Thus will Shine the Dawn 1 (PDF)

Rating:
Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Fandom:
Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Characters:
Monsieur Lefèvre, Erik (Phantom of the Opera), a crap ton of minor Ocs, Other Character Tags to
Be Added
Additional Tags:
Alternate Universe - Nazi Occupation, will most likely be a very long fic, Some OOC, i took some
liberties with the characters, but not with History, Historical Accuracy, Mild Gore, Rating May
Change, Suicidal Thoughts, Murder, Nazis
Language: English
Chapters:1/?

Thus will Shine the Dawn
IndianaJinx
Summary:
The Opéra Populaire struggles for the right to entertain in Nazi-occupied France. Sooner or later,
each of its members will have to pick a side. Some will collaborate with the invader, others will
fight for freedom. Many will die.
"Good night then: Sleep to gather strength for the morning. For the morning will come." said
Churchill...
Notes:
Hello everyone ! This is the first time I try writing a fanfiction in english, I really hope it makes
sense and I'm trully sorry if it doesn't. This hasn't been beta'd so I'd appreciate if you took the time
to help me improve my english.
I'm a bit of a WW2 and Phantom of the Opera nerd, so I thought I'd try to put both those fascinating
things in a fanfiction and see what comes out of it. This will most likely be a long fic and it will
most likely be edited often. I'll try and update it once a month (but I'm a lazy petite merde).

Chapter 1: Taciturnitas t'acusat
Chapter Notes:
Keep in mind that this is the first chapter of a long fic, which means there will be lots of character
development (especially for the Phantom) in the next chapters.
Enjoy !
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

No matter how hard he tried, Monsieur Lefèvre couldn't forget. He knew he never would.
He had been standing outside the coulisses with the official letter crumpled in his shaking hands,
wishing with all his might that the twenty Nazi soldiers and their officer wouldn't find anyone. He
prayed they would just go away and forget all about the Opéra Populaire.
But they didn't.
The sounds of their boots on the stage planks had been deafening. He had expected shouts, gunfire,
a struggle, but all he heard were the thunder of boots stomping on wood, carpet, metal, tiling. In a

matter of minutes, the Résistants, thirteen machinists, had all been cuffed. The oldest
(Fernand. I mustn't forget his name.)
had been working at the Opéra Populaire for more than twenty years. He had been here before
Lefèvre even visited for the first time.
They were all familiar faces, people who used to take off their hats when he entered the auditorium,
who shook his hand reverently when he congratulated them on a particularly successful production,
who called him "Monsieur le Directeur" and worked all day and night and scratched their hands on
the ropes and broke their backs carrying stage décor and looked up to him.
(Arnaud, Marc, Bertrand, Jean-François, César...)
Amongst them was Félix, Fernand's 16 years old son who had decided two years ago to stay in Paris
with his father instead of leaving for England to study english litterature. He was staring fiercely at
the nazi officer. Lefèvre felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest.
"You will be escorted to the kommandantur." said the officer whose accent made french sound like a
foreign language. "If you resist, or if you try to run, you will be shot."
Most of the machinists were staring at the ground. Some of them were looking ahead with their
shoulders slumped. Only Félix was looking at the officer.
(Don't do anything stupid, petit...)
(What if he did ? Being shot here or later in the Rue de Clichy kommandantur, what difference does
it make?)
The officer barked an order in German and the SS soldiers started to walk the machinists out of the
stage to the main hall. Every single employee of the Populaire was there, standing on the marble
steps to catch a glimpse of the thirteen men
(heroes?)
who had been caught by the Nazis.
The concierge opened the big double doors to let the soldiers and prisonners through and then Félix
took a deep breath. It felt as if time stopped. The boy suddenly yelled as he ran towards the officer.
"Mort aux boches ; Lefèvre collabo !..."
Bam-bam-bam !
The sound of the machinegun was still ringing in Lefèvre's ears when Félix's back hit the cold, hard
marble floor of the Opéra Populaire's main hall. The ballet girls screamed. The mob started to
scatter. Blood began to flow on the white marble like on a butcher's table. Fernand sank to his knees
next to his son. The boy was staring at the ceiling, eyes wide, legs shaking. He coughed once and
then he stopped moving.
Lefèvre had to put the back of his hand against his mouth, he felt like he was going to hurl.
Fernand closed his eyes as his son's blood began to soak his trousers.
"Back in the ranks !" barked the officer.
"You monsters." said Fernand, opening his eyes to look at the man in the black uniform who was
slowly approaching him. "There's plenty of us. If I don't kill you, someone else will ! Vive la
Liberté !"
While the chief machinist was talking, the officer casually took out the pistol from the leather
holster at his hip, checked that there was a bullet in the magazine, and then as Fernand bellowed
"Vive la France !", he shot him in the head.
Lefèvre doubled over and vomitted this morning's croissant aux amandes on the first floor carpet.
They had led the machinists
(like cattle)

and the two corpses to a military truck parked in front of the opera house. The officer had come
back, and was standing before Lefèvre who was holding on to a pillar because his knees were just
about to give out.
"I apologize for the blood on your floors. Should I leave one of my men to clean up ?"
"No." croaked Lefèvre. "It's fine."
"As you wish. If there are some other traitors roaming your opera house, I'm sure you'll let me know
before the gestapo finds out by themselves like this time."
"Yes."
"Wunderbar. Thank you for your trust and loyalty, Herr Lefèvre. I'll see you in two months for the
7th of Mozart's Don Giovanni."
"Yes."
(Blood on the white marble floor)
"I'm looking forward to it, I hear La Carlotta is one of the best Donna Anna this side of the Rhine."
"She is."
(Father and son dead on the mosaïque)
The officer held out his hand. Lefèvre shook it weakly.
"Sehr gut. Stay safe, Herr Lefèvre."
And then he was gone.
--Lefèvre was sitting in his office chair, facing the window on Rue Scribe, silent tears in the corners
of his eyes. He hadn't been able to sleep or look at his face in a mirror since the
(execution)
incident the day before. The echoes of Félix' last words crowded his head like the bells of Notre
Dame.
"Lefèvre collabo !". The boy hadn't actually been able to finish the last word, for the first bullet had
hit him at "-la-". The next gunshot had finished it for him.
Oedipus had spoken. Lefèvre, pitiable Tiresias, had stayed silent.
In his left hand was the gestapo letter, stating that there had been an official investigation, that the
gestapo had reasons to believe that there was a small network of Résistants hiding amongst the
personnel. There were names, too. And a request that Lefèvre instructed his concierge to let the SS
soldiers in.
(I opened the door myself when he knocked)
The officer had been polite and relaxed.
(I shook his hand)
It had all happened in a heartbeat.
(I did nothing to stop it)
The blood and brains and vomit had been cleaned up.
(I could have stopped it)
The chief stagehand had been interviewing new machinists all day.
(I should have stopped it)
In his right hand was an old 7.65mm M1910 Browning, his name engraved in the ivory grip, with 3
bullets in the magazine. He put the cold barrel in his mouth and closed his eyes.
(Mon Dieu, let me be at peace)
His finger was on the trigger but the image of Fernand's skull exploding and oozing blood and gore
on the floors made his stomach churn. He put the gun on his side table and took his head in his
shaking hands.

"You weren't the only one." said a voice behind him, suddenly.
He knew who that voice belonged to. He had heard it a few times before, in box 5.
"M Lefèvre. No one did anything to stop them. Anyone could have said anything. No one did."
"I can't live with this, M le Fantôme."
"Why ?"
"I see them, I see their faces watching me, they're being shot – possibly tortured - as we speak. I
cannot possibly forget..."
"Everyone else can."
"Not me."
"You are a fool."
"I will die of guilt anyway ! Might as well end it before more people are murdered because of my
cowardice !"
Lefèvre stood up and turned around, expecting to see his office empty.
But the Phantom was here.
It seemed that the infamous Ghost was nothing but a man, after all. Tall and elegant in an oldfashioned black suit, black hair slicked back, and a porcelain half-mask covering his face, the right
side of it. His white shirt was impeccable. He looked as if he was about to attend a very fancy Bal
Masqué in the main hall
(where two men died yesterday blood brains gore oh mon Dieu please help me)
Lefèvre looked longingly at the pistol on the small table to his left.
"You can't press the trigger, can you ?"
"I'm afraid I'm too much of a coward, even for that."
There was a pause.
"You haven't always followed my instructions... Nevertheless, you have been a good manager to my
opera house, M Lefèvre."
"I tried."
"For all the good things you've done here, I will do you a favor." He extended his hand, in it was a
red rope. "I think you will be missed."
In two steps, he was in front of the manager.
"Thank you."
Lefèvre closed his eyes as the rope settled against his throat. He embraced it. He didn't fight.
And in his last breath, he whispered : "Tu peremptor !"
Notes:
The title of this fanfiction, "Thus will shine the dawn", is a quote from a speech made by Winston Churchill
on october 21st, 1940. It was addressed to the french living under Nazi occupation.
The chapter title is a line from Stravinsky's opera Oedipus Rex. The second part of the line is said by
Lefèvre; Full line is "Taciturnitas t'acusat : tu peremptor !" and means "your silence accuses you, you are the
murderer !" in latin.
Félix' last words "Mort aux boches, Lefèvre collabo" means "Death to the Fritz, Lefèvre is a quisling".
I hope you enjoyed !