Chapter 1: Shylock

I know, I know. We are Your chosen people. But once in a while, can't You chose someone else?

-Tevye, Fiddler on the Roof

Paris, France: Spring , May 10, 1940

"We live in a world torn apart by war," My father said cryptically as his twinkling Irish blue eyes danced down the news paper page. He sat at the head of the table, in just the right spot so that the sun hit his back and kept him warm. It also silhouetted him in a noble sort of way, and made me see him as the man who used to slay my dragons for me when I was a child. He took a sigh and set his paper on his leg, and a smile brightened up his cheerful face as he turned his gaze to us.

My younger sister, Chloë, organized a handful of ribbons that she smoothed out onto the table top beside her breakfast plate. They were silk, and very fine, in an array of pastel colors. My father had got them for her from an officer in the army. That was all Chloë needed to know. She cared about silly things like that. She was, after all, only seven years old.

Méav, on the other hand, was too small to even bother with such things. She was the youngest, at five little years old. She was a beautiful little baby, with bouncing blonde curls, and our father's twinkling blue eyes, much like Chloë herself, except Chloë had our Maman's warm hazel eyes that reminded me of what coffee truffles looked like. Méav was currently concentrating very hard on aiming her spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth. I handed her a napkin, after which she chipperly replied, "Thanks!"

"What are your plans for the day, my Máiréad?" My father asked me as I sat down at the table- on his right hand side, where I always sat. Maman sat across from me, on his left, This was the way it had always been on a peaceful saturday morning, gathered around the dining room table, where the warm morning sunshine spilled in through the lace curtains and made the crystal reflect shimmering prisms on the walls.

I shrugged my shoulders lightly, much to Maman's chagrin, and said lazily, "Probably meet Avery and Sylvia on the bridge." I said, pushing food over my plate.

"You're eating that," Maman said lightly, biting into her toast.

"I'LL EAT IT!" Chloë volunteered, and I passed her my toast. Chloë was never one to turn down food. She never seemed bothered by it either, since she was always running about and causing trouble with our baby sister. She always had the energy.

I downed the milk uncerimoniously and stood up, wiping my mouth most unladylike and kissed my father on the temple. "I'm going!" I said quickly, pecking Chloë, Maman, then little Méav on the head before bolting into the foyer for my coat. I listened to my Maman remprimad Papa for it, too.

"Will she ever learn manners? No! Especially not with you letting her gallavant about like a bumbling hippo! Was it not you, Webster, who badgered me to no end to make sure she had proper schooling, proper education in literature as well as manners?"

"It is a saturday," Papa told her, and I could hear the crinkling of his newspaper again, which meant he was tuning Maman out. I slipped my coat on and whisked out the door and into a blustery, cold Parisian morning. I hopped down the stone steps of our little home and ran down to the iron gate, past the calla lily and tulip gardens, and out into the peaceful streets of Paris.

We were located within the natural heart of the city, in between the midday cheerfulness of the suburbian society, and the high class and aristocratic ways of life. It was not unknown that we were well off, in money or preference. It certainly showed where we live.

My family lives mere minutes from the Seine River, and since it is so convienent to find yourself on the St. Michael Bridge, it has become my favorite place of meeting. People seem to often mistake such minor details as bridges. It isn't their fault, is it, that they were built for people to walk all over them? After all, without the bridge, I would not get such a wonderful, clear panorama of Paris.

As my heels hit the stones of the side walk, I counted beats to Parisotti's Se Tu M'ami. Then my feet seemed to take on a mind of their own and I gave a little twirl in time to a Venitian waltz Papa had taught me. As I stepped up near the outview of the bridge, I heard someone call my name.

"Máiréad! Máiréad Epstein!"

Avery Goldblum.

My second best friend is a young Jewish boy of eighteen, who was always the brother I never had. Avery ran up to me and scooped me up, twirling me in the waltz I had left unfinished. He had seen me dancing. Avery was partial to dancing, and we would often stay up to watch the extravagant parties his parents would throw just to glimpse the dances. His parents are silver merchants, and his father sells some of the finest silver in Paris. They are very well off, more than my own family by far. Not that Avery needs wealth to make him well known; he is one of the handsomest boys I have ever seen. He looks like his father, with a head full of shiny black hair, glittering black eyes and his Mama's pearly smile and Meditteranian complexion. He has the cutest dimples too, that could melt any girl's heart. It would be a lie to say I wasn't attracted to him at first (even at four years old, the boy was of fine looks), but now,

Avery is just Avery.

"Put me down!" I laughed, squirming in his arms. "Avery, people are looking."

"Fine, fine," he relented, letting me go with a quirky smile. "Where is Sylvia? Always late! I'm sick of her shanagons."

"She probably slept in," I say half heartedly yawning, looking down at the Seine below.

Avery leaned back against the stone, facing the bridge. His eyes glittered over a newspaper stand as an elderly man paid for a copy. He pursed his lips. "Do you believe what they are saying?"

I made a "pft" sound as I dropped a leaf off the bridge. It floated lazily down along a soft gust of wind before resting on the surface of the water.

"They say we should fear him, you know," Avery said with a slight yawn. It was early, even for us, especially on a saturday. "That Adolf Hitler is going to bring change. Do you believe that?"

"If I believed when every politician said he is going to bring change, I would be as hopeless as a dog chasing its tail," I replied flatly.

"Well, I know you have an opinion, so just say it already," said Avery, impatiently. Something was obviously on his mind that he wanted some sort of reassurance. I didn't have a clue for what, though, so how was I supposed to help him?

"Papa reads the paper every morning and swears it's getting worse, even if we can't see it very well. He says that Adolf Hitler is an excellent politician, and Maman will add that for that very reason, we should not trust him." I said, as I have heard those words more than a hundred times in the past few months.

Avery nodded in agreement. "He has a silver tongue. Something..."

"He's too good at what he does," I said, turning with Avery now and looking at slowly awakening Paris. "The year I was born, 1923, he was imprisoned for a failure of a coup that was comical. In no more than 10 years he was elected Chancellor of Germany. A little over a year later, he has 90 of Germany voting for him for dictorial power. He is an excellent orator and he knows how to say what he wants to say, and make other people want to hear it in return... well, a lot of people, anyway." These beliefs were roused by my parents.

"You can't possibly be condoning the Nazi Party," Avery scoffed, folding his arms across his lean chest.

"I would have thought you know me better than that after 13 years," I replied in annoyance. Sometimes he was so stubborn, so ignorant...

"Just answer the question!" Avery snapped, throwing his hands in the air.

I turned to him, fed up with these barbs of his. "Of course not! What I am condoning is suspicion. It seems to me that, unless you live close enough to Germany, no one else seems to care what is happening. Did you know that all of Parliament in England is not interested in Hitler? There is only one man at the moment who is taking note of Germany, it seems, and I for one believe he is the smartest of them all. I would like to go and see Winston Churchill speak. I am told he is a mighty man with a mightier voice."

"Hitler is becoming a great man to many people... many high officialed people who could do big things. I hear the Duke and Duchess of Windsor visit regularly with the Führer, as he calls himself. And even Charles Lindberg has been flying to Germany- and you are not the least bit worried?" He asked, looking at me.

I sighed, and muttered, "I am suspicious, is what I am."

Avery opened his mouth to speak but the loud panting and clomping of shoes that could ater a standing herd of buffalo broke out trains of thought. Avery turned and the bobbing head of my truest and best friend in the whole, wide, chaotic word appeared.

"About time you showed up!" I laugh as Avery and I watch her stumble up toward us both on the bridge. Wherever she had come from, it had knocked the wind out of her to run the whole way. She was disshelved from head to toe. Sylvia Hanges is a beautiful mess of a girl. Her powder blue dress is wrinkled, her pretty black hair is mussed, and she is only wearing one sock.

I love her for it.

Sylvia is seventeen like me. We had met five years ago at a performance of Don Giovanni. Papa had made good friends with Mr. Hanges first, and introduced Sylvia and I when we went back to our seats. We found our dark humor, sarcasm, and interest in learning multiplied when we discovered we had so much in common.

"Yes, I am glad to see that you did not become welded to your bed, Sylvia Hanges," said Avery, uncrossing his arms and pretending like he'd swat her. Sylvia was so out of breath she didn't even bother to stumble away.

"Well- I wasn't- sleeping-I'll have you know-" She gasped, fanning herself. "I came from the Théâtre Mogador! Máiréad-" Sylvia gripped my shoulders, startling me. "The auditions for MacBeth are today! They are open to the public-"

A terrifying scream ripped from my throat, causing Avery to desperately cover his ears and I broke from Sylvia in a run. Both she and Avery were on my heels, flanking me and my determination to run as fast as I can. We looked out for each other, the three of us. Through joy, fear, and the giddy hopefuless that only requires the best of friends to make it all more worth while, we were three in one. We were each, the same. Something else, though, linked us. Something that would make a much larget impact in the times coming soon.

We are Jews.

Cars zoomed down past the boutiques and cafes, and fine ladies and wealthy gentlemen strode the streets of Paris. Meanwhile I disruppted the charming atmosphere with my mad dash to the theatre. The one other thing in the world that could make me smile in pure joy, that could disarm me of any negative feeling and leave me a silly, giddy mess was a man.

Sylvia was lagging behind, still out of breath from her first run to the theatre, so Avery reached out and snatched her hand, dragging her along. I ran up the steps, pushing the doors open until my feet hit the plush, crimson carpet in the elegant foyer that was embellished with gold statuary and and colorful impressionist paintings. I looked around the foyer for a few spare moments before veering off to the right hall, where I found the maintance door just as Avery and Sylvia stumbled inside. I sneaked up the hall, through the cleaning closet, and found myself on the back row of the auditorium. It was dimly lit, save for the three men at the center of the sea of empty chairs and poorly failing actor on stage auditioning.

"Is he there? Has he gone-?"

"Shut up, Sylvia!" Avery snapped.

"No, not yet," I murmmured, thinking quickly. He would spot me instantly here, standing blatantly on the back row. I looked sharply around for a better hiding spot, a safe place to view an amazing performance. I looked up, decided a box would be the best place to hide and view fthe auditions safely. "Come on," I told them, taking Sylvia's hand and silently tip toed up the stairs to the box seats with Avery following closely behind. I opened the first door and was lucky to find it empty and just far enough to be hidden. "Shut the door!" I whispered, bending down to my knees and crawling to the balcony. Avery shut the door, and Sylvia and he followed in suit until they were on either side of me.

After a few moments of watching an amature butcher Othello and a poorly trained simpleton tried to redeem Romeo- he appeared from behind the black curtain.

"Name please," the casting director requested without looking up from what he was writing.

"Nikolas Everet."

My heart jumped in jubilance and quickened like a leaping deer.

Yes, I suppose it is true I am in love with Nikolas Everet. Nikolas is a handsome twenty-one year old actor, who is no good for me- or so he tells me. My heart says otherwise. Even from in the balcony I can see him. He is six feet tall with a slender build like that of a reed. He has broad shoulders, slender hands, and purpose in each move he makes. His face is slender and unique, with high cheekbones and a curved smile that tells everyone else he knows something they don't. His dark hair is combed back like a gentleman, his expensive silk suit pressed, and his haunting blue eyes challenging the three men sitting before him.

When my Maman was a teacher, I would visit her after school in her room, and it happened upon chance that he would be there, talking with her and seeking solace for some problem or another. He looked to my Maman as his own maman, because the former Mrs. Everet had caused a scandal by abandoning her husband and son for her employer. She now lives on the other side of Paris, but left a long trail of bitterness and remorse in her wake that only relfected on her son. Nikolas is a bitter man who claims he does not trust women.

The question of why he remains close to me, then, is inconcievable.

It really began with my Maman. Such an amazing woman as herself changes people. Maman's name is Deborah, and she has French, Italian, and Jewish blood. When I was growing up, Maman wanted me to be able to speak as many languages as I could. She is an advocate for education, and her motto is that learning should be fun. Papa was a teacher too, and his love in life is literature, which is a large part of life he and Maman have in common. He was in full support of teaching me different languages, and often says I could make good money off of being a translator. Maybe I will, one day. I have mastered Italian, made an art of speaking French, and know a little Latin and even more Gaelic. I am currently trying to learn German, due to the pressing matters of politics. Papa says it should come in handy, if anything were to ever happen. I can't stand the German tongue.

It simply sounds as though I am dry heaving.

I can no longer remember the first conversation I had with Nikolas. I do remember, though, the first time I saw him perform on stage. Maman had taken her students to an art festival during one spring, and unbeknowest to me, she had requested that Nikolas should sign up to perform. We had all filed into a cool, dark theater, and sat even closer to eachother to keep warm, though our thick coats, hats, and gloves were on, we still shivered.

Then, a tall, darkly dressed man stepped into the lighting. He wore an Edwardian suit of black, kerchiefs around his neck, and his face was paled alarmingly with white make up.

Standing before us all, his hands figiting eccentrically at his sides like he was desperate for a fountain pen and an ink well, was Edgar Allen Poe, himself.

His face was half veiled in shadow, and his voice was quiet, pensive, and mellow. He introduced himself as Edgar Allen Poe, which immediately silenced every soul into stark stillness. Every pair of eyes was transfixed on this man, who, with a performance so inspired, roused the deep abysses of anxious fear inside every one of us. He performed 'The Raven' and The Cask of Amontillado.

Rebekha Farissol leaned into my left ear and whispered excitedly, "You know, I think beneath that makeup- there might be someone very handsome!"

I was so entranced, I could hardly look away at the time. After his performance, I sneaked in with some friends to see it again. My God, he was magnificant. From the powerful stride that carried him with purpose to the commanding emotion inside his voice, Nikolas Everet had become Edgar Allen Poe. This is what I longed to do, what I yeared for. On stage, I found the attention I had always desired. In character, I was not boring, simple Máiréad, but some other passionate woman that held time in the palm of her hand.

Now as I sat on my knees in the dusty, unkept balcony box of the Théâtre Mogador, my heart began to pound in furocious excitement.

"What will he perform?" Avery whispered wonderingly, watching Nikolas stand patiently on stage.

"I could see him doing Hamlet," Sylvia remarked in thought.

I grinned in a special triumph of knowing. "No, he will perform for them Act 3, Scene 2 of Titus Andronicus. 'Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought!'" I quoted from the monologue, which Nikolas so fondly rehearsed for me once. It had been on one of our many little walks, and something had caught his eye, triggered something within him so easily that the words flowed from his mouth like water from the Seine River, and the emotion surging inside him was quiet, yet burning in intensity. "It is his best, I think," I added.

Sylvia cooed, but before anything else was said between us, Avery tugged on the sleeve of my coat. " Máiréad- don't we know that man?" he asked me hushedly, pointing to the casting director that sat on the far left of the auditorium.

I peered closer, and upon difficult inspection through the dim lighting, I gasped in realization. The man was sitting in a murky cloud of stale smoke from the cigarette he had just lit, and gave the match a little shake to put the flame out. I knew this man well, but it had been years since I had seen him. Ruben Swartzkompf, a cruel German man, had left Paris years ago, before little Méav was born. I knew from common gossip that he had returned to Paris a month or so ago, because his son, Varick, who was the same age as Avery, had been left out of school for a week to welcome his father home. Ruben is a Nazi supporter, and very well known for his outspoken thoughts. I didn't remember him ever being in the theatre industry, but gossip also told me that he was good friends with Herbert Selpin.

"A snake," Sylvia hissed, glaring daggers at Ruben Swartzkompf. "What is he doing, coming back and polluting our Paris? Our beautiful stage? What could possibly interest him, here?"

Avery growled, "I can't stand his son. He is as much a bastard as his father-"

"Avery!" Sylvia gasped, her pretty dark eyes wide. Avery cursed only when he was truly aggitated.

"Isn't it true? You can't take up for him, Sylvia. Varick is terrible, and a dirty German like his father. What was it he called you and Máiréad?"

"Filthy Jews," I muttered darkly. I was not fond of Varick Swartzkompf, one of the people who wished to see him take up with the Nazis and leave Paris for Germany.

He was certainly taking his time.

"And what will you be performing, Mr. Everet?" asked one of the directors in the seats below, drawing our attention back to the audition.

Nikolas' lips slid into a sly smirk, making my skin tingle in anticipation. "I will be performing a monologue from The Merchant of Venice."

My heart stopped.

Ruben Swartzkompf sat up rigidly, his cigarette end burning bright orange. The man sitting in between Ruben and the other casting director nodded his assent, and Nikolas centered himself before looking up just enough so that light fell across his handsome face.

"To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgrac'd me and hind'red me half a million; laugh'd at my losses, mock'd at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies," Nikolas recited. His Jewish accent was just as if he were Shylock himself. "And what's his reason?" He asked, and that's when I realized he was staring down Ruben.

"I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions, fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is?" Nikolas took a few steps to the side, his hands trembling before him as if in a plea.

"If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us... shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge."

Nikolas took a step backward. "The villiany you teach me I will execute; and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction."

Silence filled the auditorium louder than any chaotic rumble. I stared with glassy eyes at Nikolas, speechless...

What on earth had he done?

"He will never be on stage again for this," Avery whispered.

I knew, too, that he was right.

Why would he do such a thing? What has gotten into you Nikolas!? He might as well have posted a neon colored sign to his chest declaring his support for the Jewish cause. Did he not realize what the price is that he just paid? I jerked forward to stand, but Avery pulled me back down.

"Mr. Everet," came the same director. "You do realize, that this play is MacBeth? We are not harboring political opinions or supporting any politicians on stage, here."

"Of course, monsieur ," Nikolas said with an impudent grin. "But pardon my saying so, monsieur, my reason behind auditioning this piece is purely innocent and personal. It is my best performance."

"Liar!" I hissed.

Sylvia shushed me.

Ruben caught my eye as he sat forward. He snubbed his cigarette out in a near by ash tray, then spoke. His voice was as gravelly and cold as ever. "I would hope that you do not see this as a joke, monsieur, and that if you are serious about auditioning, that you would give us something better than this rubbish."

Nikolas stood cooly for a beat, then said, "I ask your forgiveness, monsieur, but know that what you are calling rubbish was published by the same playwright who wrote MacBeth. Now my opinion of this is at least, that if he has written such rubbish, you would not be advocating him, either, I suppose?"

"That is enough!" Swartzkompf barked, and Sylvia and I flinched at his cold sharpness and sank below the balcony with Avery.

"You may go," the other man said, waving Nikolas away, who disappeared behind the curtain again.

I peeked up over the balcony edge just in time to see Ruben throw himself up out of his chair, lighting another cigarette as he threw open the door to the foyer and stormed out, leaving the other two directors murmuring.

"The boy was very talented..."

"Very loud in dropping hints, too..."

"Come," Avery whispered, taking my hand, then Sylvia's. "Let's hurry out before we're caught. I'm afraid if we stay too long we won't be able to get out."

I nodded and helped Sylvia not to trip over the chairs as we hurried back down the stairs and through the cleaning closet, spilling out into the hallway that lead into the foyer. "SHHH!" Sylvia hissed at Avery, who hit the wall painfully as we stumbled for a moment, dizzy now in the bright afternoon light that flooded the foyer.

I peeked around the corner carefully, and withdrew in a whirl when I saw that Ruben was standing in front of the doors, puffing his cigarette relentlessly and crossing his arms. I pulled back and shook my head. "He's standing in the way! We will have to find another way out, or he will see. I know he remembers me. I do not want him finding out Papa-"

"I think I saw an emergency exit," Sylvia said, going back down the hall. "Come on!"

Sylvia ran ahead, and almost passed the exit up. "Wait!" I said, and hit the door with my arm, pushing hard so I tumbled out into the alley of the side of the theatre-

"WATCH!" Yelled whoever I had stumbled into, with Sylvia bumping into me from behind as well.

I drew back hurriedly, my face flushed in embarassment before I realized Nikolas had been walking back here. He looked up sharply at me, then to Sylvia's guilty face and Avery's startled expression. His blue eyes looked back at me suspiciously before he sighed, realizing what we had been up to.

"You saw it, did you?" Nikolas asked, brushing his hat off before placing it back upon his head.

I nodded, rubbing my arm. "Yes."

We were all silent for a moment or two.

"You are an idiot." Avery finally stated.

"AVERY!" Sylvia exclaimed in a gasp.

"It wasn't something to do of the best choice was it?" Nikolas asked with a smirk, then looked at me. "Well, what did you think? If you were there, you might as well fess up and tell me everything you saw and heard. Did you see Ruben's face? I nearly lost myself in laughter."

My eyes widened. "You'll never work on a stage in Paris again!" I exclaimed, my mouth hanging open unlady like and unflatteringly.

Nikolas gave me a look of askance before replying, "I got the part."

"How do you know?" asked Sylvia bewilderedly.

Nikolas sighed in annoyance that we were not keeping up with his apparently cleverly calculated plan for his audition, which I'm sure that is what it was, due to his extremely calm and unperturbed demeanor. "I have worked with the other two men before. Now Ruben, you see, is a completely different matter. I took on the role of Shylock, dear children, because I know that in a few months, our beloved France will be overcome with war, and I will look like a genius to the two of the other casting directors."

"You've made yourself a target is what you have done," I told him as if scolding him. He did not look at all miffed by this. He never was phased by anything at all, and if I were to try to talk some sort of sense into him, he would brush me off.

"To advocate the Jews is now not a crime, like you would like to believe. I can say what I like, mon cher, because I am not a Jew myself. You on the other hand, are quite Jewish, no matter how much you do not look like it, and would need to be more careful than I. I am simply testing the flexibility of the new arts director of Théâtre Mogador."

Ruben Swartzkompf? Director of the Théâtre Mogador?

"He..."

Nikolas nodded gravely. "Yes, mon cher, that is what our world is coming to," he said, then smiled softly. "No need to worry. You are safe with-" He glanced at Avery with a wry smile. "-people to protect you. Though, I fear those people will need protecting too."

I took a long deep breath as we walked with him out of the alley way. "Where are you going now?"

"To admire our lovely Paris as it is in the moment," Nikolas said, looking back at us. I was confused by what he meant by this, and it seemed to read upon my face for he raised an eyebrow. "You have not heard the news? It was in the paper this morning. The Nazi army has already invaded Denmark and Norway, and has penetrated France; rumor has it, they are on their way here."