Page 11 of After Paris

Chapter Eleven

Ruby

Friday, July 4, 2025

9:00 a.m.

Last night with Jeff was fun. I hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. But he was right about the third glass of wine. It was a bridge too far and made me bolder than I should have been.

Even after a couple of aspirin and coffee, my head still pounded. My body was reminding me that the balance I enjoyed between illness and health was fragile.

Outside, it felt good to smell fresh air. I walked up King Street to the Blue Line of the DC Metro. It would take me across the Potomac River to the Federal Triangle stop in the city. I’d been in contact with a film historian, Mr. Hank Johnson. He said he had information on the production of Secrets in the Shadows . His office was in a building across the street from the Smithsonian. Though his directions had made sense at the time, I realized they were a tad vague.

Out of the Metro stop, I walked toward Constitution Avenue, the National Mall, and the Smithsonian National Museum of American History. The Mall was filling up with tourists snapping pictures and wandering toward the Capitol or the Washington Monument.

As he’d explained, I entered the front building and crossed to the reception ticket desk. To an older man dressed in a security guard uniform, I said, “I’m trying to find a Mr. Hank Johnson. He has an office in the building.”

“He’s in the basement level. Ride the elevator to level two, take a right, and you’ll see his office.”

“Thanks.” I rode the elevator to a bland gray hallway decorated with posters of moments in American history. My red heel clicks echoed down the hallway as I passed posters depicting Washington crossing the Delaware, Harriet Tubman leading the Underground Railroad, and World War II–era women working in a factory. I’d chosen a navy blue dress that skimmed my waist and flared slightly at my knees. A red scarf tied to my purse was the extra pop of color that tied my outfit together.

I found Mr. Johnson’s door and knocked. There was no answer, so I knocked a second time. Inside I heard pages rustling, so I took the chance and opened the door. “Mr. Johnson?”

A big guy with wide shoulders and a thick shock of white hair sat behind a desk piled high with papers, magazines, newspapers, and metal 8 mm movie canisters. With earbuds implanted, he faced away from the door and toward a computer screen. He wore a bright-blue T-shirt.

I knocked again on the door and waved. He turned, pulled out the earbuds, and stood so quickly he knocked over a pile of old Look magazines. I saw that his shirt had what appeared to be Rita Hayworth on the front.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Ruby Nevins. I contacted you about an article I’m working on about French film.”

He glanced over half glasses, and I sensed he was trying to place my name as he stared. “Right. Right. Glad to meet you.”

I extended my hand. We shook. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

He grinned. “Not a problem. As you can see, there’s not a lot of folks beating down the door to talk about old movies.”

“Lucky for me.”

“Please have a seat.”

I glanced at the single chair, filled with files. “Mind if I move these?”

“Oh, let me get those.” Hurrying around the desk, he scooped up the files before dropping them on a bookshelf to his right.

When I sat, I had a chance to look around the room and take in the framed movie posters on the walls. “ Casablanca , Notorious , and Citizen Kane . American classics.”

“But you’re here for the French films made during the Second World War.”

“Specifically, the actress Cécile.”

“Ah, star of Secrets in the Shadows . Mysteriously vanished in mid-1942.”

“Yes. I’m trying to piece together her life while she was acting. A local French film festival will feature her work this fall.”

“Cécile isn’t the obvious choice for festivals because her career was so short. But she was stunning, and she vanished. People do love a mystery.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to her?”

He sat and adjusted his glasses on his nose. “It was the height of the Nazi occupation in Paris. It didn’t take much to disappear.”

“But she was so famous. Her disappearance would’ve been noticed, wouldn’t it?”

“She’d finished filming Secrets in the Shadows , and she was in contract negotiations for her next film. Perfect timing for an arrest.”

Sylvia’s diary suggested that Cécile wasn’t afraid of taking risks. Had she taken one too many? “Why arrest her? She made romantic comedies and a mystery movie. Was she involved in anything else?”

He thumbed through the large pile of files and pulled out a thick folder. The entire stack wobbled and teetered but managed to stay upright. “You know she was working for the German-controlled Continental Films.”

“Yes.”

“As you must also know, American films were banned in France in 1940. But because the Germans’ films weren’t hugely popular with the French, they let French movie production resume, but on their own terms.”

When the Germans invaded France, the country was split in two. Germans controlled the north and the French Vichy government the south. Vichy called themselves free, and during the earliest days of the invasion, the south was the only place to make movies. Then by the fall of 1940, film production in Paris resumed.

“Cécile’s star rose quickly after the Germans invaded,” I replied. “She went from a supporting actress to starring roles in 1941.”

“That’s exactly right.” He thumbed through the pages of the thick folder. “When you called, I dug out this file.”

I scooted toward the edge of my seat.

“Cécile was close to director Henri Archambeau, who, until his death, collaborated with the Germans during the occupation. And because Cécile was his favorite actress at the time, her star rose with his.”

“They were lovers.”

“Yes. She was beautiful, smart, and, like Monsieur Archambeau, willing to sacrifice to obtain her dream.”

“A very common dynamic in Hollywood.”

“It’s a tale as old as time.”

“How did he die?” I asked.

“Murdered. No real details in the police reports.”

“No suspects?”

“I’m sure there were some. No arrests, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t hunted down and killed.”

Could Cécile’s disappearance have been linked to Monsieur Archambeau’s death? “What was it like working with Continental Films?”

“In some ways it was business as usual. Continental Films had access to raw film and camera equipment. Supply shortages weren’t that bad in late 1940, but over the next few years, they grew much worse. Production managers had to deal on the black market more often. Cécile was assigned a German driver, but his real job was to spy on her.”

“Someone was watching her?”

“The Germans wanted to make sure their up-and-coming star didn’t cause the Reich any issues.” He flipped through a few pages. “Cécile’s monitor was Hauptmann Otto Wolfgang. Otto was born in 1905 and came from a farming family in eastern Germany. He was young enough to miss World War I, but only barely. He worked in a series of jobs in the 1920s while trying to attend college. He even made it to Paris in his youth. But like most in Germany after the Great War, he was scraping by—depression, hyperinflation, that kind of thing. He married, but his wife and child died during the birthing. Shortly after, he joined the Nazi Party because he needed the paycheck. I don’t think he was ever an idealogue like the hardcore members. But he managed to win the favor of someone, because he was deployed to Paris in 1940. A Paris posting was a plum assignment.”

“I can only imagine.”

“The Reich assigned the good captain to follow Cécile and ordered him to take note of her actions while also keeping her safe. The French and Germans didn’t want any nasty surprises.” He peered over his glasses. “Otto Wolfgang was the man for this job. He was very diligent when it came to tracking her movements and those of her dressmaker.”

“What did he say?”

“Lucky for you, I translated his reports into English years ago, when I was writing a book on French film.”

“You wrote a book?”

“Sadly, I never finished it. Life, work, a divorce. The pages stopped flowing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It happens. These translated accounts will give you a glimpse into Cécile’s life through Otto’s eyes.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

He laughed. “That would be spoiling the read. But I’ll warn you: Otto will drown you in the details. Quite the historian. He also took pictures. The German soldiers acted more like tourists when they first arrived in Paris. And Otto, like many of his countrymen, was enthralled.”

“Madame Bernard gave me a copy of her mother’s journal. Sylvia hasn’t mentioned Otto yet.”

He sat back in his chair. “Madame let you see the journal. I’m jealous. She only offered me snippets, but that was years ago, and her daughter was still alive. Now that it’s just her, I suppose whatever secrets she’s protecting don’t matter as much anymore.”

“‘Secrets’?”

“Keep reading the diary, and cross-reference it with Otto’s notes. Both should give you a good perspective on the women. I took photos of Otto’s scrapbook, but I’m going to have to dig for those. I buried them somewhere in my computer.”

“That would be great. I’d love to see them. Do you have anything Cécile wrote?”

“No. Nothing in her handwriting.” A look of resigned envy crossed his gaze. “If madame is letting you read her mother’s journal, she must see something special in you.”

“I like her.” I accepted the reports. “What else do you know about Cécile?”

“She was from the South of France. It was a rural area, and everyone knew everyone.”

“Do you know anything about Cécile’s sister, Emile?”

“Otto does mention her. He suspected she was part of the Resistance.”

“Emile told Sylvia she was.”

Mr. Johnson wagged a finger at me. “Keep reading Sylvia’s diary. I don’t want to spoil it for you.”

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“I do.”

“But not telling. You and madame are very much alike.”

He chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“What drew you to all this?” I asked.

“You mean why would a good old boy from Texas care about a French film star?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Cécile was a looker and could have written her own ticket to stardom. But she vanished at the height of her fame and after the war was blackballed. Secrets in the Shadows almost didn’t get released.”

“Do you think she collaborated with the Germans?”

“So many living in Paris bent the rules during the occupation. Buying on the black market, giving accurate directions to a German soldier, sleeping with a German to feed a child, or having a boarder, albeit forcefully, in your home were all considered cooperating by some after the war. Did this mean they gave away secrets or betrayed neighbors? Not necessarily. But many in France didn’t make distinctions between traitors and those trying to survive. Two different apples, if you ask me.”

“Women, especially, suspected of collaborating didn’t fare well after the war.”

“No. The French, men and women alike, turned on them. Shaved their heads, burned swastikas into their bare skulls with tar. Suddenly everyone was a moral authority.”

I’d made all kinds of deals and bargains with the Almighty when I was sick. What would I have traded to stay alive? I cleared my throat. “What was it like during the occupation?”

“In 1940, the German soldiers were polite, well mannered. The charm offensive. But as the occupation continued, the Germans began stealing the city’s art, fine wines, and food. They took anything they could send back to Germany. Food shortages became common for the French, while the Germans ate well. Resentment grew. When the Resistance became increasingly violent, the arrests began. And then thirteen thousand Jews were rounded up in July of 1942.”

“Sylvia’s father was Jewish. Her mother was a French Catholic.”

“I didn’t know that.” He sighed. “Whatever fears the average Parisian had during the occupation, someone like Sylvia would have been doubly terrified.”

Sylvia had never told any of this to her daughter. She could have destroyed her diary and buried her secrets forever. But she’d kept her journal carefully tucked away in a closet, knowing that after her death, her daughter would learn the truth she couldn’t speak.

“You need to read those papers,” he said. “Dig into Otto’s mind, and if you have any questions, ask away. I’m here all the time for July, and then I retire.”

“Retire? Then you’ll have time to write that book.”

He grinned. “I’ll leave that to you. I’m going to be fishing and watching old movies.”

I held up the letters and translated reports. “Thank you for this information.”

“Keep me posted.”

I wanted to think this story would end well, like Cécile’s romantic movies. But happy endings were generally the exception to the rule during the war.

“Thanks, Hank. I’ll be in touch.”

He regarded me. “You’ve been to Paris, haven’t you? I can tell by the way you dress. Very Leslie Caron.”

I chuckled. “Thank you. I lived in Paris for a year. French film tours were my bread and butter, and I’d still be there if I could.”

He folded arms over his chest. “What brought you back to the States?”

I could have lied or made up a polite story, but it was important I remembered what had altered the course of my life. “I was diagnosed with cancer.”

He frowned. “How’s it going?”

I held up crossed fingers. “So far, I’m in the clear.”

He was savvy enough not to pretend I was cured forever. “Your illness might help you understand these women.”

“How so?”

“Cancer’s a little like an occupying force. Until it leaves, you can’t breathe, and even when it does depart, you’re never quite the same after.”

“That’s very true.” His insight suggested a deeper understanding.

“I look forward to hearing back from you,” he said.

“Maybe I’ll find Cécile’s happy ending.”

“Happy endings are rare, but they do happen for the lucky few.”