Page 19 of After Paris

Chapter Nineteen

Sylvia

Tuesday, March 18, 1941

6:30 p.m.

As promised, Cécile had a letter ready for me late Monday. She had asked me not to open the letter, but she’d also not sealed the envelope. I wasn’t sure if this was a test or a statement of her trust. Either way, I didn’t look at the letter. In case I was arrested, the authorities wouldn’t be able to extract what I didn’t know.

When I arrived at Emile’s, the sun was low on the horizon, and the streets were quiet. I hurried. The last Métro car left at 8:00 p.m. and would deliver me home before the curfew.

I dressed simply, selecting my oldest suit, and brown shoes that had been resoled twice. I hadn’t sewn extra pockets into this jacket, but I would make that a priority. My blond hair was tucked under a simple hat. I wore no jewelry.

The boulangerie was dark. I guessed Marc was catching a few hours of precious sleep before baking began at midnight.

The exterior stairs creaked as I climbed to the second-floor apartment. Inside the hallway, I knocked on Emile’s door, and when I didn’t hear a response, I opened it.

Emile sat at her small table. A lantern glowed and cast light on her pale features. There was a dishcloth wrapped around her hand.

“Emile?” When she didn’t look up, I closed the door and crossed to her, setting my basket on the table. “Emile.”

She looked up with hollow, bloodshot eyes. “Sylvia.”

I removed my gloves and jacket and set them aside before I reached for her hand. She flinched.

“Let me see. You must let me help you.”

Nodding, she braced.

Very carefully, I unwrapped her hand. My stomach roiled at the sight of her twisted index and middle fingers. They looked as if they’d been smashed.

“Who did this to you?” I asked.

She wiped a tear with the back of her other hand. “The police.”

“The French police?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I was at a meeting.”

“Emile ...” I carefully lowered her hand and crossed to the sink. I filled a white porcelain bowl with warm water and returned. I lowered her injured hand into the water. She hissed and tensed but didn’t draw back.

“How did they do this?” I asked.

“With a hammer.” Tears welled in her eyes as her jaw set. “We were doing nothing wrong,” she said. “We were simply discussing ideas.”

“Ideas are dangerous. Being seen with the wrong people is perilous. Rupert was shot because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I ripped a washcloth into several uneven strips. “What happened?”

“The police raided the meeting. Marc escaped. So did several others. But I tripped, and the police caught me and threw me on the ground. One policeman held me down while the other struck my fingers.”

I swirled the water around her hand until the water had turned red with blood. “Did they ask you any questions?”

“No. They said this was a warning.” She narrowed watery eyes on me. “They said they’ve been watching me.”

I sat in the chair across from hers and, lowering my voice, asked, “What did they see?”

Emile stared, blankly searching for a logical answer. “They caught me handing out flyers and newsletters.”

I’d had friends like her in Poland. In their letters, they’d told me they weren’t afraid to challenge authority, believing justice would prevail. I’d heard from none of them in years. “Newsletters against the Germans, no?”

“Of course.”

“And you don’t think that won’t get you killed? I’ve told you this before.”

Regret mingled with the classic Dupont stubbornness. “I didn’t believe you.”

I gently dried her fingers. They were badly bruised and bent, and she would lose the nails. Emile sucked in a breath, her fingers stiffening. Fresh tears spilled down her dirt-streaked face.

“Consider yourself lucky,” I said.

“‘Lucky’?”

“They’ve done far worse to good people.”

“How do you know this?”

Hangings, mass graves, torture, the camps. Poland was a preamble to what had arrived in France. “France isn’t the first country they’ve taken over. They know what they’re doing.”

Panic brightened her gaze. “Is Marc back?”

“I saw no sign of anyone downstairs.”

She ran her left hand over stray strands that had escaped a bun. “He must be in hiding.”

“Or dead or in prison. They won’t hold back on him if they did this to you. And if they discover he’s a forger, they’ll come for us all.”

She set her jaw. “He’s a good man.”

“History is littered with the deaths of good men.”

Neither of us spoke as I dried off her injured hand and gently wrapped it in the clean linen. She could hide the bandage if she kept her fingers curled up under a coat, but when she worked at the boulangerie, if it ever opened again, everyone would see she’d been marked as trouble.

“Your sister sent you a letter, and she also sent along food.”

A childish scowl crossed her face. “Food paid for by Henri or the German film industry.”

Her cheeks were hollowing, and her collarbones were more pronounced. “It’s food, and you need to eat. If you starve to death, then they win.” I unwrapped the bread and cheese and set it before her. “Eat. If you’re too weak to function, you’re of no help to anyone.”

“The food is tainted.”

“Food is food. It’ll keep you alive, and that’s the goal. Live for another day.”

She accepted a piece of bread I tore off for her. “What does the letter say?”

“It’s intended for you.”

“She trusts you, or she wouldn’t have asked you to deliver it. Read it to me.”

I opened the letter.

E—

I hope this note finds you well. Stay in touch with me. Though we can’t see each other now, I miss you. I have so much to tell you about the fantastic people I’ve met.

—DD

DD. Dominique Dupont. Did she hope that using her real name would reconnect her with Emile?

“What is she trying to tell me?” Emile asked.

“She has access to many high-level people. And her memory is excellent.”

“She never forgets,” Emile scoffed. “Parties with German officers.”

“And industrialists and French government officials.” I handed her another piece of bread as if she were a child.

A slight bitter smile curled her lips. “If she’s paying attention, she’ll remember every word. Men rarely look past her beauty. They don’t realize how brilliant she is.”

“And now she wants to correspond with you,” I said carefully. “She trusts you. And as we both know, trust is rare. Could you pass on information to the right people?”

She cradled her injured hand. “Marc has connections outside this country in Spain, Britain, and Switzerland. Has she told you what she’s heard?”

“We didn’t speak in specifics. Unless you agree to hear her out, we won’t know what she has to say.”

Provided Marc was still alive and willing to operate as a courier, the connection between the sisters could be productive.

Emile’s gaze sharpened with more questions. “Why’s she doing this?”

“She’s always smiling and seems carefree, but she’s been more guarded since Rupert’s death. She’s different. She’s not so different from you.”

“We’ve never been that much alike.”

“In this, you might be.”

Emile carefully flexed her fingers. “How do you know she’s not working for them?”

I’d seen families turn on each other. “I don’t, I suppose. We won’t know unless we test the waters.”

“If you’re wrong, it could be very costly.”

“To do nothing is wrong.”

She glanced at her fingers. “What should I do?”

“Stop attending these meetings. They draw attention to you. Work in the boulangerie. Become invisible. And wait.”

“It’s hard to remain silent.”

“Loud and angry gets attention for a short time, but those voices are often silenced first. The quiet ones can get a great deal accomplished.”

“You’re saying I’m loud?” Bitterness wrapped around the words. “My sister is on every screen in France.”

“Playing the roles of silly women. Cécile is clever. She understands how to play the game, but your moral outrage makes you scream.”

She flexed her fingers, winced, and rested her hand on her lap.

“Write your sister a note and tell her you want to rekindle your relationship. Tell her you’ve missed her.”

“I’ve been saying that in my letters.”

“It’ll be different this time. She’ll understand you’re responding to her offer.”

“If it’s an offer.”

“Either way, we’ll wait for her to write another letter to you, which I’ll deliver.”

Emile rose and crossed the room to a small dresser. She removed paper and pen, sat, and, with her injured hand, carefully wrote out a simple message.

D.

Your kind words mean a great deal to me. I always welcome hearing from you. Get in touch with me as often as you’d like.

Your loving sister,

E.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Emile folded the letter and tucked it in the envelope that had carried her sister’s letter to her. I pushed it deep under the lining of my basket. If it were found, what would be the crime? Two sisters talking was normal. If these sisters were going to pass secrets, I would have to find shrewder hiding places for the messages.

A fist pounded on the door. Emile drew in a breath and smoothed her hand over her disheveled hair. She looked toward me. I nodded.

When she opened the door, Marc rushed over the threshold into her arms. She gripped him tightly, burying her face in his coat. His dark hair was disheveled, and his pant leg was torn. He looked at me, his eyes dark with questions. Then he noticed the bowl and the rag bandages.

“What happened?” he asked.

Emile raised her hand. “The police gave me a warning.”

He lifted her wounded hand. “They’re trying to get to me.”

“Why?” I asked. “Do they know what you do?”

“They know there’s a forger providing papers to refugees and Jews. They’re trying to shut this counterfeiter down.”

“Why would they suspect you?” I demanded.

“The police have conducted many sweeps. Someone could have said something.”

“But they don’t know it’s you?” Emile demanded.

“Not yet.” His voice was brusque and harsh.

“You must be more careful,” I said.

“I won’t stop doing what I do,” he said. “You, of all people, should understand that.”

“Emile’s smashed fingers was a gentle warning,” I said.

“So leave,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”

“There’s a greater prize to be had,” I said. “I’ll let Emile explain. I must go before I’m caught by the curfew.”