Page 14 of After Paris
Chapter Fourteen
Sylvia
Monday, December 30, 1940
7:00 p.m.
The occupation had settled into an uneasy, troubled existence. Most days, it felt like we were all staring into the eyes of a hungry tiger, ready to pounce.
The lines for food were getting longer. The ever-changing curfews were frustrating. And the Nazi banners adorning most stores, hotels, and landmarks were chilling. The few times I saw Emile at the boulangerie, I could see that her hatred for the Germans was growing. Last week, she’d bragged about giving two German soldiers who had Paris guidebooks the wrong directions. She’d stolen a briefcase from another and punctured the tires of several Reich automobiles. She also flaunted the curfew hours often and routinely assembled in small apartments with others who felt as she did.
I couldn’t fault Emile’s resentment. In some ways, I admired her boldness. But she wore her anger on her sleeve. I’d cautioned her to take care, to bide her time, but she was so righteous. She believed good would triumph over evil. Her certainty reminded me of my father’s warning: “The virtuous tend to die first.”
Tonight, Cécile was attending another party at the German embassy. She wore a vivid green gown with a full skirt that grazed the tops of silver heels. The dress’s bodice had a teardrop opening that revealed only the skin trailing between her breasts. I’d dressed women long enough to know that everyone noticed hints of the forbidden.
“Have you heard what they’re saying about me?” Cécile asked. We were in her new apartment in the eleventh arrondissement. The couple who’d lived in the seven-room flat for decades had moved to the free zone in southern France last May. Monsieur Archambeau had given the apartment to his newest rising star two months ago.
Cécile stood in front of a tall mirror. I hovered behind her, fussing with the small shoulder pads and the alignment of the teardrop cutout dipping to her belly button.
“I don’t pay attention to people’s gossip,” I said.
“Very diplomatic.”
“What is troubling you?” My gaze met hers in the mirror’s reflection.
“Emile and I had lunch, and she left in a terrible huff. She’s furious that Monsieur Archambeau encourages my association with the Germans.”
I pretended to drop a pin and knelt to pick it up. I wasn’t fond of Monsieur Archambeau, and I could see he was using Cécile to solidify his grip on power. Her last film, Too Many Choices , released two months ago, was a tremendous success. Overnight, she’d become a sensation.
“She’s passionate about her causes.”
“She’s made it clear I’m dancing with the devil.”
“We all are,” I said.
I disapproved of how Cécile smiled and flirted with the Germans when they visited the set. But this job was sustaining me. It provided me with money and food to pass on to the refugees. Emile saw the world in black and white. Good and evil. She didn’t care about getting caught. But I knew the best work was often done in the shadows.
“Does she listen to you?” Cécile asked.
“I have warned her to tread carefully,” I said.
“And?”
“Her jaw sets, and I can see her digging in her heels.”
“My sister has always been like that. What does Emile do in her spare time?”
The lie tipped over my lips. “Emile stays very busy at the boulangerie.”
“I don’t believe that. Emile has never been one to sit on the sidelines and bake bread.”
“You know her better than I do.”
“I’m not so sure.” She skimmed her manicured finger along the teardrop opening. “Would you consider moving into these apartments with me?”
The offer caught me off guard.
“Henri lives across town with his wife and lately never visits me here. He’s grown tired of me and found a new actress. But such is the way with his kind.” An edge sharpened her light tone. “If you lived here, it would save you riding the Metro each evening.”
“I hadn’t thought about moving,” I said.
“You mustn’t think about it but do it. I’m rattling around alone with only a maid who spies on me.” She shrugged. “I’ll need more clothes,” she added. “Henri is trotting me out in front of his new German friends at their embassy tonight, a salon next week, and a Strauss concert.” The German composer was brilliant. Many French people still enjoyed his music, but they were now cautious with their enthusiasm.
Dressing her well would mean sourcing more materials and repurposing what she already owned. The creative challenge was thrilling and consuming, but it would mean more trips to the black market for Rupert.
Living in the Marais put me in the center of the masses, making it easier to distribute food. But it also positioned me close to whatever troubles Emile might find.
“It’s a natural choice,” Cécile said. “I need clothes. The best designers have either left Paris or closed their doors. And I’m not overly fond of Lucien Lelong’s designs. You know my body better than anyone, including Henri. And you won’t have to race home to avoid the curfew.”
It was a practical choice. “What will Emile say if I move in here?”
“Tell her to come along if she wishes. You both will be safer here.”
“She’ll never move.”
“Or leave her boulangerie lover.”
At first, Marc and Emile had been careful and secretive about their affair. But lately, neither seemed worried about who saw them kissing. “Time,” Emile had said, “is precious, and I refuse to waste it on silly rules.”
“When would you like me to move in?” I asked.
“Tomorrow. There’s no time to waste.”
She was so like her sister. Impetuous, determined, and driven.
Living here would distance me from Emile’s activities, but I’d be a fool to think Cécile could shield me completely. “I’ll bring my things tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” Her smile turned radiant. “This is going to be a very productive arrangement. By the way, I have a food package for Emile. I doubt she’d accept it from me, but you can convince her to take it.”
“I’ll deliver it on my way home tonight.” I stepped back for a full view of the gown. “Amazing.”
Cécile inspected her reflection. Yes, appreciation flared, but she understood she possessed an unusual, striking beauty. Her high cheekbones and full lips, combined with her vivid blue eyes, was a stunning look. For Cécile, her beauty was an asset and a weapon she wielded freely in her quest for fame. “Henri should be pleased.”
“Yes, indeed.”
As she reached for long white gloves, I glanced at the shadowed impressions on the walls and tabletops. Over the summer, the Germans had taken paintings and objets d’art from apartments like this, and if not for Monsieur Archambeau, this place would have been stripped bare. He wielded influence, but how long it would last was uncertain.
I laid a black velvet cape on her shoulders and tied the bow so that the strands angled between her breasts. No man in that room would miss her when she entered, and I took some pride in knowing I’d created this look.
“Wish me luck. If the producers like what they see, we’ll have our funding for the next movie.”
“Once you remove that cape, no man will be able to string two thoughts together.”
“I need them infatuated and a tad stupid. Men say the most amazing things when a woman shows off her breasts.”
It was nine thirty when I arrived at the boulangerie. I’d walked briskly the last few blocks from the Métro. I was grateful the curfew had been extended to ten. And the last thing I wanted was for the police to question me.
Cécile had instructed her maid to give me a container with roast chicken, a thick slice of bread, and butter. Food like this was becoming a scarce luxury.
At the boulangerie, I hurried up the side stairs and entered the door. I knocked on Emile’s door, but when she didn’t answer, I tried the handle. I found Emile sitting on her bed. She’d removed her shoes and jacket, but her blouse and black skirt were dusted with dirt. Red scrapes covered her knees, and blood trickled down her legs and stained her white socks.
I set down my parcel and hurried toward her, kneeling to get a better look at the terrible wound. “What happened? Are you hurt anywhere else?”
She raised her chin. “No.”
I took a damp cloth from her and began to clean up the streaks of blood along her shinbone. I was careful to avoid the raw flesh. “How did this happen?”
“I fell.”
“This is a nasty wound.”
“I was running and fell.”
My breath caught. I hesitated to ask. The less I knew, the better. But I’d long ago learned that ignoring trouble didn’t make it go away. “From?”
“The police,” she whispered.
“What were you doing?” I’d avoided asking for so long, but now I couldn’t ignore this anymore.
“I was handing out flyers.”
“If the police catch you with any information critical of the Germans, they’ll put you in jail or shoot you on the spot.”
“Why would they shoot me for handing out paper? I’m telling the truth.”
“The truth doesn’t matter. You’re challenging them, and they don’t like opponents.” The cloth brushed close to a deep gash. She hissed.
“You’re hurting me.”
“If the police arrest you, they won’t be as gentle as me. The Gestapo never ask nicely.”
“I know. That’s why I ran. Others weren’t so lucky.”
“Was anyone arrested?”
“No. We all escaped this time.”
“And Marc?” He took significant risks with his forgeries. But he was always careful about attending meetings.
“He wasn’t there.”
For Emile, I feared there would be a next time, and tonight’s escape would make her bolder.
Outside, a police whistle blew, and men shouted. My breath held until the street had grown silent again. “Emile, your sister has invited us to come live with her. It’s time we leave this district.”
Her eyes went a little wild as she stared at me. “I can’t. I must stay here. I have work to do.”
“If you continue as you are, the police will arrest you. And when they turn you over to the Germans, you’ll be tortured or killed. I’ve heard too many terrible tales of those who go against the Germans.”
“I don’t care. I can’t give in to these monsters like my sister has. I’d rather be dead.”
She was so full of bravado. She was so sure that she would prevail. Maybe she would, but the chances were against it.
“I’m going to move in with her,” I said. “I won’t say anything about what you’re doing. Your secrets will always be safe with me.”
She cupped my face in her hands. “It’s safer for us both if you leave. This occupation is all going to get worse before it gets better.” She rose, limped toward a little round rug, and lifted the carpet. “I can’t kneel, so would you lift the floorboards for me?”
I put the bloodied cloth into a porcelain basin filled with water. Then I knelt and opened the loose board. Underneath was a small compartment with a bound roll of francs and several sets of identification papers inside. All this was enough to warrant an arrest.
“If you or my sister need to get word to me, put the message here. And if I should sense trouble coming, I’ll try to leave something here.”
My face flushed red, and I closed the small compartment as if I expected a hand to reach out and pull me in. I replaced the rug, careful to smooth it out. I wanted to assure her that she was overreacting, but she wasn’t. People had been vanishing from Paris lately.
“Don’t tell Cécile about this compartment unless it’s dire.”
“Is it dire?” Forces of destruction could build without anyone noticing. And then, in a snap, they exploded.
She paused. “So far, I’m fine. Good people that I trust surround me.”
“Everyone has a breaking point, Emile. The police can make the most loyal talk,” I said softly.
She stared at me for a long moment. “I’ve never asked you about your past, but Marc says you are excellent at keeping secrets.”
I had to guard my secrets. As much as I wanted to tell her about my father, our Jewish heritage, and the friends in Warsaw who’d vanished, I didn’t dare.
“Never let your guard down.” My voice was rough, strained.
“I’ve heard you speak Polish when you worked with refugees.”
As much as the Germans terrified me, the French, tortured or not, were also turning on neighbors. France deported foreign nationals to the work camps daily. “I’ve always had a talent for language.”
Emile dug a finger into her thumb’s cuticle. “I would never betray you.”
The swell of emotions clogged my throat. Of course, in this moment, she meant that. “The less we share, the better. No one can extract what we don’t know.”
“But I must trust someone,” she said. “I can’t talk to my sister anymore, but I would hate it if I vanished and she never learned of my fate. Promise me you’ll check this compartment if you can’t find me.”
“I promise,” I said.
Emile’s smile hinted at her relief. “I’m being dramatic. Life is never as dire as I imagine.”
I wanted to believe she was right, but the world had grown too ominous to think otherwise. “I pray you’re right.”