BY 1944, the war was finally going their way. The Allies were heading for Rome and Russia had liberated Odessa. London was now crawling with soldiers—more than ever before—they were on the streets, in the theaters, and packed in, standing room only, at the Howard Hotel. Lisa reveled in the attention of the soldiers—the feeling that the war’s tide was turning in their favor buoyed their spirits and led to an increase in mash notes and free drinks sent her way.
Tonight, Lisa was wearing a long gray dress with a deep V and a triple strand of fake pearls that looked almost like the real thing. She was looking her sophisticated best and decided to use the opportunity of such a large crowd to try out the Rachmaninoff prelude she had just learned in preparation for her year-end recital.
The mysterious aura of the Rachmaninoff matched the mood of expectation. Leaves had been canceled abruptly; most of the soldiers knew they would be back on ships and planes the next day. The hush in the lounge was deeper than usual; there were none of the customary interruptions by the more inebriated soldiers at the bar. When Lisa played the powerful ending, several soldiers gathered around the piano to watch the bravura of her flying octaves.
After the applause, three soldiers approached, led by a lieutenant, carrying a carnation. He stepped forward and said:
“Mademoiselle! There is a gentleman who wants to meet you.” The soldier had such a strong French accent and such charming determination that Lisa didn’t feel the least bit like saying no. Besides, it was time for her break.
She followed them back to a table, where a tall man, with compelling dark brown eyes and a wonderfully direct expression stood up immediately. He held out his hand and she took it, assuming he wanted to shake, but he raised it to his lips gracefully and kissed it instead.
“C’était magnifique! Que vous êtes magnifique!”
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,” Lisa said. Seeing his puzzled look, she tried to mime the words and threw her hands in the air in a playful shrug of defeat.
“Rachmaninoff!” he said, cupping both hands over his heart.
“Ah, so you know!” She beamed at him.
Then it was his turn to throw his hands in the air. “You don’t speak any English?” Lisa asked.
“His English is terrible,” said his friend, speaking for him. “But he’s really a smart fellow, underneath.”
“Czy ty mowiszi?”
“He’s asking if you speak Polish. He’s from Lomja, but he’s in the Resistance, fighting for the Free French. He’s our captain.”
“No Polish,” Lisa said, laughing.
“Voulez-vous du Cointreau?” he asked, offering a small glass filled with the golden liqueur.
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
The captain then said something in a deep voice to his lieutenant, who turned to Lisa and translated.
“He says to tell you that you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.”
Lisa had heard this quite a bit at the Howard Hotel from soldiers who had been away from their girlfriends too long, never letting it go to her head. But this time, intrigued by the aura of strength about the French captain, she found herself believing it, just a little.
Suddenly she became aware of the time. Realizing she’d been chatting for half an hour—twice her standard break—she excused herself, thanked them for their compliments, and went back to the piano, where she gave in to the audience’s irrepressible desire to hear “Peg o’ My Heart” yet another agonizing time.
When it came near to the eleven o’clock closing—the time most soldiers had to get back to barracks—she looked up and saw, through the thinning crowd, that the Resistance soldier was still there. He was now sitting alone at the table, with his eyes trained firmly on Lisa. When she finished the last chord, he made his way through the jumble of men and women to the piano.
“Beau-ti-ful,” he said, once again putting his hands over his heart.
His friend came through the crowd right behind him, tapping his watch. The captain pulled out his calling card and handed it to Lisa, looking in her eyes and saying a few words in French.
The lieutenant translated: “He says you must promise to invite him if ever you give a concert. He says, no matter where he is, he will come.”
The next night, there was an unusual emptiness at the Howard Hotel. Lisa played a few songs for the bartender and the waitresses and the ten or so soldiers who milled about with pints of lager. The manager soon told her to take the night off.
On her way back home, she looked up at the sky and saw wave after wave of transport planes flying overhead. The Allied invasion of Europe had begun.
Lisa had been working toward the final, end-of-term recital that students gave in late June to the faculty and students of the Royal Academy of Music.
She arrived at her lesson with Mrs. Floyd and played through the pieces in a run-through for the upcoming event. Mrs. Floyd clapped appreciatively at the end, and Lisa took out her pencil and prepared to mark the music as usual with the new round of critiques. To her surprise, the teacher asked her to put her pencil away.
“Lisa, I don’t have any notes today. It is time to trust yourself; you are ready to soar!”
After so many lessons where she had heard her playing dissected and analyzed, this was wonderful news. Lisa would go to this recital and finally play “what was in her heart.”
“One more thing,” Mrs. Floyd said with a twinkle in her eye.
Lisa waited.
“It’s time to think about your debut.”
Lisa was so stunned, she said nothing.
“Usually, a student’s family helps toward the expenses of a debut, but because of your circumstances, the faculty has recommended that the academy help in the arrangements.”
Lisa remained speechless.
“That is, if you would like a debut,” Mrs. Floyd said, teasing.
Lisa leapt from her seat, crying, “Of course I would!” and wrapped her arms around her instructor in an exuberant, spontaneous hug. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Lisa said, genuinely honored.
“Oh, and one more thing. For the location of your debut . . . we are thinking of Wigmore Hall.”
Wigmore Hall! It was incredible. The moment she had dreamed about all her life was finally within her grasp.