Free Songbird Under a German Moon by Tricia Goyer Page A

stopped beside a tall house, and the driver pointed. “They use the bottom as an officer’s mess. Upstairs is a little restaurant, but lately there’s been more music than food. I can almost bet your buddy Art is up there—or at least someone who knows him.”
    â€œAnd if not?” Frank asked.
    â€œBayreuth headquarters will be open in the morning. I’m sure you can crash here until then.”
    From the look in the guy’s eyes, he was done driving Frank around. It seemed like he had other things in mind, like getting to know his date better. Frank couldn’t help but eye her with suspicion. She most likely was a simple German girl looking for companionship after the war, but one never knew.
    Frank jumped out, grabbed his duffle bag, and thanked the driver. Then he headed upstairs, via the outside stairway. He was only five steps up when he heard the music. It was a woman’s voice, and in a strange way, it reminded him of Songbird.
What in the world?
Frank knew it couldn’t be her, yet he took the steps two at a time. On the landing at the top of the stairs, two GIs were smoking cigarettes with another couple of young German girls. He nodded to them and moved inside.
    The room looked almost gray from the swirls of smoke that curled in the air. Soldiers sat on worn-out sofas, at small tables, and even on the floor. The woman stood in the corner. Her head was tilted up as she sang. It was as though she serenaded a balcony that wasn’t there. Frank scanned the room and there, in the far back corner, sat Art ata small table. Frank moved in Art’s direction, for the first time realizing how quiet the audience was—all of the soldiers focused on the woman’s song.
    Frank was halfway to Art when his friend stood, motioning him the rest of the way over. As he neared, Art shook his hand.
    â€œWas wondering when you were coming. Have a seat, your duffle bag will make a great chair,” he said in a low voice, and before Frank could respond, Art had already turned his attention back to the singer.
    Frank set his duffle bag on end and sat. He didn’t ask Art about the empty chair at the table. He guessed it was for the singer. Art always had the most beautiful girlfriends wherever he was stationed. The only thing that would surprise him was if Art
didn’t
have a date.
    The woman sang her last note, and the room erupted in applause.
    â€œDon’t you think she’s great? She’s a star—or at least she used to be. Magdalena used to sing in the opera house, back when they still performed Wagner’s
Siegfried
, and not the jazzy rubbish that’s playing there now.”
    â€œI’m offended by that.” Frank straightened his shoulders. “It’s good music. I was there tonight.”
    â€œOh, yes.” Art half-smiled. “We’re giving the GIs real culture—variety shows and revues—put on in the same building where last summer Nazi officers and invalid troops watched
Goterdammerung
.”
    Frank rubbed his eyes. “Are you saying we don’t have any culture?”
    â€œNot saying that at all, but it’s not Wagner. Don’t you know this town is what it is now because of him and that opera house? No works by any other composer had ever been performed there until we showed up—”
    â€œYou seem to know a lot about music, Art. Last time I saw you in Paris a couple of months ago, you couldn’t have cared less about German culture.” Frank’s head started to ache, and he didn’t understand why he was arguing. Yesterday he most likely would have agreed with Art, but today things were different. Mainly because when he thought of the USO singers, he thought of
her
. Yesterday Frank would have taken Art’s comments as just observation, but now they seemed to be an insult to someone who had strangely managed to wiggle through a crevasse in the wall he’d built up around his