Page 18 of After Paris

Chapter Eighteen

Sylvia

Wednesday, March 12, 1941

2:00 p.m.

Bitter cold winds had swept from the east over Paris, gripping the city. No cars or taxis ran, and most people traveled on foot, on the Métro, or by bicycle. Long food lines were now standard. The majority waiting were women. All their husbands, fathers, and brothers remained in prison or conscripted to German work farms. We all knew someone who’d been arrested, deported, or beaten up by police. And resentment toward our well-fed occupiers grew.

The black markets, now considered a necessary evil, flourished despite their high prices. Rupert had discovered some of his best fabric finds through questionable contacts.

Five days ago, the captain had insisted on driving Rupert and me to Les Halles. I hadn’t been in a car since I’d ridden in a taxi to the Warsaw train station. That old car had been clean and well cared for, but the seats were threadbare, and a spring had poked me in the back the entire ride. In those days, I believed I would return home soon.

Hauptmann Wolfgang’s Mercedes was pristine. The black exterior glistened in the morning light, the seat leather was smooth and soft, and the mahogany console was well polished.

Neither Rupert nor I spoke as he drove. When the captain parked across from the shops, Rupert promised to return immediately. Minutes after he’d vanished into the crowded market, German soldiers marched in behind him.

“Rupert,” I said, reaching for the door handle.

The captain extended his hand over the seat and took my arm. “Stay.”

I jerked away. “I can’t. I must warn him!”

As I spoke, soldiers marched six Parisians onto the street. Rupert was one of them. The boy glanced toward the car, and I could see resolution hardening his face as he and the others were lined up against a brick wall.

“They can’t shoot him,” I shouted. “He’s done nothing wrong!”

“You can’t stop them.” He grabbed my arm. “You’ll be shot if you try.”

“I need to help him.”

His grip tightened, his biting fingers holding me in place. Seconds later, the soldiers fired, and the six French people fell to the ground, dead.

Disbelief numbed my body. Rupert had done nothing wrong. He was a boy. He had a family to care for. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

“This, no. But I know the streets are dangerous now. There will be more of this if the Resistance continues.”

I stared at the bodies crumpled on the street. Two old men, three women, and young Rupert. I willed the stilled bodies to move, but I saw no signs of life.

The captain released my arm, but I was too stunned to move. He drove us back to the studio, neither of us saying a word.

I should have been immune to death by now, but Rupert’s loss stung. When I told Cécile about him, she left the set, went home, and got drunk. She’d refused to leave her apartment for two days.

I’d attended Rupert’s funeral three days after his death. When I called on his mother later, she’d given me a pouch filled with faux pearl buttons. He’d been carrying them when he was shot. They were for a gown I was creating.

When I’d visited the boulangerie yesterday, Marc was behind the counter. Though he was quick to discuss the scarcity of flour and sugar, he said nothing about Emile’s errands. I’d once welcomed Marc’s willingness to skirt the law, but ever since the executions, I feared his influence on Emile would get her arrested or killed.

I visited Emile’s room and opened the panel under her floorboards. I found a jotted note from her wishing me a good day and thanking me for the food. It was her way of letting me know she was alive.

After her short retreat from the world, Cécile jumped back into her life as if nothing had happened. She flirted with Germans on the set and resumed her party schedule, and, when Oberst Schmidt arrived in Paris, she went to him willingly. A few in the production crew grumbled about her growing attachment to the Germans, but no one was brave enough to speak up. In her shadow, they were unnoticed.

Since the executions at Les Halles, Hauptmann Wolfgang’s gleaming black Mercedes had arrived each morning to pick us up. Always formal and polite, the captain was the perfect gentleman. Could the monsters who’d shot Rupert in cold blood have been capable of politeness too?

Small red Nazi flags mounted on either side of his hood flapped as the car drove along quiet morning streets toward the western suburbs and the Paris film studios in Boulogne-Billancourt. With the captain behind the wheel, neither Cécile nor I felt comfortable discussing anything beyond costumes and makeup.

The movie studio was housed in a long gray industrial building. But inside, set designers created countless worlds where the French had been making films since the 1920s.

Most days, we were on the set for at least ten hours. Scenes had to be shot from several angles, which meant that when one vantage point was complete, we’d have to wait until the cameras could be repositioned, and then the same lines would be repeated.

Cécile’s recall was so remarkable that several times, she fed lines to her new costar, Louis Lambert. Lambert had light-brown hair, a square jaw, and a slim mustache. Chiseled good looks combined with his tall muscular frame to create a purely masculine male. The two were a dashing couple.

Now as Cécile filmed on set, I sat in the dressing room repairing the hem of a navy blue skirt torn during filming yesterday.

As I concentrated on angling my sewing needle into the heavy wool fabric, I became aware of someone standing in the doorway. When I looked up, Hauptmann Wolfgang’s sturdy body filled the frame. Sharp eyes added menace to his frown.

Before the war, I guessed he was a humble man with little power, and the occupation had provided him with new adventures and purpose. Since Les Halles, he had taken a particular interest in me, and I often caught him staring.

“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” he said.

I set the garment aside and stood, knowing that ignoring him could be seen as a provocation. “Hauptmann Wolfgang. How are you today?”

“I’m well. I’m checking to see if you have all that you need. Some others on set have complained they can’t get the required supplies.”

I doubted he could fix our shortages. And I suspected he was more interested in gathering complaints for future reference.

“I have all I need, Hauptmann Wolfgang. Thank you for the inquiry.”

Instead of leaving, he lingered. “I’m sorry about the boy’s death. He was a good, hardworking young man.”

His reference to Rupert rekindled grief, sadness, and anger. “Yes, he was.”

A heavy silence fell between us before he broke it with “Did you see Emile Dupont yesterday? I know you visit her on Tuesdays.”

I stilled. “Is there a concern?”

He adjusted his cuff, pausing before saying, “Emile has been known to associate with the Communist Party.”

All questions from a German had to be handled carefully. “Whenever I see Emile, we only discuss her sister.”

“So, Emile hasn’t seen her sister?”

“No. There’s been no time. Cécile works here all day. And if she has a spare evening, she’s with Oberst Schmidt.”

“She rarely rests.”

“I must work doubly fast to keep up with her.”

Curiosity hardened his eyes. “You’ll let me know if Cécile and her sister meet.”

Many French people were whispering secrets to the Germans to gain favors or extra ration cards, but I’d refused. “Yes, of course.”

“Excellent. We must keep our star safe and out of trouble.”

“Of course.”

Cécile appeared at the doorway, her breathless smile flickering when she saw the captain. “Ah, Hauptmann. How are you today?”

Ever since Rupert’s execution, she’d been extra friendly with him. He stepped aside, giving her a wide berth. “I’m well. And the filming is on schedule?”

“Of course. It’s all perfect.”

“Your costar forgets his lines,” the captain said.

Cécile waved her hand. “Words can be coached. What can’t be taught is the chemistry with the camera and a well-timed delivery.”

Like everyone else on set, the captain had seen the magic on screen between Cécile and Louis. They were both physically beautiful and shared a restrained, captivating passion for film.

“Sylvia, you must change my dress. The director wants to reshoot the scene from yesterday,” Cécile said. “Hauptmann Wolfgang, please excuse us.” Even as she spoke, she was kicking off her shoes and reaching for the buttons of her blouse. For all his bravado, the captain was at his core a good country Lutheran. His well-fed cheeks flushed as he turned, closing the door behind him.

Cécile peeled off her blouse and handed it to me. Her expression sharpened. “What’s this about Emile?”

I carefully snapped the wrinkles from the blouse and hung it up on a padded hanger. Fabrics were growing ever more precious by the day, so each piece had to be treated with care. Most of Cécile’s wardrobe items were either mended or repurposed from another costume, and many carried the faint scent of stain remover.

“He thinks she associates with dangerous people.”

She huffed as she shimmied out of the skirt. “My sister is going to get herself killed.” She sat in a silk tufted chair and carefully unrolled her stockings. “Will you see her next Tuesday?”

I accepted the stockings. “Yes.”

“She doesn’t think well of me these days. She hates that I work here. Hates who I associate with. And there are days I can’t blame her.”

I hung up her skirt and reached for the polka-dot dress for the reshoot. “She leaves the notes, so you know she’s well.”

“Perhaps the notes are more for you than me.”

“No. She cares and worries about you.”

“When you visit Emile again, I’ll have a note for her,” Cécile said.

This was the first time she’d sent a note to her sister. “Of course.”

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t show anyone my note, and guard it closely. It’ll contain personal information I wouldn’t want anyone else to see.”

Cécile had always been savvy about maintaining her position in the world. For her to take any risk was a shift. “Of course.”

She stared intently into my eyes. “Why do I trust you, Sylvia?”

Dozens of refugees had put their trust in me, but they’d had no choice. Cécile didn’t appear desperate, and she had many options before her. “I don’t know.”

“I shouldn’t. No one can be trusted now.” Her tone sounded sad, but she was right.

“But?” I asked.

“You hold secrets close. There’s been no whiff of gossip about you on the set. You stay in the shadows.”

Was she being honest or seeking information for her German friends? Until now, we’d done nothing but discuss fashion, deadlines, and the weather. I didn’t ask about her evenings out. And she never inquired about how I filled my precious free time.

“You should visit your sister,” I said.

Resolve settled on her shoulders. “It’s too dangerous now. The captain’s questions prove it. A visit from me would draw attention to us all. We must be careful.”

Cécile was right. She couldn’t go anywhere in Paris now without being noticed by Hauptmann Wolfgang or the public. Communication with her sister would have to be via me.

As if sensing my apprehension, she said, “I would like to wear the black silk dress tonight for my dinner with Henri. The one with the plunging back. I find that dress makes men delightfully chatty and silly.”

“I added a row of pearl buttons along the back and cuffs. It’s a very striking effect.” They’d been Rupert’s pearls.

“Henri will love the detail. He loves the dramatic.”

“Of course.” Lately, Monsieur Archambeau had shown little interest in Cécile. Rumor had it he was drawn to an even younger woman with dark hair and long, lean limbs. Cécile didn’t seem to mind that his attentions had shifted elsewhere or that their conversations were focused on business. Her interests rested on Oberst Schmidt.

“Henri wants tonight to be perfect so that when his associates return to Berlin, they’ll have nothing but glowing words about Henri Archambeau and his films.”

“And his lead actress.”

“I’m the shining star now, but I can be erased like everyone else.”

“You erased? You have an entire career ahead of you.”

“I don’t think so. Some flames burn bright and hot, and then they’re gone.”

I held up the polka-dot dress, and she stepped carefully into it. I fastened each of the twenty-five black buttons. “And what does Monsieur Archambeau say about a dramatic movie?”

“Henri doesn’t want to upset anyone. Especially considering how the war is going in the east.”

“What does he say of the east?” I asked, carefully.

“Cities leveled. Ghettos built. He believes the violence is headed toward Paris, and only the movies will save us.”

Once-vibrant cities were now crumbling. So much waste and loss. Too many good lives destroyed. “You speak so calmly.”

“Tears fix nothing,” she said. “Only the calm and calculated win. And I’ll win.”

“What are you saying?”

“Men talk, too much sometimes. And I remember it all.”

Cécile, through Oberst Schmidt, had access to high-ranking Germans. She’d likely heard secrets that only a privileged few were privy to. Was she ready to communicate some of these secrets to her sister? She’d said she couldn’t contact Emile, but I could. Now, I had a chance to strike back for Rupert.

I adjusted the seams of her shoulders. “I’ll deliver whatever you have for Emile.”

She smiled. “Good.”