Page 12 of After Paris
Chapter Twelve
Hauptmann Otto Wolfgang
Wednesday, November 6, 1940
6:00 a.m.
My assignment to Paris was unexpected and very appreciated. Not only was I fluent in the language, but I’d traveled here ten years ago, several years after the Great War ended. Though I had no money in those days, I was young and ready to discover the City of Lights. After my return to Germany, I studied all I could about Paris. I immersed myself in the language, art, and culture. I’d always wanted to return to Paris but needed the means.
Now, Germany had laid this lovely city at my feet—so many sights and wonders. I couldn’t stop snapping pictures.
The French exit from Paris was chaotic as the Germans marched in neat rows down the Champs-élysées on that hot June day. Millions fled in cars, in carts, and on foot. The evacuees littered the roads with discarded suitcases, musical instruments, hatboxes, and stacks of books. The fools couldn’t even prioritize their survival needs.
Primarily women, children, and old men remained in Paris when we arrived. Our commanders ordered us to be polite. For a few months, we shared an uneasy peace.
My first few nights in the city were a visual and gastronomic delight. I dined in several charming cafés, paying with reichsmarks worth twice as much as the French franc. The high command had assigned me a four-bedroom apartment in Neuilly-sur-Seine. The large rooms were adorned with splendid furnishings and art finer than I’d ever seen.
In the early days, the Frenchwomen tended to look away from me. But as fall cooled the air and the Frenchmen didn’t return from labor camps or military service, the lonely and overworked women took more interest in the German men.
Now, whenever I walked down the street out of uniform, appreciative glances followed me. It was an intoxicating rush that I’d never enjoyed before.
Street and restaurant signs were changing into German, the Nazi flag hung in many shop and hotel windows, and officials moved the clocks forward an hour so that Paris and Berlin would be in sync. German foods were now easy to find, and the cinema featured German-language films.
On a more disturbing note, I’d heard tales of resistance. They included the sabotage of the Eiffel Tower’s elevator, stolen street signs, painted V Is for Victory on walls, and manhole covers being removed. Yesterday, a car hit an open maintenance hole cover. The impact flipped the vehicle and injured the soldiers inside. We were now on the hunt for the pranksters. And the Wehrmacht government installed a curfew between 10:00 p.m. and 5:00 a.m. to cut down on nighttime mischief.
I’d been ordered to work with Continental Films, which was technically a French-owned company, but the Reich controlled it. My orders stated that I was to monitor the actors and ensure they made movies that would distract the population and bolster the values of the Fatherland.
The first day on set, the filmmaking immediately fascinated me. However, I soon discovered that the process was far more tedious than I’d first thought. But these French did create stories that dazzled audiences.
The movie in production was a romantic comedy called The Orphan’s Folly , which featured a young woman, Babette, who was working in a hotel as a chambermaid. The charming staff were more like a family to Babette, who was determined to build a better life for herself. The role of Babette was played by a new actress, Cécile, who, even dressed as a maid, looked utterly stunning.
According to the script, three men loved the same young woman. Each man wooed her. And she juggled their affections until she finally chose the sober, hardworking hotel chef. She learned that material items were dazzling but were fleeting in the face of good, steady work. It was an acceptable story.
Cécile was always on time, dressed in costume, and not only knew her own lines but often those of her fellow actors. Though I strove to remain impartial, I could admit she was a marvel. If she were to visit the Fatherland, her blond hair and lovely face would win the hearts and minds of the Germans.
Over the last two weeks, I’d watched as Cécile delivered her lines easily and quickly while her costar stumbled over his. I suspected the lead actor was hungover. The director, Henri Archambeau, was frustrated with him but was doing his best to cover. Archambeau wanted this movie done as soon as possible because The Orphan’s Folly was one of Continental Films’ first releases. He understood that his livelihood—his life—depended on this opportunity.
Today as Cécile left for her dressing room, I stepped directly into her path. When she stopped and looked up at me, she blinked and then smiled, but I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or the reaction of a talented actress. I accepted the warmth in her eyes as genuine.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
“I’m Hauptmann Otto Wolfgang. I’m the Reich’s representative on the film set,” I said in what I’d been told was flawless French.
“I’m Cécile,” she said pleasantly.
“Yes, I know. You were perfect today.”
“Thank you.”
“My job is to ensure nothing stops you from working.”
She was silent for a moment. “That’s very kind.”
“If you ever need anything, please let me know.”
“Of course.”
I didn’t take offense to her reserve because a discerning, wise woman was careful. “Are you finished filming for today?”
“No. Costume change,” Cécile said. “My dressmaker awaits.”
I looked over my shoulder and saw a woman hovering near Cécile’s dressing room. A white smock fitted her slight body, a measuring tape was draped around her neck, and a pincushion banded her thin wrist. Blond hair framed her face. In the right light, she could have been confused for Cécile, but I immediately noticed her nose was a little flatter, her face rounder, and her breasts slightly larger. I conceded immediately that the dressmaker was more to my tastes.
“Well then, I’ll let you get back to your work,” I said.
“ Merci. ”
As she passed, I inhaled the faint scent of a costly perfume. I admired how well the dressmaker had fitted the costume to the actress’s narrow waist and full hips.
The dressmaker, who had joined the production crew recently, glanced in my direction. When my gaze locked onto hers, she looked away quickly and ducked into her sewing room.
I found her modesty charming and stopped a young boy carrying a box of cables. “What is your name?”
The boy’s face blushed. “Rupert.”
“Rupert, who dresses Cécile?”
“That would be Mademoiselle Rousseau.”
“What do you know about her?” I asked.
Rupert looked a little desperate to say something worthwhile. “She stays in her workshop all the time and rarely speaks to anyone unless it’s related to the film.”
“Why not?”
“She’s very busy.”
I made a note to keep my attention focused on Mademoiselle Rousseau. People who favored the shadows were often hiding something. She could be just a hardworking seamstress, or she could be trouble for Cécile.