Her Name Will Be Christine

Chapter 1: Meeting at Cabaret Populaire

This story is dedicated to all of those people who died because of the Nazis, and survived the Nazis. This story is a re-write so please read even if you think you did. Contact me with any questions. G-d is not a typo.

Erik Destler strode quickly into the dimly lit Cabaret Populaire, ignoring the curious glances of those surrounding him. He was a man on a mission, and he would not let a soul get in his way. He found a table in front with an excellent view of the stage. Normally, he would have chosen to sit in the back row of tables where he could easily hide himself. However, these were not normal times. The whole world seemed to have turned upside down. He hated being seen, but in this moment he wanted to and needed to be seen. He was fully aware of his overpowering presence that was made to appear even more intimidating by his newly pressed SS uniform and black mask. His whole life he had been laughed at, ridiculed, forced to show his monstrous face at times, and at others told to conceal it from the world. He had never been accepted into a group but now, because of the mask, he had been. He didn't enjoy their acceptance, nor did he did he buy into the revolting propaganda the Nazi party called the "truth", but he needed them to trust him, needed to be seen as one of them. He came to this cabaret tonight for one purpose--to see her, the angel he had seen and followed for months now. She would meet him tonight, and she would be his Christine.

Thoughts of her beauty ran through his mind as he was subjected to one off-key individual after another. He let out a disgusted grunt wondering how much more of this noise masquerading as music he could stand, when suddenly he saw the vision he had been waiting for. Wearing a modest, dark black long-sleeved dress with a high neckline she walked timidly onto the stage. All was silent as she got her small body into singer's position.

"Think of me, think of me fondly when we say good bye. Remember me once in awhile, please promise me you'll try…" Erik was transfixed. The music that escaped her beautiful mouth and floated to his ears was heavenly. It made up for all of the horrid sounds he had ever been exposed to. He smiled, seeing how the applause that erupted from the audience the instant the song was completed made her porcelain skin blush. She gave a quick nod as if communicating to someone standing near by. Without bowing she ran off the stage, her dark brown curls bouncing behind her.

"Need anything?" Erik turned his attention away from the stage to the right side of his table where a woman standing at 6'1 and wearing too much make-up now stood, staring at him, a sedative gleam in her bright blue eyes. He looked away and gave a heavy sigh in disgust. The red thing she must have called a dress came down just above her knee, and clung to her body, leaving almost nothing to a man's imagination. "Leave me," he ordered. He was sure this harlot was obstructing his view of the lady he truly wanted to gaze upon.

"I'm good company," she said, now reaching up to stroke the exposed portion of his face.

"I said leave me, you stupid little tart!" He roared. Her hand came down.

"Fine," she answered bitterly and walked away. Just as the moment she left he saw his reason for being here. He followed her with his eyes to the corner and watched as she stopped to speak to a petite blonde woman, who he thought might be one of her friends by the way she smiled. He could not hear what they said.

"Chavia, you were amazing. But I never saw someone run off stage that fast!"

"Meg, you know how I feel about being on stage."

"I know, but you're so talented."

"What do you want?"

"Nothing," Meg said innocently. Chavia raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows in suspicion, prompting her friend to speak."See him over there? He roars at every girl who comes near him. Can you take his order and serve him?"

Chavia looked at where her friend was pointing and quickly turned back.

"Meg," she whispered "He's a Nazi. Why can't you serve him? You're the better choice."

"I think he likes you, he was staring at you the whole time you were on stage."

"Oh, how comforting--I have a friend in the Gestapo!"

"Chavia," Meg wined.

"All right, I'm going. If anything happens to me it's on your head," she answered, slowly walking over to the table. She could feel her stomach turn and twist into a thousand knots. What language should I speak to him in? She thought to herself. Chavia was a fluent speaker of many languages. "Good evening, sir, what would you like?" She asked, deciding to speak in German. She stared down at the floor afraid to meet his eyes. Erik was delighted. He had almost forgotten her speaking voice was equally as exquisite as her singing voice.

What would I like? Erik thought to himself, a mischievous grin slowly making its way to his lips. I would like you to look at me. "I speak French, Mademoiselle," he said aloud, hoping that this fact would make her more at ease.

"I… I am sorry, Monsieur," she said switching to French, "I didn't realize. I thought that… that… you would prefer it if I spoke German."

"Speak whatever you would like." Erik could not care less what she spoke, as long as she spoke. The sound of her voice gave him goose bumps all over, even as it trembled in fear of his wrath. The young woman raised her head and finally his gray eyes and her green ones locked. The expression that appeared on her flawless features seemed to change from one second to the next, going from surprise at his reaction to her, to suspicion and back again. Finally, after what seemed like forever her face settled on one emotion, surprise, and she smiled nervously. It was then that he allowed himself to speak to her again. "You were magnificent on stage tonight," he said his voice soft.

"Thank… thank you," she managed to say. There was a long silence between them which was broken by the still unanswered question. "Um… what would you like?"

Erik cleared his throat--anything to keep this angel standing before him a little longer.

Wait, what am I doing? He thought to himself. I have never had this kind of reaction to a woman before. There was something about her that went far beyond her physical beauty and her heavenly voice, but what was it? Whatever it was he was sure no other woman had it as she did. "I will have a glass of your finest red wine," he said. His heart quickened as he watched her turn and walk away towards the back of the Cabaret. She will be back, he told himself. Five minutes turned into ten, and ten into fifteen. How long did in take to get a glass of wine? Suddenly his ears perked up at the sound of a door opening. He turned to see her, but she did not see him. She was far too distracted and tears were running down her flushed cheeks as she ran outside as fast as her tiny feet could carry her. He followed. "Wait!" he said. She did not respond to his command.

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Chavia ran for what seemed like hours, slowing down only to look behind her periodically. If she were the kind of girl to swear she would; she was being followed. She was relieved when through her tears she saw the house she shared with her mother come into view. It was only steps away. Could she make it? Her feet felt as if they were about to fall off. She said a silent prayer as she hurried up the steps leading to her front door, and quietly entered careful not to wake her mother. She tiptoed to her bedroom and kicked off her black shoes and then stripped herself of her dress. She looked down at herself to find she was shaking like a leaf in the wind--not from cold but from pure terror. What was she going to do now? She hated that place; it made her feel so dirty. "Girls like you don't work in places like that," her mother would say, "girls like you don't even go near places like that." But she needed that money. The truth was, Chavia and her mother would never survive without it. She had her doubts they would even survive the night. Would they be arrested? And where would they be taken? Would they be separated? She needed her father--he always knew what to do. She longed to hear his voice say: "It will all be alright. I will make sure of it. I promise I will think of something". Then he would remind her to say her prayers. He always thought of something to solve the problem at hand, but he was gone now and she missed him so much it physically hurt sometimes. She walked to her cherry wood dresser, took out a long pink rose-colored nightgown, and pulled it over her head. She touched her face, still feeling the sting of Raoul's hand as it made impact. Her face was hot and she quickly moved her hand and saw the red marks he had left across her ivory skin. She hoped they would be gone by tomorrow. How would she explain them to her mother? How could Raoul do this to her? She stumbled into bed, still shaking, and prayed first out loud, and then silently. With G-d's help she would survive. As she drifted off to sleep she heard the sound of a man's voice singing softly, beautifully, and just as suddenly as her shaking began, it stopped.