After standing in the wings for countless shows, watching others perform, this would be the first time she’d actually step onto the stage? Before thousands of people, with no rehearsal? She yanked the script out of her bag and leafed through the first scene, trying to imprint the cues in her head. The words swam around on the page as her heart pounded in her rib cage.
Another loud clap of thunder. “Will they cancel it if it rains?”
“You kidding?” said Phyllis. “Some of these men walked miles to get here. They ain’t going anywhere.”
Hazel followed the other girls behind the big truck. The rain was holding off, but probably not for long, judging from the soggy feel in the air. Hazel longed for a bolt of lightning to hit the truck and cancel the show. Anything to not have to go onstage in front of this sea of men, in a strange country, when she hadn’t eaten or slept in what felt like a week.
She waited in the wings, which was really a small set of stairs that led onstage, forcing back tears. Betty-Lou handed her a tarnished silver tray. “Here’s your prop.” Hazel couldn’t even whisper anything back—by then, her throat had closed up. She’d wanted desperately to act in a play, but not like this.
Even worse, her character had the first entrance.
The lights went up.
She couldn’t go out there. Into the spotlight.
“What are you waiting for?” A solid shove from Maxine, who’d silently reappeared, propelled her up the stairs. Hazel placed the tray on a table downstage as Verna entered from the other side. Hazel had no idea what Verna said, her mind had fuzzed over, but she answered with “Yes’m,” her first line. She managed to utter the next few, hoping she got them in the right order, before scampering like a dog with its tail between its legs back to the safety of the wings.
The soldiers roared with laughter. Backstage, Betty-Lou gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Not bad.”
The show continued. The other members of the cast were loud and confident, especially Maxine, who was a force of nature as the psychic Madame Arcati. The two male parts were played by men, presumably soldiers who’d volunteered. Each time Hazel ventured out, she relaxed a little more.
When she wasn’t onstage, she watched the eager faces of the soldiers in the first few rows. The men were desperate for entertainment, for something else to think about besides the war, and even when the rain began falling in sheets, no one stirred.
Unfortunately, in spite of the men’s rapt attention, her performance was far from perfect. She stepped on the other girls’ lines instead of waiting her turn to speak, and missed a couple of entrances.
But she’d done it. She’d acted on a stage, in front of people. Terribly, no doubt about that, but as the men whooped and whistled during the curtain call, Hazel managed a proud smile.
“Up and at ’em, ladies.”
Verna’s voice boomed across the pup tent.
Hazel groaned and sat upright. After being driven back to the base the night before, Hazel had skipped dinner and retreated to her assigned cot, the exhaustion from her journey and the sheer terror of performing having caught up with her.
Sure, she’d stunk last night in the show. But what had they expected with no rehearsals?
Better to come clean, try to start fresh. “Listen, everyone. I’m sorry about how awful I was. I didn’t expect to go onstage so soon.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Betty-Lou’s voice came out a sweet squeak. “We all had a period of adjustment. It’s to be expected.”
“Yeah,” agreed Verna. “The thing about this gig is that you’ll get a do-over. And another. And another.”
“I’m so sick of Blithe Spirit.” Phyllis yanked a stocking over a thick thigh. Everything about Phyllis was solid and grandmotherly, even though she couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. “The men love it, but they love anything. What’s the schedule today?”
Verna looked up at a ragged calendar posted on the bulletin board. “We’re off this morning, then shows at four and eight.”
“I’m serious.” Betty-Lou put her hands over her face. “I can’t do this play again. Please don’t make me.”
Maybe there was something Hazel could do to make up for last night. She pulled her suitcase out from under her cot and popped it open. Digging through the dresses, she found the book she was looking for and held it up.
“I brought this with me. Twelve Best American Plays from 1936 to 1937. Maybe one of these will work instead.”
Betty-Lou let out a shriek. “Amen! I thought we’d be waiting another month for a new script. Now we have twelve. Maxine, look.”
Maxine, who’d been uncharacteristically subdued, reading a book on her cot, swung her legs over the side. “Let’s see.”
Hazel tossed it over.
“Not bad.” Maxine thumbed through it. “We can work with this. Good job, Hayseed.”
Hazel refused to let that nickname stick. “Look, I really don’t want to be called Hayseed during my tour. I’ve paid my dues.”
“In what way?”
“Well, I’ve worked on Broadway since 1939.”
Maxine studied her. “Why don’t I remember you, then? When I lived in New York, I went to everything.”
“I was an understudy.”
“Huh. Did you ever go on?”
Hazel swallowed. “No.”
“Wait a minute.” Verna snapped her fingers. “I heard about you. Didn’t you understudy for something like two dozen shows and never once perform?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Not that Hazel wanted to give her one. “That’s right! The producers loved you because the audiences were never disappointed. It was in the Post.”
Hazel’s mother had read the article aloud the day it came out, while Hazel’s ears burned with embarrassment. “What a shame,” Ruth had said. “You standing in the sidelines while real actresses like Fay Wray and Betty Furness get the spotlight. Seriously, Hazel. Your brother would’ve been very disappointed.”
A man’s voice called out from the other side of the tent’s flap door. “The facilities are ready for you, ladies.”
Hazel, relieved by the interruption, followed the girls outside, clutching her helmet and a towel. They were led to the washing area, where a board with circular cutouts lay across two wooden horses. The women stuck their helmets under the faucet and filled them with water before laying them in the holes, a kind of makeshift sink. Hazel washed her face and hands and brushed her teeth before dumping out the water and wiping the inside of her helmet with a towel.
She’d hoped that she’d have the morning to get her bearings around the camp but instead was told to report back to Naples to fill out more paperwork, with Maxine assigned to accompany her. She wished it had been one of the others.
Hazel held tight as the Jeep careened back toward Naples over roads that were no better than those in the Dark Ages must have been. Above the narrow streets, laundry hung limply from precarious-looking balconies. They took a right, coming to a small plaza, where a crowd blocked the way.
“What’s going on?” asked Maxine.
The driver stood up to get a better look. “Stay here, in the Jeep.” He climbed out and was soon swallowed by the crowd.
Hazel and Maxine pulled themselves to standing to get a better view. The focal point of attention seemed to be a beautiful, very pale boy with full cheeks, his blond hair swept off to one side. For a moment, Hazel almost called out her brother’s name. The resemblance was uncanny: Even the way the boy tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes was the same. When her brother used to do that, girls swooned.
But no, it wasn’t Ben. This kid was too young, for one, and when he turned his head, the profile wasn’t quite right, the nose slightly turned up at the tip. He had one arm flung around a slightly older boy sporting the beginnings of a mustache, who seemed to be near tears.