Preston W. Child
The Fountain of Youth
Prologue
Shimmering stars from fresh droplets of rain beautified the otherwise vile streets of Riga. It was late, late in so many ways. The war was looming and for the company it was too late to turn back. Even Ami knew it, and she’d been so obsessed with her performance career that not even World War II had been deemed reason enough to take a break. And why should it? At sixteen years of age she was in the prime of her youth and the world awaited her, but even she admitted to feeling somewhat apprehensive about what was coming.
The reality pressed upon them all, but Ami vowed to do everything in her power to keep the minds of her colleagues off the dangers of touring Europe. In the imminent shadow nearing her Baltic home, they could all feel the hellish breath of the volatile dragon that crawled at the feet of the SS in Germany.
Ami stared out over the almost deathly silent streets, playing witness only to half-hearted solicitations by drunken men and desperate women in the shelter of the night below the Orfeju Opera House. Her ankles ached under her slender frame, something that came only with overexertion or sickness. Either way, it was her secret to keep. Through tear-riddled blue eyes she gazed into the cold night, counting the steeples between her and the shoreline where the ocean lapped gently in invitation.
“Ami, are you coming, dear?” she heard Lamma’s soothing voice from behind her. “You cannot occupy the change rooms all night, you know.” He neared her in a humorous rendition of some humpback creature, reaching out to capture her, making his voice quiver in mock warning. “You do know that the opera house is dreadfully haunted, don’t you? It’s not safe for pretty ballerinas to be locked in here at night just because they missed the call time for closing.”
“Oh, can it, Lamma,” Ami snickered. She adored the fifty-five-year-old company director and his silly attempt at cheering up his troop of young aspiring professionals. “You don’t scare me.”
He shed his momentary show and stood next to her in his full tallness. “What is so fascinating that you would risk getting locked in here?”
“Honestly, I lost track of the time. There was nothing out there keeping my attention other than the ocean air and thinking about the future of the company,” she admitted. “Let me get my coat. I’ve already changed out of my pointes, see?”
“Well done,” he replied dryly. With folded arms he waited for his last performer to finish changing and join the rest of the company downstairs before heading to the lodge.
“I’m going to miss this place. It’s quite beautiful,” she mused while running a brush through her lavish, long, blond locks. Rapid scoop-like movements swept her lengthy tresses into a neat bun. She buttoned up her coat as Lamma opened the door for her. It was his subtle way of rushing people along when he was getting impatient.
“It’s wonderful, but we can’t stay. In two days we dance for the German devils in Denmark. They’ve taken up residence near the Kongelige Theatre and wish us to entertain them for three nights in a row,” Lamma informed her as she passed him.
“You don’t sound pleased. They must be paying handsomely, no?” she asked as they ascended the dark wooden staircase that reeked of dust and mold.
“Indeed,” he sighed. “And that’s the only reason I agreed to the invitation, Ami. To get meals and accommodation free of charge these days is unheard of, as you know.”
“Especially for a ballet company like Diaghilev's Ballets Russes,” Ami agreed.
“What I fear more is the prospect of having to repeat this performance — and I mean that in more than just metaphor — in Berlin once these tyrants have ignited what we all hope will blow over,” he lamented. “But it’s the only way for us to make a name and a profit at the same time.”
Lamma shrugged as he opened the external door at the landing of the ground floor, letting in the light from the pallid streetlamp. Ami could see the lines on his face more deeply than usual. The director was gravely concerned, but Ami maintained her light-heartedness to relieve the stress of the weighty decisions Lamma has had to make for the good of the troop. Out of courtesy to him she said nothing more on the subject and only replied with a smile and a suggestion.
“Shall we accost the baker tomorrow for those cinnamon rolls you love so much?”
After two nights of exceptional skill on stage and equally grand relations with the high officers of the SS present at the banquet, the Ballets Russes Company excelled yet again on the third night. It was an evening arranged especially for the Führer, accompanied by four of his high commissioners in charge of various progressive Nazi endeavors. On short notice, considering the political climate and transport systems, the SS had changed the location of the performances to the Oslo Drama House. It was the pride of the local business chamber organization, which was striving to establish a solid arts program. They wanted to garner support from bigger establishments in and around Scandinavia. Inadvertently, however, it had garnered Nazi support instead.
“By now you should be used to it,” Claire told Ami as they peeked from the dark security of the wing drapes of the theatre.
“Four months in allied countries and now we’re right in the middle of Hitler country?” Ami replied. “No, I can’t seem to shake this bad feeling.”
“Relax. We’re dancers — performers, not soldiers. They have no tangle with us. They’re just men in scary uniforms,” Claire told the nervous principal dancer she’d befriended months before.
“Men in scary uniforms who kill thousands of innocent people — women and children even — as easily as if taking a shit, Claire. They’re evil. Just look at them!” Ami insisted. “Is that Hitler?”
Lamma perked up behind the two ballerinas. “That’s him. Monster. I wish I could burn this place down during intermission while that son of a whore takes a piss in the men’s room.”
Ami had never heard Lamma say anything hostile in her life, and she could see that Claire was as surprised as she was. But under the circumstances such utterings were hardly surprising anymore. “Just deliver the same brilliant performance you always do, my darlings. Pretend you are dancing for the gods in some celestial palace,” he gestured dreamily. “And once you’re done devastating the eyes and hearts of your onlookers with dashing beauty, we’ll be out of this city and on our way to Karlstad. Safe.”
Claire stared at the SS officers laughing and sipping wine. “Nowhere is safe.”
Ami tried her best to un-hear those words, because she absolutely concurred with them. But for now she had to do her best work, not for Hitler, but for Lamma. He had been her mentor and much like a father. He’d trained her to be her best at an early age. Then, he’d taken the company on tour to advance the fame and reputation of his excellent female dancers, herself among them.
“The piano work is a good edge, Lamma,” the owner of the building told the director as the ballerinas took the stage in bright competence and astounding flair. “Better than the strings, I think.”
“Thank you,” Lamma answered, keeping his eyes straight ahead on the ladies on the stage. “We’ve had to make special considerations for the performances since the war began. All of our male performers have been conscripted, but I couldn’t let an already planned tour fall to ruin just because of the German threat to the world, so,” he shrugged proudly, “we rewrote the pieces to omit male dancers entirely.”