Her passport says Richelle Blaine, but no one had used that name in years. Her friends, from Paris to Madrid and even all the way back to New York all know her as Rickie.

---

---

Rickie's Café Américain, Casablana, Morocco, 1941 …

She sits in her usual corner when everyone…mostly everyone knows she wishes not to be disturbed.

“Rickie.” She hears her name over the sound of the band playing some popular American tune. She looks up to see Signor Ugarte, a petty crook who occasionally offers to Rickie hard to find things that he feels she might find useful.

“I have something that might interest you,” he says with a half smile. She just stares at him with a look that says, “Well? What?”

“These… I found them,” he says, pointing to an envelope in his hands. He pulls out the contents, revealing papers marked Lettres’ de Transit. Rickie feigns disinterest, but then smiles wryly.

“And how again do you say you obtained them?”

“I found them,” he says as he looks around nervously. Truth be told, he did find them while rifling through the pockets of the two German Soldiers he had killed the day before.

Rickie knows exactly what the documents are; Letters of Transit that permit any holder freedom to travel anywhere in the German-occupied territories of Europe, including to neutral Portugal.

A commotion begins at the entrance to the café as several police enter amidst shouting. Ugarte thrusts the envelope into Rickie’s hands and runs toward the door to the kitchen. His progress is cut off by two policemen, but he breaks away and heads toward the front door, all the while screaming,

“Rickie…help…save me.” She shakes her head even as she stows the envelope in her purse.

“Get him…stop him,” one man shouts even as Ugarte manages to run through the front doorway. Locking it behind him, he finds his progress blocked as two other police approach the entrance. He pulls out a pistol, but is shot dead, leaving the whereabouts of the letters unknown.

“Sacha?” Rickie waves, pointing to her empty gin glass. He arrives quickly with a refill as Rickie stares calmly at her purse.

---

---

The following afternoon at Café Americain...

A very large man steps up to Rickie’s table.

“Miss Blaine?” She looks up from her gin to find Signor Ferrari already placing hand to chair.

“Not now, Ferrari. At that outdoor joint by your place….The Blue Parrot? I’ll call you.” He goes to protest but she raises her hand and halts him.

“Not NOW!” He shrugs in surrender before speaking.

“Very well, MISS Blaine. It will give you all the more time to consider my offer.” With that he turns and walks out of the café.

“Miss Rickie?” another voice interrupts her and she puts the gin down once again.

“Yes, Sascha. What is it?” Rickie snaps, but quickly touches the bartender’s arm in apology. He nods and continues.

“Captain Renault stopped by earlier. Something about a raid this evening? He seemed almost pleased.”

“It’s okay, Sasha. He’s … let’s just say that there’s a window of opportunity until about twelve or so.” She looks over past the archway into the no-gambling-whatsoever area and laughs softly.

“Oh…and there is a couple who said they need to see you.” Sasha uses his arm in a broad gesture toward the bar where a petite woman and her equally slight husband sit.

“Give them a glass of wine each on the house. After they’ve finished, send them over here? I’m not going anywhere,” she says with a sigh; her presence in Casablanca destined to go far beyond what any calendar might foretell.

“But of course, Miss Rickie.” He bows and returns to the bar. A moment later the couple holds their glasses aloft in gratitude. Rickie nods. Funny how a quiet unassuming bartender can put just the right inflection on the word ‘Miss’ while well-off bombasts like Ferrari make the title an insult. In a short while Sasha escorts the couple to Rickie’s table.

“Hello? Miss Blaine?” She looks up to see a friendly if somewhat nervous woman.

“Heh…hello? My name is Annina… Annina Brandel. This is my…my husband Jan.” She half-smiles and squeezes Jan’s arm. He remains silent.

“We…we heard… someone…someone said…” she looks down, but still able to see Rickie’s hand held up in caution.

“Before you go any further, I can’t help you. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but there’s no way I can get you out of Morocco, much less here.”

“But surely… Jan? Tell her…” Annina looks at her husband and frowns. He sighs deeply before pulling back his left jacket and shirt sleeves. Sadly emblazoned on his left arm is a small, poorly drawn tattoo. A pink triangle. Rickie winces at the sight.

“You have to help. I will do anything… Help Jan… No matter what.” Annina leans against Jan and begins to sob. He nods and speaks.

“Some of my… they thought it amusing to…” He points at the crude tattoo. Rickie tilts her head and half-frowns; more for their plight than anything they might yet reveal. But she knows all too well what they yet face.

“I was… they found me in a club… I wasn’t dressed like this…” He chokes back a sob. Rickie once again puts up her hand in caution, but it isn’t to rebuff them.

“I…I can manage to get you as far as Ceutas. I have a friend who runs the Ferry, but all I can manage are some forged papers. The real McCoy?? No can do. You’ll have to manage the rest on your own,” she says as she eyes Jan up and down. Annina tries without success to keep from crying. Rickie nods.

“Go over to Corrina,” she says as she points to the kind looking woman with the guitar by the bandstand.

“She should be able to find something for you both to wear.” Rickie is tempted to give them money right then and there, but thinks better of it for at least the moment.

“Thh….thank you,” Jan stammers. Annina smiles even as the tears continue to flow. Rickie knows what Annina feels… and exactly what Jan feels. As they walk away, Rickie absentmindedly lowers her head, recalling her own journey of transformation from what she had been to whom she had become...Rick to Richelle.... And while helping the couple is a good thing for her, the memories the act evokes caused Rickie to look away as she hides her own tears…

---

---

A few days later…

She sits almost quietly at the very dusty Blue Parrot café on the main drag of Casablanca, regretting the meeting she has agreed to. Her coffee and her ‘appointment’ arrive at her table at the same time. She barely welcomes the coffee and shakes her head as the large man sits down.

“I am very glad you agreed, Miss Blaine,” the man practically oozes false charm.

“I stopped being called Miss Blaine after I graduated high school. It’s Rickie, Signor Ferrari. And I agreed to see you to tell you my answer is still no.”

“Come now, Miss Blaine. Surely we can come to some sort of arrangement?”

“Well, as the saying goes, Signor Ferrari? From where I sit, hell isn’t going to get cold anytime soon. When the war is over and I’m in the mood to leave this god forsaken place, perhaps I’ll sell? Bu for now let’s just agree to be friendly competitors while the rest of the world goes to hell in a hand cart.”

And now she eyes her purse, debating whether or not to retrieve the flask of gin to add to her now tepid coffee. Ferrari stands up and surprisingly nods.

“Good day,” he says as he bows before turning swiftly and walking away. A voice to her left interrupts her train of thought.

“Will that be all, Miss Rickie?” the young waiter is more anxious about being around her than any tip he might receive. She doesn’t disappoint him in either regard as she thrusts a bill into his hand while patting him on the cheek.

“Yes, Karim. Tell Omar he needs to use clean water next time for the coffee.” He shrugs his shoulders and smiles weakly as she walks away.

---

---

That evening…

Rickie once again sits at her table, hoping nothing more will invade her corner of the world. She is immediately disappointed as a tall handsome man and his equally strikingly beautiful female companion enter the café. Forgetting her manners and likely thankful no one was in earshot of her, she recalls a bit of her Hell’s Kitchen language, speaking aloud.

“Oh, fuck!” She goes to get up, but her purse strap catches the back of her chair. The woman walks over to Sam as she plays some jazz riffs on the piano, acting as if they know each other. Of course they do. In a few moments Sam nods and begins to play an all too painfully familiar tune; her soft, smoky voice singing a song Rickie desperately had hoped to forget.

You must remember this
a kiss is just a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by

And when two lovers woo
They still say "I love you"
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by

Rickie shakes her head even as the woman places her hand on Sam’s back. Sam keeps playing but nods as the woman points in Rickie’s direction. In a few moments the woman and her male companion walk up and seat themselves at Rickie’s table.

“Good evening,” the man says but withholds his hand until Rickie raises hers in greeting; albeit almost reluctantly.

“Victor Lazlo,” he says. Rickie already knows who he is, and the reason he is in Casablanca along with his wife….Rickie’s former lover, Ilsa Lund. Ilsa Lund Lazlo. Rickie offers her hand to Ilsa as if they were meeting for the first time even though she knows full-well Ilsa has probably told her husband all about her own past.

“Richelle…” Ilsa says almost dispassionately, for the reason that their visit indeed is almost dispassionate but for the urgency of their presence.

“Ilsa,” Rickie says with as little passion as she can manage, all the while cursing the moment.

“One second?” Rickie gets up and walks over to Sam, who is still playing the tune.

“I told you never to play that… Not now…Not ever.” She glowers at Sam, who begins playing Stardust instead even as Rickie’s frown fades. She nods at Sam in apology and Sam nods back. She returns to the table.

“I’m…What do you want, Monsieur?” She says even as she sits back down. Lazlo speaks softly.

“A Signor Ferrari mentioned that you may have come into some very vital documents….”

“Save it. I’m not interested in what you need. Not you or your cause.”

“But Richelle?” Ilsa begins to speak. She shakes her head at the familiarity and speaks again.

“Miss… Rickie… Can we…. The past is in the past, is it not?” Painfully so, Rickie had hoped, but she cannot not help but curse the idea that of all the gin joints in the world Ilsa had to walk into hers.

“Yes, but that still doesn’t mean I can help you.” If anyone else had asked, the answer would still have been no, since those documents might be a way out of North Africa for Rickie, regardless of what arrangements she might be able make for others. She shakes her head.

“But…”

“Sorry.”

Rickie shakes her head again and is trying to think of a less confrontational refusal when a loud noise erupts at the other end of the café as Major Henrich Strasser, SS, enters along with Captain Renault accompanied by a group of German officers walking in; acting, as it were, as if they own the place.

Strasser remains standing and begins to sing, and soon all of his officers join in.

Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall,
wie Schwertgeklirr und Wogenprall:
Zum Rhein, zum Rhein, zum deutschen Rhein,
wer will des Stromes Hüter sein?*

Lazlo then stands and steps away from the table a few paces, barely able to contain his frustration and sadness. He begins to sing; almost quiet and stammering, but undaunted.

Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
Contre nous de la tyrannie
L’étendard sanglant est levé
L’étendard sanglant est levé**

He then tells the band to join in. The bandleader turns to Rickie who nods and they begin to play. Soon Lazlo is joined by a handful of the café patrons as they continue to sing, prompting the German officers to sing louder.

In moments, the entire group of customers arises, many of them weeping, and they sing loud enough to drown out the Germans.

Strasser immediately turns to Captain Renault and says something. Renault then motions to his police officers before speaking as the song fades away.

“By order of the City of Casablanca, this establishment is closed due to the discovery of gambling on the premises. Everyone must exit immediately.” As the patrons are ushered out, Rickie goes up to Renault who shakes his head in mock disapproval.

“Gambling? At Le Café Americain? I’m shocked.” The Croupier walks up to Renault.

“Here are your winnings, Monsieur.”

Rickie frowns as the Café empties, leaving her alone as the café staff departs as well, with Lazlo standing next to Ilsa as Strasser approaches.

“It is no longer safe for you to remain in Casablanca,” he says with a half-smile.

“But we were told it was not safe for us to travel,” Ilsa protests. Lazlo remains silent; almost expecting Strasser’s next words.

“Yes, but with my escort, you can be assured of arriving safely in France.” Ilsa goes to speak, but Lazlo holds up his hand and remarks.

“We will make ourselves available tomorrow in your office, if that is acceptable?”
Strasser nods.

“Yes. Tomorrow at nine sharp.” He turns without another word and exits with the remainder of the police and German officers, leaving Ilsa and Lazlo alone, as Rickie has already retreated to her office.

---

---

At the Lazlos’ hotel that night.

“You mustn’t meet with the Underground. It is too dangerous.” Ilsa sighs as Lazlo looks out the window; espying a figure in the dark shadows across the street.

“We were in danger the moment we came here, my darling,” he says as he closes the curtain. Kissing her on the forehead he walks to the door and is gone.

---

---

The darkened club is empty save for the lone woman and her friend. Sam places an open bottle of Gordon’s and a glass in front of Rickie, who quickly pours and downs the gin. Having Ilsa walk back into her life after so long has left her moving between numbness and pain. She sighs and peers through the fog of memory….

---

---

Gare de Lyon, Paris, 1940

Rickie is standing alone on the platform. She looks at her watch, anxious since the last train from Paris is poised to depart in less than a quarter-hour. The rain cascades off her head and shoulders, but she seems not to notice.

The steady sound of the rain is interrupted by a gentle nudge and a near whisper as the woman beside her gains her attention. Sam thrusts an envelope into Rickie’s hand.

“Where is she? Have you seen her,” Rickie asks. Sam half-frowns in disappointment on behalf of her friend.

“No, Miss Rickie. I couldn’t find her. This came right after you left to come here.” Rickie struggles to open the envelope, which seems to fight her, but finally gives way.

“I cannot go with you or ever see you again,” it begins. Rickie winces from the hurt that permeates her soul,

“You can’t ask why. Just know… trust that I do love you… Go my sweet darling, and God bless you, Ilsa.”

She had steeled herself and was not going to give into the emotion by crying…ever.

“Come along, Miss Rickie. That’s the last call. We’ve got to go, “ Rickie shakes her head, not to argue about the departure but rather to what she had just read.

“Quick, Miss Rickie,” Sam presses Rickie’s arm urgently as she ushers her toward the waiting coach.

“Come on, Miss Rickie,” Sam helps her along. The rain and tears pour off the letter, blurring the ink as the train whistle sounds one last time.

---

---

The present at Café Américain

Rickie stares at her drink. Jan and his wife, disguised as two sisters from Lyon, have been safely sent on their way, with hopes that they might reach Spain without harm. Sam has gone home, leaving Rickie alone.

The dim atmosphere is disturbed by the glare of a flashlight as the beam crosses Rickie’s face. As the beam moves, her eyes dart to the other side of the room where Ilsa stands in the doorway. Rickie blinks in disbelief. "It can’t be her,”she thinks.

“Rickie?”

Rickie refocuses to see Ilsa’s figure barely illuminated by the dim light in the center of the club. Rickie gets to her feet with a little bit of shock. She shakes her head.

“Rickie? I have to talk,” Ilsa says almost casually, her voice barely moving between uncertain and tentative, but with a quiet determination underneath. Rickie mirrors the casual moment.

“Here… I saved my first drink to have with you, here,” Rickie says as she offers Ilsa the bottle.

“No, Rickie. Not tonight.” Ilsa sits down and ignores the bottle and glass and instead scans Rickie’s face, looking for some hint of emotion. Rickie instead appears almost impassive. She sits down across from Ilsa and offers the bottle again.

“Especially tonight,” Ilsa implores. Rickie drains her own glass and pours herself another drink. Ilsa looks away slightly, wishing Rickie would stop. She turns to face her again.

“Please stop?”

“Why did you have to come here? There are other places.”

“I wouldn’t have come here if I had known you were here. Believe me. That’s the truth. I didn’t know.” Ilsa half-frowns.

“So ,,,, funny about your voice. How it never changed. I can still hear you say, ‘Rickie? I’ll go with you anywhere. We’ll get on a train and never stop.'”

“Please don’t. Don’t Rickie,” She watches as Rickie takes another drink, but it is more about her words at that point that troubles her.

“I understand how you feel,” Ilsa says quietly.

“You understand how I feel? How long were we…did we have together, honey?”

“I didn’t count the days,” Ilsa says with an embarrassed curtness.

“Well I did. Every last one of them. Just a wonderful finish. With a girl standing on a station platform in the rain with a stupid look on her face, because her heart had just been torn out.” Rickie grabs the bottle and pours another drink. She stares at the glass through the tears she swore she’d never shed.

“Can I tell you a story,” Ilsa practically begs. Rickie shrugs in semi-surrender, thinking what difference does it make at this point?

“Does it have a wow finish?”

“I don’t know the finish….yet.” Ilsa half-smiles.

“Well go ahead,” Rickie snaps. “Maybe it will come to you as you go along?” Ilsa ignores the sarcasm…hoping to win her over.

“It’s about a girl who came to Paris from her home in Oslo. At the house of some friends she met a woman she had heard about her whole life….well, mostly. A great and courageous woman who opened up a whole new world of knowledge and ideas and thoughts. And everything she would ever know or become was because of that woman. And she worshipped her with a feeling she supposed was love.”

“Well, that’s very pretty. I’ve heard a lot of stories in my time,” Rickie says bitterly.

"They all went along with a tinny piano in the parlor downstairs. And 'Hey Lady, I met someone when I was just a kid.’” Ilsa begins to shudder, struggling but still getting up. She starts to walk away.

“What? I guess neither of our stories is funny. Tell me? Who was it you left me for? Was it Lazlo? Or maybe some guys in between? Or are you the kind who doesn’t talk?” Rickie bites her lip to keep from sighing.

Ilsa stops with her back to Rickie, pausing long enough to wipe the tears from her eyes. She stands at the doorway and stares back at Rickie before walking out. Rickie puts her head on her arms on the table; weeping. The bottle spills onto the tablecloth before rolling off the table to shatter on the floor.

---

---

A good while later...

Rickie sits alone in her darkened office, still overwhelmed by the potency of the gin and the sadness in her heart. She hears a sound to her left, discovering that Ilsa has returned.

“I had to see you again, if only to explain.”

“What’s there to explain,” Rickie says even as her words evoke a wince.

“You knew I had been married…that I thought he was dead when we met?” Ilsa sits down by Rickie and leans forward, causing Rickie to recoil as Ilsa touches her arm.

“When I learned he was still alive? What else could I do? I love you. I loved him, but my return was more than just what you and I wanted,” Ilsa struggles but stifles a sob.

Perhaps it was the gin, or even more so, perhaps that part of her that remained an ember in her heart; kindled by her empathy for Jan and his…her wife, that pulled Rickie closer to the woman she had always been meant to be?

“I…I know. But what do I do now? What do we do now?”

“I can't fight it anymore. I ran away from you once. I can't do it again. Oh, I don't know what's right any longer. You'll have to think for both of us, for all of us.” Ilsa says. She looks into Rickie’s eyes and sees the love they share, but something much more. Rickie pulls her into an embrace.

“All right… I will.. Here’s looking at you, kid,” Rickie says. “I wish I didn’t love you so much.” They snuggle.

---

---

Not long after…

Rickie is standing on the balcony of her apartment when she spots Lazlo and Carl, a café employee but also a member of the underground on the street below. Lazlo looks to be wounded. In short order Rickie calls down.

“What happened?”

“The police broke up our meeting, Fraulein Rickie. We barely escaped.” Carl says. In a few minutes both are ushered into the café under the safety of an unlit side door. Carl walks up the flight of stairs to find Rickie and Ilsa.

“I want you to take Miss Lund home,” Rickie says. Carl nods and speaks,

“Ja, Mein Fraulein,” before walking out with Ilsa. In a few minutes, Rickie has joined Lazlo downstairs at the bar. Lazlo has wrapped a bar towel around his hand.

“You okay?” Rickie says.

Lazlo nods. Rickie grabs a bottle of Scotch from behind the bar and pours a drink for them both.

“Don’t you get tired of all this? Is it really worth it?” She sighs even as she mulls over the idea from when she fought the same foes with ink and press back in Paris.

“We might as well question why we breathe,” Lazlo replies with a deep sigh.

“If we stop breathing, we'll die. If we stop fighting our enemies, the world will die.”

“Wouldn’t that at least put us out of our misery?” She fumbles with a cigarette case. Lazlo grabs the case and lights a cigarette for her.

“You sound like someone who is trying to convince herself of something she really doesn’t believe….Strange that we should come to love the same woman.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about me,” Rickie says, blowing out some smoke. Lazlo smiles benignly.

“I...I only ask this? If you cannot give me the letters of transit, at least make sure Ilsa is safe…any means necessary?”

“You love her that much?” Lazlo’s look gives Rickie the answer she hoped she would not find. At that moment, a loud knock is followed by a bang as the front door bursts open, revealing two of Renault’s force.

“You are under arrest,” one of them says even as the other is helping Lazlo off the bar stool.

“On what charge?” Lazlo asks. The first officer urges him toward the door.

“Captain Renault will answer all your questions in the morning."

As Lazlo is being led away, Rickie frowns and speaks.

“Looks like destiny has taken a hand.” Lazlo offers no response as he is ushered out, leaving Rickie almost expressionless.

---

---

The next morning, in Renault’s office…

“You have nothing to hold him on. The most you could probably do is charge him a few thousand Francs,” Rickie says as she smooths the hem of her skirt. Renault takes a drag off his cigarette and just grins.

“Why such an interest in him. I know you have the letters of transit. You could leave anytime you wish.”

“I’m not. I’m only interested in Ilsa and me,” she says as Renault lights a new cigarette with the one in his other hand.

“I’ve never known you to be this interested in girls,” Renault says with mock surprise.

“All I know is I plan to be on that plane tonight… with her.” She frowns, knowing full-well that she’s risking everything by admitting what she just did.

“She’s his wife… You have to know Strasser believes she has every bit of information as her husband.” Rickie leans close and accepts light for her own cigarette.

“Here’s the deal. You can release him and when he comes to pick up the letters, arrest him instead. It puts you in good grace with Strasser and leaves me to live my life away from here!”

“Hmm…Germany and Vichy would most certainly be grateful.” Renault muses with a grin.

“I’ll arrange it with Lazlo. To have him come to my place to pick up the letters of transit. That'll give you the criminal grounds to make the arrest. You get him, and we get away. To the Germans that last part will be just a minor annoyance.”

“There’s just one thing I don’t quite understand. As I said, I don’t recall you ever being this interested in girls.”

“She isn’t just any girl,” Rickie says as she rises from the chair.

“I see." Renault raises an eyebrow.

"How do I know you'll keep your end of the bargain?”

“I'll make the arrangements right now with Laszlo in the visitor's pen,” Rickie says.

“You know, Ricky, I'm going to miss you. Apparently you're the only one in Casablanca who has even less scruples than I,” Renault says with a soft laugh.

“Oh, thanks,” Rickie says as she leaves Renault’s office.

---

---

Later that day at the Blue Parrot...

A waiter brings a pot of tea to Rickie and Ferrari, who sit alone at a table in a secluded nook off the main room.

Ferrari smiles and speaks.

"Shall we draw up the papers, or is our handshake good enough?

"It's certainly not good enough. But since I'm in a hurry, it'll have to
do," Rickie says with a wry smile. Ferrari pours a cup for Rickie, who takes a sip.

"Ah, to get out of Casablanca and go to America! You're one lucky woman." Rickie nods only slightly.

"Oh, by the way, my agreement with Sam's always been that she gets twenty-five
percent of the profits. That still goes."

"Hmmm. I happen to know that she gets ten percent . But still...she is worth twenty- five," Ferrari nods in turn.

"And Abdul and Carl and Sacha, they stay with the place, or I don't sell," Rickie insists.

"Of course they stay. Rickie's wouldn't be Rickie's without them," Ferrari laughs and nods.

"Well, so long," Rickie says at last. She gets up, followed by Ferrari. They shake hands to seal the deal . She walks to the door, then stops and turns around.

"Don't forget, you owe Rickie's a hundred cartons of American cigarettes," she says with a grin.

"I shall remember to pay it... to myself ," he laughs.

Rickie leaves. Ferrari picks up a fly swatter from the table and swats at a fly.

---

---

That night at the café….

Rickie is standing at the bar wearing a simple gray-green skirted dress with her coat draped over a bar stool. She hears a knock at the door just as she’s pouring herself a glass of Vodka. She walks over and opens the door, greeting Captain Renault.

“You’re late,” she says as she walks back to the bar.

“You tied up your watchdogs?

“Oh…Lazlo won’t be followed here.” Renault looks around at the empty café.

“You know things won’t be the same around here without you, Rickie.”

“Is everything ready?” Renault looks around once again. Rickie points to her purse.

“We looked all over. Where did you hide the letters?”

“In Sam’s piano,” Rickie grinned.

”I always knew I should have developed an ear for music,” Renault pouted.

The sound of screeching tires gets their attention.

“They’re here. Wait in my office.” Rickie says as she walks to the front door. Outside,
as Lazlo pays the cab driver and Ilsa walks to the entrance. Rickie opens up the door to their knock and ushers her quickly inside.

Ilsa looks distressed, leaving Rickie to pull her into a comforting embrace.

“He still believes he and I are leaving together. You haven’t told him?”

No, not yet.” Rickie turns briefly to look at Lazlo.

“But it’s alright? Everything is arranged?”

“We’ll tell him at the airport,” Rickie says.

“Less to deal with until it’s absolutely necessary. Please trust me?” She nods slowly.

Lazlo walks in and up to the table where Rickie and Ilsa are seated. Lazlo remains standing.

“I cannot begin to thank you enough, Fraulein Blaine.”

“Save it. We still have lots to do.” She points to the envelope on the table. Meanwhile, Captain Renault is peering at the through the slightly open office door.

“I brought the money, Lazlo says as he goes to reach inside his jacket.

“Save it, Rickie says almost without emotion, but she smiles and continues.

“You’ll need it when you get to America.”

“But we had a deal?” Lazlo is understandably surprised at Rickie’s generosity.

“Never mind about that. Everything okay once you get to Lisbon?”

“Yes, it’s all arranged.” Lazlo looks at Ilsa, who smiles before turning away slightly.

“Just some signatures and you’ll be all set,” Rickie says as she empties the letters onto the table.

As Lazlo goes to accept the letters, Captain Renault steps quickly from the office.

“Victor Lazlo? You are under arrest on a charge of accessory to the murder of the couriers from who these papers were stolen.” Renault grabs the letters from the table as Lazlo and Ilsa look on in shock.

“You are surprised about my friend Rickie?” He pauses, almost for dramatic effect.

“It’s quite simple, you see. Indeed, love con…” Renault stops in mid sentence as he sees Rickie point a pistol at him.

“Not so fast Louis. Nobody’s going to get arrested….At least not just yet.”

“What? Have you lost your senses?”

“I have,” she says calmly.

Renault protests even as Rickie uses her pistol to point to an empty chair at another table.

“Put that gun down,” Renault insists as he steps toward Rickie.

“I wouldn’t want to have to shoot you, Louis, but I will.” She motions with the gun again. Renault pauses for a moment, but speaks.

“Under the circumstances, I will sit down.”

“Put your hands on the table,” She takes out a cigarette case.

"I suppose you know what you're doing, but I wonder if you realize what this means?" Renault almost appears sympathetic.

"I do. We've got plenty of time to discuss that later," Rickie says.

"Call off your watch-dogs you said, Renault looks more put out than angry at this point .

"Just the same, you call the airport and let me hear you tell them. And remember, this gun's pointed right at your heart." She says as the gun remains steady in her hand.

"That is my least vulnerable spot," Renault quips as Rickie places the phone on the table. As Renault picks up the phone and dials, Rickie walks over and takes the letters and places them in her purse.
"
Hello, is this the airport? This is Captain Renault speaking. There'll
be two letters of transit for the Lisbon plane. There's to be no trouble about them. Good."

---

---

Meanwhile, at the German Consulate...

Strasser is on the phone.

"Hello? Hello?"

He hangs up the receiver and presses a BUZZER on his desk. An officer quickly enters.

"My car, quickly!"

"Zu Befehl, Herr Major."

The officer exits and Strasser resumes on the telephone, almost shouting.

"This is Major Strasser. Have a squad of police meet me at the
airport at once. At once! Do you hear?"

He hangs up the receiver and, grabbing for his cap, exiting quickly.

---

---

At the airport...

The entire airport is surrounded by a heavy fog. The outline of the transport plane is barely visible.

At the the hangar, a uniformed airport attendant uses a telephone near the hangar door. while on the airfield the transport plane is being readied.

"Hello. Hello, radio tower? The Lisbon plane iis taking off in ten minutes.
East runway. Visibility: one and one half miles. Light ground fog. Depth of fog: approximately 500. Ceiling: unlimited. Thank you. "

He hangs up and moves to a car that has just pulled up outside the hangar.
Renault gets out while the attendant stands at attention.

Renault is closely followed by Rickie, right hand in the pocket of her trench coat, covering Renault with a gun. Laszlo and Ilsa emerge from the rear of the car.

"Louis, would you have your man go with Mr. Laszlo and take care of his luggage? She continues to hold the gun in her pocket.

"But of course, Rickie, anything you say." Renault bows ironically before continuing.

"Find Mr. Laszlo 's luggage and put it on the plane."

"Oui, Mon Capitaine." He motions to Lazlo.

"This way please?"

He escorts Laszlo off in the direction of the plane. Rickie takes the letters of transit out of her purse and hands them to Renault, who turns and walks toward the hangar.

"If you don't mind, you fill in the names. That will make it even more official. " Rickie smiles at Renault. He nods and lays the letters on the nearby tall desk and produces a fountain pen from his jacket.

"You think of everything, don't you?" Renault stares at Rickie, who nods and replies.".

"And the names are Mr. and Mrs. Victor Laszlo," Rickie says in a near whisper.

Renault stops dead in his tracks, and turns around. Both Ilsa and Renault look at Rick with astonishment.

"But why my name, Richard?" Ilsa pleads with eyes that fear Rickie's

"Because you're getting on that plane."

"But...but I don't understand. What about you?"

"I'm staying here with Renault 'til the plane gets safely away." Rickie stifles a gasp, and Rickie's intention suddenly dawns on Ilsa.

"No, Rickie...Richelle... no. What has happened to you? Last night we said..."

"Last night we said a great many things. You said I was to do the thinking for both of us. Well, I've done a lot of it since then and it all adds up to one thing. You're getting on that plane with your husband where you belong." Rickie's face remains almost stoic.

"But...but, no, I, I," Ilsa begins to sob even as the confusion of the moment becomes clear.

"You've got to listen to me. Do you have any idea what you'd have to look forward to if you stayed here? Nine chances out of ten we'd both wind up in a concentration camp." She turns and faces Renault

"Isn't that true, LouiS?"

Even as Renault countersigns the papers, he speaks.

"I'm afraid Major Strasser would insist."

"You're saying this only to make me go." Rickie shakes her head.

"Don't you get it? I'm saying it because it's true. Inside of us we both know you belong with Victor. You're part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you're not with him, you'll regret it." Rickie is having enough success in holding back her tears to continue.

"No." Ilsa is shaking a bit at this point as the cold reality of Rickie's words continue to sink in.

"Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life."

"But what about us?" Ilsa pleads.

"We'll...we'll always have Paris. We didn't have, we'd lost it, until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night." Rickie's eyes have welled with tears, but she remains steady in her resolve.

"And I said I would never leave you," Ilsa says almost in a prayer.

"And you never will..." Rickie takes Ilsa's hands in hers.

"Don't you see? I've...I've got a job to do..." No amount of wishing would make it untrue. even if she didn't yet know what that job would be. But it would not include the woman she loves, no matter how things finally played out.

"Where I'm going you can't come. What I'll have to do you can't be any part of. I...I know that I'll never be noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems..." She pauses and looks over at the plane.

"The problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. You'll see. But now...now?" She gasps even as Ilsa;s tears fall freely. She places her hand on Ilsa's chin and gently raises raises it.

"Here...Here's looking at you kid."

---

---

Meanwhile...

Major Strasser drives at break-neck speed towards the airport, honking his horn furiously.

---

---

At the hangar...

Laszlo returns. Rickie walks into the hangar and Renault hands her the letters. She walks back out to Laszlo.

"Everything in order?: Lazlo asks.

"All except one thing. There's something you should know before you leave." Rickie forces a half-smile.

"Fraulein Blaine, I don't ask you to explain anything," Lazlo insists but Rickie holds up her hand.

"I'm going to anyway, because it may make a difference to you later on. You said you knew about Ilsa and me?

"Yes."

"But you didn't know she was at my place last night. She came there for the letters of transit. Isn't that true, Ilsa?" Rickie turns to Ilsa and nods slightly. She in turn faces Lazlo.

"Yes."

"She tried everything to get them, and nothing worked. She did her best to convince me that she was still in love with me, but that was all over long ago." Rickie is emphatic at this point.

"For your sake, she pretended it wasn't, and I let her pretend." Rickie looks back at Ilsa.

"I understand," Lazlo simply replies.

"Here they are," Rickie say as she hands Lazlo the letters.

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Laszlo extends his hand to Rickie, who grasps it firmly.

"And welcome back to the fight. This time I know our side will win."

On the airfield the airplane engine starts and the propellers start turning. They all turn to see the plane readying for take-off. Ilsa looks at Rickie and she returns her stare with a blank expression. She then glances at Laszlo, as does Ilsa.

Then Laszlo breaks the silence.

"Are you ready Ilsa?"

"Yes, I 'm ready." She steps close and kisses Rickie on the cheek.

"Goodbye, Rickie. God bless you."

"You better hurry, or you'll miss that plane." Rickie forces a smile as Ilsa and Laszlo walk very deliberately towards the plane.

"Well I was right. You are a sentimentalist ,"Renault interrupts as he begins to wal back to the hangar.

"Stop it.... I..I don't know what you're talking about," Rickie says as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a cigarette before accepting a light from Renault.

'What you just did for Laszlo, and that fairy tale that you invented to send Ilsa away with him. I know a little about women, my friend. She went, but she knew you were lying." Rickie ignores the remark. wondering if he was referring only to Ilsa.

'Anyway, thanks for helping me out.' She sighs.

"I suppose you know this isn't going to be pleasant for either of us, especially for you. I'll have to arrest you of course." Renault seems almost sad over his own words.

"As soon as the plane goes, Louis." As she speaks, the door to the plane is closed by an attendant and it slowly taxies down the field.

Suddenly a speeding car comes to a stop outside the hangar. Strasser alights from the car and runs toward Renault.

"What is the meaning of that phone call?" Strasser steps close to Renault, practically shouting.

"Victor Laszlo is on that plane." Renault says calmly. He nods toward the field. Strasser turns to see the plane taxiing towards the runway.

"Why do you stand here? Why don't you stop him?"

"Ask Mademoiselle Blaine." Renault turns his attention to Rickie, who stands there emotionless despite Strasser's rage. Strasser looks briefly at Rickie before taking a step towards the telephone just inside the hangar door.

"Get away from that phone, Rickie says calmly. Strasser stops in his tracks, looks at Rickie, and sees the pistol in her hand.

"I would advise you not to interfere," Strasser says dismissively.

"I was willing to shoot Captain Renault, and I'm willing to shoot you," she says, gun still pointed at Strasser.

Strasser watches the plane in agony. His eyes dart towards the telephone. He runs toward it and desperately grabs the receiver .

"Hello?"

"Put that phone down! " Rickie point the gun once again at Strasser.

"Get me the Radio Tower!" Strasser shouts into the phone.

"Put it down!" Rickie says calmly as Strasser ignores her. With one hand holding the receiver, he pulls out his Luger with the other hand, and shoots quickly at Rickie. The bullet misses its mark.

Rickie shoots Strasser, who crumples to the ground, dead.

At the sound of an approaching car both men turn. A police car in and comes to a stop near Renault. Four of Renault's men hurriedly jump out, while n the distance the plane turns onto the runway.

The men run to Renault. The first one hurriedly salutes him.

"Mon Capitaine!"

"Major Strasser's been shot." Renault pauses and looks at Rick. Rick returns Renault's gaze with expressionless eyes.

"Round up the usual suspects." Renault says with as much reaction as he can manage. The gendarme salutes and speaks as the others gather Strasser's body.

"Oui, Mon Capitaine."

The gendarmes place Strasser's body into the car and then drive off.

Renault walks inside the hangar, picks up a bottle of Vichy water, and opens it.

Well, Rickie, you're not only a sentimentalist, but you've become a patriot," Renault laughs softly.

"Maybe, but it seemed like a good time to start," Rickie replies as she removes the pistol from her coat pocket and replaces in her purse.

"I think perhaps you're right." As he pours the water into a glass, Renault sees the Vichy label and quickly drops the bottle into a trash basket which he then kicks over.

He walks over and stands beside Rickie. They both watch the plane take off, maintaining their gaze until it disappears into the clouds.

Rickie and Louis slowly walk away from the hangar toward the runway .

"It might be a good idea for you to disappear from Casablanca for a while. There's a Free French garrison over at Brazzaville. I could be induced to arrange a passage. Perhaps open a Café?" Renault smiles with a whimsical grin.

"My letter of transit? I suppose I could use a trip. But it doesn't make any difference about our bet. You still owe me ten thousand francs." She smiles back as he takes her arm.

"And that ten thousand francs should pay our expenses," Renault says. Rickie looks at him with feigned surprise.

"Our expenses?" She asks, returning his whimsey with sarcasm. Renault nods.

"Oui, Mademoiselle Blaine."

"Louis? I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," she says with a soft laugh as they walk off together into the night.

---

---

Adapted from the working script from the motion picture, Casablanca, Warner Brothers 1942. Screenplay by Julius J. Epstein, Philip G. Epstein, and Howard Koch, from the un-produced stage play, Everyone Goes to Ricks, by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison

My version has taken liberties in individual portrayals of scenes and characters to reflect the transgender adaptation while staying as close to the source material. Owing to that, my imagining of Richelle Blaine was an attempt to portray her subtly without losing the orginal character's jaded edge. I hope I succeeded.

As Time Goes By
Words and Music by Herman Hupfeld
as performed by Ella Fitzgerald
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMP6KS4Affk

Bonus - considered one of the greatest film scores of all time, a suite of Casablanca, by Max Steiner, who also composed the iconic Warner brothers intro, as performed by the John Wilson Orchestra.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvvOY9H-zj8

Die Wacht am Rhein ( The Watch on the Rhine) is a German patriotic anthem. The song's origins are rooted in the historical French–German enmity

*The cry resounds like thunder's peal,
Like crashing waves and clang of steel:
The Rhine, the Rhine, our German Rhine,
Who will defend our stream, divine?

La Marseillaise is the national anthem of France

**Arise, children of the Fatherland
Our day of glory has arrived
Against us the bloody flag of tyranny
is raised; the bloody flag is raised.