming after her won’t do a thing, if—God forbid—the Nazis have her.” Sam glanced out the window. “It’s still dark enough.” He grabbed his coat. “Serge knows where she lives… we can get there if we hurry. It won’t be dangerous just to head that way… if we see a Nazi we can always leave before they see us.” He didn’t really seem to have any intent of doing that. Serge nodded, still glaring at Robert. “Anyway, after Mr. Bascoumb just raised the dead with that yell of his, we’ll be safer outside!” He grabbed Bascoumb’s bottle away forcibly and took a sizeable swig. Then he ran off into a room of the apartment that nobody had ever yet ventured into, and came out with a small handbag. Out of this handbag he took several small black lumps and handed one to everyone. Francois looked closer and saw with a shudder that they were tiny German lugers—the standard German pistol, and fully loaded. Henri pocketed his instantly. Robert scoffed and slipped his into the pouch where his liquor bottle had been. Sam and Kal both took theirs with slight hesitancy, then put them silently away—Sam in his coat pocket and Kal in his pants pocket. “Stay here, Francois,” said Serge as the group headed for the door. The extras huddled together, paralyzed by fear, and Francois moved closer to them as if to stay there while the others left. But as Robert Bascoumb walked out last and prepared to close the apartment door, Francois suddenly slipped out behind him and followed the group of five. Serge must have seen this, but said nothing. |
| Kal, though he didn't like them, prefered to have a gun at his side in this situation. He could protect himself, and others, with this agent of death. He patted his pants pocket, checking to make sure the weapon hadn't fallen out. He took the second position, just behind Serge. He knew what he could do if it came down to it, though hoped it wouldn't. As they neared Val's house, Kal grew in anticipation. He could feel his heart beating. He could not tell whether it was for the possible scuffle with Nazis they might find themselves in, or whether it was his thoughts racing about Val, he could be unsure. He nodded to Serge, who nodded back, and broke from the group. He took a side street on the other side of the alley. He closed in on the house. Standing at the door were two Nazi guards. Kal felt the unbearable urge to pull out his gun and shoot them where they stood. But that was before a hand grabbed him. He reached for his pocket and for the gun. "No, Kal, it's me," he heard Val's voice. She was very hushed. He grabbed her hand, holding on to it, making sure she was really in front of him. "Are you okay?" he asked her. "I'm fine. I managed to give the Nazi scum the slip. We have to get the others and head back into hiding. I'm afraid I'm gonna have to find another place to stay." Kal nodded his head as they headed back to the others, hoping they hadn't already made their way closer to Val's place. |
| "Breathe. Just breath, Adelaide." I told myself as I slowly opened the front door. There before me stood a man and his children, huddled up against each other. I breathed out a sigh of relief. "Please, come in." I offered as I opened the door wider. Once they'd entered, I took a breif glance around the yard. Empty. I'd never stop having the feeling that there was someone watching. They were always watching. "May I offer you anything to drink." A little boy's face emerged from a coat with a happy smile as he opened his mouth. However, his father sent him a glare of disapproval. "Hot chocolate?" I asked the boy. He nodded with delight. "This is good," I reminded myself despite the fear that creeped up my spine. "No one's here yet. If they were going to find us out, they would've by now." I entered my living room to find them all huddled together, still standing. "You can sit down," I reminded them. They did so carefully, as if they believed they'd offend me. I handed them the drinks one by one, seeing the smiles as the warm air hit their faces. This is why I did this. |
| "I think it would be safe to say that all of you should go ahead and keep your guns," Serge advised the group that had accompanied him to Val Perry's house. "We will probably need them again some time in the near future." Sam had been fully prepared to kill the Nazis if necessary. He was, in most cases, able to keep a level head in the face of everything that was going on, but when he saw those men standing outside the building he could barely contain his rage. It finally came back to him, in a concrete, unavoidable form, that these men WERE the butcherers of his own people. To say nothing of the fact that they were after Ms. Perry that night. Sam had only gone a little way around the house with Mr. Widel before the sharp-eared Frenchman had picked up Val's voice coming from the alley where Kal had gone in. By that time Serge was a few seconds away from charging the front door on his own, but Francois had gotten word to him in time. By the time the whole group had returned to the apartment, the sun was already risen. Serge had just finished exploding, yelling at Francois for coming along after he had been forbidden, at Sam for almost getting everyone killed with the suggestion to go to Val's, and finally at Val for giving everyone such a scare. Now he looked at last like he was calming down, and Sam could feel nothing but guilt. The level of stress Serge was under must have been obscene. Finally he spoke again. "Ms. Perry, can you think of any documents, any books, anything at all that you may have left in your apartment that may have told the Nazis anything?" Val held up her pocketbook, which she had been carrying with her when the Nazis came to her home. "Aside from the papers in here, I can't think of anything that may..." "Be sure!" said Serge urgently. "You must be sure. Are you sure?" Val thought for a minute and then shook her head. "There is nothing in the apartment that could compromise us." Serge was satisfied. "Well then. Just in case, I advise that everyone go home immediately and take steps to ensure that if you are targeted by the police, and your own homes are invaded, you have backup plans. We will meet early tomorrow to shoot. Ms. Perry, I have a connection in the Underground who is also a book writer; she's not much younger than you. I believe that she and I can find you lodgings tonight..." Here Val perked up considerably. "Come to my apartment at two o'clock tonight and we will have your lodgings ready for you by then." The enthusiasm faded from Val's face slowly. "Where shall I stay until then, Mr. Bardot?" Serge eyed her sternly. "My lady, all I ask is that you keep safe and occupied for about twelve hours before we get you to a new house. I hardly think it is a big thing to ask for, especially given the circumstances! See you tonight at two, and not a minute sooner!" Everyone began to file out of the room then. Sam was going to stay behind and ask Serge something, but as he saw Val slowly and reluctantly shuffle out, he realized there was no time. This was more important, even, than asking if Serge had an idea for the role of the farmer. If he didn't ask this now he would always wonder. "Miss Perry?" She stopped and turned around. He had caught her in the hallway, before she could step out the door. He tried to tell himself not to be nervous, it was a perfectly simple, legitimate thing to ask. After all, nobody should be alone on Sabbath. He realized Val was not Jewish, but still... "If you need a place to remain hidden for the rest of the day, could I... interest you in my apartment? Naturally, there will be Shabbat dinner tonight, and..." |
| Val let out a slight laugh of relief. She had no idea where elso to go. "Yes." she whispered. "I used to have a friend that was Jewish and..." she cut off her mumbling and slowly raised her eyes to his. "Thank you so much. I owe you my life." (Sorry it's short, but this is a 15 mn terminal) |
| "Shoot!" she whispered under her breath as she opened the door. "Of course they have to come before I get them settled." "May I help you?" she asked calmly, remembering act as though nothing were wrong. One soldier took a step into her house. "We have reason to believe that Jews have entered this house, Ma'am." the older of the two informed her. "And who would tell you such nonsense?" she questioned. "Don't you know who I am?" The men looked at each other for a moment, then shook their heads. "Have you ever seen "Summer's Goodbye?" Their eyes widened. "My wife loves that movie!" one commented. She kept herself from shaking her head, angry at the fact that people only recognized the movies. "That's the one," she replied crisply. "Well, we'll still have to check this house," the older insisted. "Of course," she replied, allowing them free range of the house. Closing her eyes, she prayed for God's protection of the poor family. |
| My character: Name: Emilia Tabot Age: 25 Gender: Female Occupation: Secondary Actress, give or take. Contribution to film: Acting Country of Origin: Sweden Languages she speaks: Swedish, Russian, English, French and a tad bit of German. Favorite film icons: Gene Autry is a favorite.. Favorite films: Devil's Island, Angels Over Broadway. Religion: Christian Other notes: Soft spoken and quiet, Emillia transforms on stage. She has only played the secondary character, never a main characters. She likes it that way. Although she was born in Sweden, her family traveled alot, and grew up mostly in England and Russia. That is why she has a slight British accent. Her love of acting brought her to France, and doesn't mind the Nazi occupation. Emillia left her family in Russia, deciding to continue her life alone. |
| Francois paced his tiny room with extreme agitation. His mother had found out about him sneaking out of the house at 4 in the morning, and as punishment she had locked him in his room overnight. This time the sheets, the mattress and his shoes were gone, so there was no chance of him escaping through the open window without at least some form of severe injury. Anyway, he had been informed, if he ever tried it again she would call the police on him. Francois paced the room anxiously, wondering about the Nazis, and the film, and the Americans and everything that had happened. He was tense and he was anxious and he couldn't find a way to relieve his mind. Finally, on a whim, he rolled up his sleeves and attempted a handstand in the middle of the room. For a moment, he balance, perfectly, and the thrill of it managed to blot the threat of capture by Nazis out of his mind. Then, he lost his balance, fell forwards and landed on his back with his head raised slightly and his feet propped up against the wall. Francois looked up at the ceiling. It seemed that he had never seen his room upside down before. It was eerie. * * * * * "It's amazing." "You mean the squalid conditions of my building, or the fact that my landlady is so old, shriveled and cantankerous she defies description?" asked Sam. "Neither," said Val. "I mean it's amazing that you can be so well-known in this building without drawing any unwanted attention to yourself." Sam's apartment was on the fifth floor of a building in an area bordering on the slums of Paris; in fact it was not far off in quality from a slum itself. It was dirty and in a bad neighborhood, but almost all of the other tenants passing them in the hallway had stopped to say hello to Sam. Sam chuckled. "Well, to be perfectly honest, nobody here knows I'm in the film business, or even the simple fact that I'm a Jew. As far as these people know, I'm just Sam Weylund, an American... an American who happens to have a large collection of serial magazines, which are, as it turns out, are like gold to poor French children." Sam's room was a very tiny apartment with one large living room, which was also the dining room and had a kitchen stove, sink and cupboards at the far end of the wall. At the other end lay the tiny bedroom/workspace and the bathroom. "Welcome to my humble abode," said Sam as he held the door for her. "It's not much, but then thankfully you wiull not need to suffer its inadequacies for long. In about five hours, at 2am, your new room will be ready and I'll take you to meet Serge to see it." Val nodded, briefly, as she glanced around the apartment, her gaze alighted on a small white tablecloth half-spread out on the table. "Of course, of course, Mr. Weylun... Sam. I am so deeply in your debt. Thank you." Sam nodded. There was nothing left to do, it seemed, but hold a the ceremony to celebrate the beginning of the Sabbath. He had, of course, items for the Sabbath--the golden candlesticks, the Kiddush cup, the prayerbook that had been his grandfather's--and food for the Sabbath, but, what Val Perry didn't know was that Sam did not actually, consistently, celebrate the Sabbath. He kept these items very dear to his heart, and he kept a place in his heart as well for the Sabbath itself, but he was not a very culturally observant Jew and had not actually performed the rituals for some time. It wasn't just a matter of deception; Sam told himself. It was his duty as a host. He knew she was expecting him to do it (mainly because he had told her he would be), but moreover, after the way she had just barely escaped being kidnapped by the Nazis, it seemed logical to create a festive event. To give them both something to celebrate. His job as a host was to use comfort and charm to dispel the harsh reality. Not, he realized, unlike a film maker. Sam lit the Sabbath candles and recited blessings he had not recited for several years. At first he wasn't even sure he could recall them, then, after realizing that was untrue, he began to doubt he'd be able to sing them. He shouldn't have been worried; though. The blessings went fine. After that there would be the blessing of the wine, and of the challach, and with each word Sam would feel more and more as if he was ten years old again, a scared little boy in an enormous synagogue. After the blessings would come the meal. * * * * * Francois stared up at the ceiling with an almost religious concentration, until finally his feet slipped off the wall. His entire body collapsed to the floor and he banged his head rather painfully. * * * * * Serge Bradot paced up and down the street nervously, staying within the glow of the overhead streetlamp like a moth staying close to a light. Soon he would meet Sam and Val in an alley, to escort Val to her new apartment. * * * * * The French Resistance was at the height of their power. Guerilla attacks on Nazi offices, buildings, vehicles and officers became the norm. The top brass of the Third Reich became livid, and demanded the immediate arrest of illegal refugee Jewish film-maker Serge Bradot as a public example to all of France. They had already sent out one of their most promising military ment to take up residence in France... * * * * * Sam lit the Sabbath candles. Everywhere in Paris the world was turning upside down. |
| Val smiled in the candlelight. It was refreshing to meet someone so honest about his religion, and relaxing to have something to take her mind off of the day's events. She took a bite of the unleavened bread. It tasted terrible, but she felt the tears come to her eyes as she recalled the story of the first Sabbath. This was a tradition she didn't frown upon, though she thought of it as merely symbolic. She probably wasn't following the exact order of things, but Sam didn't seem to mind, and she was starving. A sudden, echoing sound brought her from her peace of mind. She gasped, her head snapping from its daze. "What was that?" Sam had already left his chair and was at the window. "Gunfire." |
| After about an hour of searching, the soldiers decided that they'd had enough. They found no Jews within her home. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. The one who gave us the tip was certain that Jews had entered the house." one soldier commented. "No worries, some people will do anything to see a celebrity." Adelaide replied, keeping her voice serious. "True," the second added. "Well, should you ever see a Jew-" "I'll let you know," she assured them, trying to move them out the door. "And if-" "Sir, I'll be fine." Annoyance was clear in her voice. "Well, just be careful." he warned. "You never know what a Jew might do to you." "I'll be careful," she promised, closing the door. "Thank you, Lord," she whispered, making her way to search for her guests. |
| Sam quickly drew the shades, then peered out again. There was silence. Then, there was another loud report. Val grew tenser. "Yes, definitely gunfire," said Sam. "I saw it in the street. There's someone running." He went over to the closet where he had hung up his coat, opened the closet door, removed the pistol from the coat pocket and stopped, realizing he had no idea what he was doing. He went to the window again. There were two men running down the street now. One stumbled and fell; the other kept going. Clearly neither of them were German officers, but Sam couldn't see who they were firing at. He turned to Val, and nearly jumped three feet on finding her standing right next to him. She had risen from her chair and walked over to the window without making a sound. "What's going on?" She stepped past him and looked down herself. Sam quickly went back to the closet and pulled the coat on. "Stay here!" "No!" "Miss Perry, I'll just be a minute! It will be easy for one of us to be captured if we both go down there! Besides, there's only this one gun in the house!" And I'm a dramatic idiot, he thought to himself, while you're a sensible and gifted young woman and have no excuse to make such a suicide run. She looked like she was about to argue. He had no idea what he would say to her if she did so. What was he thinking? |
| Val bit her lip. She had been fully prepared to argue, but the look on Sam's face took away the fight in her. It would only be more difficult if she went, anyway. "Be safe." she whispered, taking his hand inside hers. "I'll pray for you. But please, tell me I can do something." He shook his head. "Just stay here. Do not answer the door." He walked over and grabbed his gun. "I should be back soon." Val did not want to betray the tremble in her voice, so she kept silent and looked away before the tears could spill over. She heard the door close and his footsteps on the stairs. Once she could no longer hear him, she knelt on the rug and touched her forehead to the floor. "Lord," she whispered. "Please...please keep him safe." She broke off as she began to cry, her tears creating a dark spot on the floor. She could not remain idle. Drying her tears, she walked to the window, though she could no longer see anything. The street lamps had dimmed, so that the figures from earlier were now shadows against the pavement. She released her breath upon seeing Sam, fogging the glass. She wiped it away and looked for him once more, but he had disappeared. She clenched her tongue between her teeth, willing herself not to scream. Her legs tensed, resisting the urge to run. But they did not obey her after the next set of gunshots. |
| The shadows were after him again. Taunting and teasing him, with their raucous cries - distorted, evil, were the figures he saw - the faces of those that had once been dear. The woman with the brown hair and kind eyes, the little girl who used to bake cookies for him - quite inedible, but he had manfully eaten them and praised her skill, to be rewarded by that angelic smile. All gone now. Death had taken them eons ago and left him to suffer and struggle in a slow, losing battle... Bascoumb awoke with a jerk, his heart beating wildly. Annette. Little Angelique. He must not think of them now. They were gone. No one here knew of them. With a rasping fit of coughing he pulled himself out of bed. He felt disoriented, and reached for the bottle at his bedside. But what were these papers? The script! The movie! With a shock Bascoumb realized he had deserted the crew with no word to Sam or Serge. Did they notice his absence? Surely they must have. Did they care? Why had nobody come to see if he was alright? They must have thought him to be dead. Old Bascoumb. Succumbed to cancer and to drink. No this was not the time for self-pity. He must act now. Bascoumb tossed aside the bottle and forced himself to his feet. Grabbing his coat from the chair he staggered out of the house. ******** The streets were quiet, deserted. Should he go to their meeting place? Was it still safe? He did not remember. No, better to go to Sam Weylund's house. ******** All was quiet. Was he at the right address? Yes, he believed so. Bascoumb knocked on the door. He heard a rustle from within, then silence. He knocked again. "Mon ami?" he said, cautious all of a sudden. No mention of Sam's name. Speak French, not English. Then he coughed again. He heard the sound of someone moving within and the door flew open. "Mr. Bascoumb!" cried Val. "Oh, Sam went out about an hour ago...there was gunfire...he told me to stay here...he hasn't returned yet...oh, I've been so scared..." "Hush, hush," hissed Bascoumb, firmly, but not unkindly. He let himself in and locked the door behind him. "You have had a bad fright, Ms. Perry. Pray sit down and have a glass of water. And keep your voice down." Val composed herself and got some water for herself and for Bascoumb. She sat down on the chair in the corner. Bascoumb glanced at the candles then settled into an armchair. "Where have you been?" asked Val. "Ah, that's a tale for a rainy day, Ms. Perry," replied Bascoumb. "Tell me now, where Weylund has gone off to." Val began to describe the incidents of the evening and Bascoumb listened intently, ignoring the blinding headache that was developing - it came and went every few days - and began to think of what could be done. |
| "Are you all comfortable?" she inquired as she brought them into a nicer room. Each nodded. "I'm sorry, but I have to go to work. If anyone knocks on the door, don't answer. If they break in, hide in the attic. There's a window to the roof up there, and a fire escape so that you can make your way into the woods if you must." Again, they nodded. At work, Adelaide tried to calm herself, but the events of the night had shaken her. Her boss, noticing that she lacked her usual flare, pulled her aside after a song. "What's going on?" he asked her. Her eyes went wide as she began thinking of excuses. "Sick?" Though he didn't believe it, her boss took the excuse and allowed her to return to her home. Upon her return, she saw a car pulling into the driveway. |
| Sam kept his head very low as he exited the building. The night was surprisingly cold for the beginning of July; even through the jacket, he was shivering (of course, there were probably other factors behind that). He looked to the left and then to the right: each way, the streets were completely deserted. Why?, Sam found himself wondering. Sure, the Nazis were in power now, but this was Paris! The City of Lights! Why did it look like a ghost town? Sam crept warily down the street, trying to remember which direction the gunshots had come from. After a minute, he realized everything was completely still and quiet again. His hand tightened around the gun in his pocket, half-expecting a sudden ambush, a bomb, an air strike—in short, the worst possible thing that could happen at that moment. Wait a minute, he thought suddenly, If the noise has stopped, then whatever was happening is probably over. If there wasn't any shootout going on where he could potentially be helpful, there didn't seem to be much sense in staying outside. He waited another minute, just to be sure. Still just silence. Sam sighed, and started to head back to his building. Suddenly there was a gunshot so loud that Sam jumped. It was followed by another gunshot, then a muffled thud. Then there was the awful, rattling sound of submachine gun fire—and then no more sound, not even a whisper. For a minute he stood there, shaking uncontrollably, and trying to pull himself out of it. "Halt, citizen!" A sudden blinding light flashed in his eyes and an officious voice began moving towards him. Oh no. The light dropped and Sam could see the two men with matching walks, matching submachine guns and matching uniforms, which could have been either military or police. Were they Nazi soldiers or French officers? It didn’t really matter; one was just as bad as the other. "Good—good evening, officers." They did not return the greeting. "What are you doing out at this time of night?" asked one. "You're in direct violation of the curfew." That was it! Nobody was outside because the city had instituted a curfew. No wonder there had been shooting; anyone outside at this time was already breaking the law. "I—I heard gunfire. I was… worried." "Well, you should have stayed indoors and let the proper authorities handle it!" said the soldier, who only seemed to grow more displeased the more Sam tried to cooperate with him. "Why would you act so irresponsibly? Don't you have children at home?" "Children? Oh, yes—yes, I do. Oh, my goodness, you're right, I should… get back to them now!" He started to go. "One minute. First, we need to see your identification papers." "Oh." He began searching his pockets. "My papers. Of course." Of course, he had no identification papers at all, and he never had. "Actually... it may take a while to find them, and I told my kids I'd be back in a minute—they get worried so easily—I don't suppose you could just let me…?" "Sorry, it's required by law. ID papers, please." A pause. Sam took a deep breath, hoping they wouldn’t realize he was trying to collect his wits in the face of a potentially lethal situation. Damn it, I never should have gone out… He would have to pistol whip them both. That was the only way. He could try to shoot them, but he hadn’t fired a gun in years, and suddenly the idea of actually killing a man… well, it didn’t really seem like his fingers would obey him fast enough. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his coat, pretending to reach for his papers, grabbed the gun and began rehearsing in his mind the trajectory his hand would take… Suddenly a chorus of rifle shots echoed loudly in the night. Sam dropped to his feet just as the policemen stiffened and fell forwards, one of them almost landing on him. Another burst of machine gun fire sounded off—seeming to come from everywhere at once—and Sam, now fully given way to panic, scrambled towards the entrance to his building on hands and knees. “Don’t shoot that one!” A voice called out behind him. “He wasn’t one of them! Hey, you… American?” The speaker was clearly addressing Sam now. Sam turned around to face a short, scruffy blonde man in a white shirt, holding a submachine gun. Definitely not a Nazi. In fact, he couldn’t have been anything but a member of the Free French. “Yes! Yes! I’m American!” “I knew it… American man. Lucky we found you, eh? Need passage back to the States?” “What? No, you don’t understand—I’m here voluntarily, I’m not a fugitive from the Nazis—well, I am, but—” “Listen, mister American,” said the Frenchman. “You come with us. We drive you to a safe place. You can stay with a friend of ours, a famous writer. Adelaide Farber.” Sam was awestruck. “Adelaide Farber?! I LOVE her novels!” |
| Val couldn't stop shaking. The only time she'd heard gunfire was in the theater, and that was just special effects. This was real, and much more frightening. At least she wasn't crying anymore, but she was growing restless. Sam still hadn't come back, which worried here. Was he still safe? She trembled harder with the thoughts that entered her head. Her breath came in short, and she fought another wave of nausea. She could smell blood and smoke, a terrible combination. Bascoumb had managed to distract her for a few seconds, but this sudden silence was deafening. She rushed to the window. She simply had to know what had happened. Sam was nowhere to be seen, which she probably should have taken as good news, but she didn't. Her usually strong stomach was overcome by the sight of the dead, and she began to wretch. Thankfully, nothing came up, as she hadn't eaten all that day. Bascoumb pulled her quickly from the window, forcing her to the floor. For a moment he looked as though he might have a few harsh words, but after seeing her face he simply held her while she cried. |
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