They came out of the shadows, clad all in black, save the brown shirts tucked beneath long coats and the stark red band around their upper left arms. Their silhouettes could not be mistaken, not even by the most casual observer, not in la Ville-Lumière, not in 1934. But as taken by Baker's performance as we all were, not one of us saw them until they were upon us.
Not us, but indeed, nearly upon the stage, their square-shouldered shapes descending upon the spectacle of Egypt's final hours of glory. Once again the audience came to their feet, a rumble of excitement and confusion rushing through. This could not be part of the performance—or it could be a daring commentary on the fascism rising to our east reflected in the fall of one of history's most opulent empires. On a Parisian stage, anything was possible, and in that thin space of possibility appeared hesitation for all but one.
Not for nothing had I chosen to sit in the boxes. Curtains and cords hung heavily around me and those I sat with, offering us privacy from outside view if we so wished. I had other desires, and in leaping to my feet also smoothly slipped a knife from the thigh-sheath beneath my cobalt gown. Beauty was one thing; going unarmed was another. With the razored blade, I struck free a cordoned rope and yanked to see how and where it attached above me. I was in luck: it wound upward and around the curtains of other boxes, and a few quick twitches loosened it from the grips above. I wrapped its dangling end solidly around my wrist and, in silence—for I never understood the impulse to run into battle screaming; it seemed wiser to me by far to surprise my enemy than warn him I was coming—I leapt over the box's balcony lip and swung toward the stage.
I discarded my shoes as I swung, sparing an apologetic thought for the patrons whom they hit before my wild flight came to an abrupt halt with my heels slammed into the kidneys of a Nazi soldier. He collapsed with a scream of pain and I, momentum lost and still seeming miles from Madame Baker, spun to find what materials I had on hand to make use of.
There were many: a Roman sword of heavy dull steel in the hands of a gaping extra, bludgeoning tools of every sort in the form of set pieces, and, if necessary, the extras and stagehands themselves—though it was my preference not to throw them into the fray. I released my box seat rope at once and seized the Roman sword, disappointed to discover it was painted wood, not metal at all. There was no time to prevaricate, though; the audience was beginning to understand that this was not bold commentary but a Nazi incursion, and panic would soon rear its ugly head.
Wooden sword set distastefully in my teeth, I caught a nearby rope—I had landed downstage left, beside the curtains—and slashed that rope's other half forcefully. It parted, and from off stage came the sounds of counterweights careening toward the floor. I flew upward in an instant and was jarred to a tooth-rattling stop—the sword bore the shape of my teeth as a scar for the rest of its brief existence—as the counterweights finished their plummet. I reached for the next looping rope, cut it, and soared toward the stage with such vigor that I took a moment's relief that my legs were well-shaped and the skirt's cut ensured I did not entirely dispose with my modesty. Madame Baker had no time at all in which to prepare for my arrival before I swept her from her feet. Together we shot up again in a glorious arc of blue and gold to land solidly upon the prow of the magnificent Egyptian scow that made up the set's triumphant back piece.
Under the audience's roaring approval, I set Madame Baker on her feet and removed the sword from my teeth to offer a swift smile. "Amelia Stone, at your service. Do remain here, madame, whilst I deal with these ruffians."
With that, I sheathed the knife and leapt from the ship's prow again, the curtain rope offering me the ability to skim well across the stage from la grande dame. As it should have, Nazi attention turned to me: I was a danger to their nefarious plot, whatever it might be. That it involved Madame Baker was clear; perhaps those who sought to build a master race also sought to learn how a colored woman could bring the elite of Paris to grovel at her feet. I shuddered to think what experiments might be performed upon her in order to release those imagined secrets. Another uniformed thug fell beneath the strength of my wooden sword, and a third from the power of my swinging kick. As he collapsed, I hit the stage and rolled, reluctant to loosen my grip on the curtain rope; it seemed that it might somehow save me, or at least offer a weapon beyond the dull blade in my hand.
Three Nazis converged on me, not yet fully realizing, perhaps, that I was no part of the evening's entertainment. They did not withdraw their weapons to threaten me, and I, thinking fondly of my Savate instructor, handily dispatched them with the sword.
The next three were wiser, and not men to rely on fists when guns would do. I dropped low, feinting with the blade at their ankles, but as one danced away the other two took aim, while others still began to close in on me with deadly intent written on their snarling features. My hand snaked toward the knife again at my thigh; if I were to die on this stage, I would not be the only one. But just before my fingers closed on the small blade, tension came into the rope wrapped about my wrist. I had only an instant to understand, and swiftly spun the rope around my hand, giving myself better purchase.
To the stunned and shouting audience, it must have looked choreographed: I burst upward from a ring of Nazis, one hand extended above me, the other wielding a shining sword as I kicked upward with violent force enhanced by the rapidity with which I rose. Three Nazis fell as one, and the cheer that went up from the audience was echoed by the stagehand whose quick wits had sent me soaring.
Nor did he abandon me: I rose and fell, dancing about the stage with the practiced skill of an acrobat. My skirt flashed and glittered blue, an always moving target as I did battle with evil men. Gunshots were fired; Madame Baker screamed, and that vibrant, reverberating voice silenced the entire theatre for a shocking span of heartbeats.
But in screaming, she brought herself back to Nazi attention. They had, in their pursuit of me, forgotten their objective. Now it was foremost in their minds, and a man with commander's bars on his shoulder barked orders that he never dreamed I could understand. But I had grown up with three cradle tongues and had learned many languages with ease as I had traveled the world: Forget the flying woman, he demanded. Get to Baker!
The race was on, a convergence of black-uniformed hooligans against myself, all of us scrambling the set to reach Madame Baker first. I had the advantage: the moment my unseen stagehand supporter realized my desired destination, he flew me upward and my running momentum carried me angel-like toward la grande dame. My left arm ached from the endless hoisting, but I dared not complain, nor even think of it: a helpless woman was in danger, and I would not let her fall beneath the Nazi scourge.
Baker, whose pride was in this instance perhaps greater than her wisdom, stood above us all with a look of scorn that would have done well on the queen whose part she played. Had I been one of the jack-booted thugs, I might have hesitated, but they feared their master more than any woman's scathing disdain. They swarmed the scow, and it was only by good fortune that I arrived in time to knock the first of them away.
The commander, a giant of a man, seized one of his own and bodily hurled him at me. I met him with the broad side of the sword, staggered back, then threw him off. He fell with a shout, but the seconds dedicated to that act were enough for the commander to take the scow and reach me. I wasted no time watching his compatriot fall, and yet in the instant it took me to recover, the enemy landed his first real blow against me: a full punch to the face, mitigated only by my swift action in leaning back.
None the less, stars exploded in my mind as the bitter flavor of iron filled my throat. My backward lean became nearly a fall, but confident hands caught my spine and thrust me forward again: Madame Baker, assisting in her own rescue! What a woman she was! Though I could see almost nothing through pain-stunned tears, I lashed out, hoping my opponent had not yet moved to press his advantage. Remembering his size, I went for the ribs, swinging my wooden sword as if it might cleave him in twain.
As fate had it, it was the sword that broke in two, not the Nazi commander, though I heard a satisfying crack of ribs and his yowl of pain. I dashed tears from my eyes and swept blood away from my nose as I leapt, bearing him to the deck in a blur of elbows and knees. We writhed and struggled, his strength and size to his advantage, my litheness and size to mine, and neither of us gaining the upper hand.
The broken sword came to hand and I clobbered his temple with its hilt. He collapsed against the scow, and I, triumphant, raised my gaze to receive Madame Baker's accolades.
To my unending dismay, she was instead staring enraged after a few escaping Nazis, her lovely head divested of its magnificent crown.