Page 24 of After Paris

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sylvia

Monday, September 22, 1941

4:00 p.m.

As summer temperatures heated, the tension in the city rose. Food shortages were more acute, arrests increased, and breadline demonstrations were louder. I continued to visit Emile weekly, though of late, the letters I delivered weren’t incriminating. Hauptmann Wolfgang drove me each time, and as much as I wanted to ask Emile if she’d passed along the letter discussing the Renault auto factory near the film studios, I didn’t dare, knowing the captain was lurking outside her door.

Cécile finished her romantic comedy, and Monsieur Archambeau insisted she make another romp. With the success of Continental Films’ Premier rendez-vous , starring Danielle Darrieux, those in Paris and Berlin realized French film could rival Hollywood. The newest movies in production not only distracted, influenced, and swayed audiences, but they also entertained and made money.

However, Cécile was adamant that another comedy wasn’t best for her career. She and Monsieur Archambeau had many heated arguments in her dressing room. The crew heard glasses shatter and tables overturn. After he’d leave, I’d often question Cécile’s audacity, but she wouldn’t accept another silly role. Finally, the two struck a bargain. Monsieur Archambeau would scout for more scripts if Cécile promoted her latest movie. She’d agreed.

When Vogue Paris magazine offered a shoot to Cécile, she’d hesitated until Monsieur Archambeau said the magazine was also looking at Corinne Luchaire. The petite, fair-haired actress was one of Cécile’s rivals on film and in her dealings with the German high command.

We spent weeks before the shoot reviewing designs, balancing timeless elegance with hints of wartime practicality. In the end, we settled on a dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline, cap sleeves, and a full skirt. With money from Monsieur Archambeau, I visited many of Rupert’s contacts in the black market and finally found a rich blue satin in a shop in Les Halles.

Now, the final dress cupped her creamy shoulders, nipped at her waist, and flared into a lush full skirt that skimmed her knees. For the shoot, she wore a diamond necklace and earrings made by Van Cleef & Arpels, all gifts from Oberst Schmidt. The colonel had left Paris weeks ago, but he telephoned her several times a week. When she’d told him about the shoot, he’d asked her to wear her hair down.

I fastened the last satin-covered buttons cinching in Cécile’s waist, growing narrower by the month. These days, she ate little but drank her champagne daily.

Outside, the photographer waited for us across a small bridge spanning the Seine. In the background, the Eiffel Tower dominated the skyline.

“I can share a secret with you,” Cécile said as she met my gaze in a full-length gilded mirror tipped against a wall. “I’ve won. I’m to star in a mystery drama yet to be titled.”

I caught her gaze in the mirror. “How did Monsieur Archambeau agree?”

“I mentioned my desire to make a drama to Oberst Schmidt. I declared that if I played one more orphan with two love interests, I might go crazy. The colonel laughed, but two days later, the new offer surfaced.”

“What does he want from you?”

“He wants me in Berlin at the end of the summer.”

This was the first time we’d talked about Berlin. “Are you going?”

“Most likely.”

“You’ve created an image that few see as threatening. Do you want to change that?”

“They suspect us all,” she said. “We both know the innocent are vanishing and dying. Rupert. Two writers. A cameraman. Parents and children are separated. I might as well have a little fun before they shoot me or send me to prison.”

I adjusted the necklace’s diamond pendant, so it pointed toward her cleavage. These gems were beyond a Luftwaffe colonel’s salary, and I knew they’d been stolen and resold to him for pennies. “Be careful what you say.”

She touched a sparkling diamond earring. “We’re all going to die someday, Sylvia. Better our life counts for something. You understand this, no?”

I took risks in the shadows, and the idea of following her into the spotlight, or Berlin, terrified me. “Yes, I do.”

She chucked me under the chin. “Don’t look so glum. I don’t think a movie role will change that much.”

“What about Berlin?”

“We can weather one quick trip to the city. I hear it’s lovely in the summer.” A smile tipped her red lips. “As long as I remain the right kind of trouble for the colonel, he won’t suspect.”

“Berlin is an unfamiliar city, far from anyone who can help us.”

She arched a brow. “And who would help me in Paris? Not Henri or my Nazi lover.”

I reached for a white wide-brimmed hat, set it on the crown of her head, and pinned it in place. “All the more reason to be careful. Conditions in this city are getting worse.”

The wealthy weren’t feeling the constraints of the occupation, but I saw it daily whenever I bargained in the markets for buttons or bread. Refugees and Parisians alike now felt the hard, oppressive boot of the occupiers pressed against their necks.

“This is why we must make the best of what’s available. And now I must be photographed.” She appraised her dress in the mirror. “You’re quite gifted, Sylvia.”

I accepted the compliment. “I learned from the best.”

“Where did you learn design? Not all in the lingerie factory.” All this time together, and she’d never asked about my credentials.

This small opening into my fading past was too hard to resist. “My mother. And father. Both were very talented.”

“They were designers?”

“My father was a tailor and my mother a dressmaker.”

My past was an Achilles’ heel hidden under layers of identities I’d created.

“They’re gone now?”

I handed her white gloves and helped her pull them on. “Yes.”

I opened the door, and a cool breeze stroked my cheeks. Outside, the photographer was checking his camera lens. He was a tall, lean man with stooping shoulders and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. When he looked up, a flicker of appreciation crossed his eyes. He tossed his cigarette aside.

“Beautiful. Please stand here.” He pointed to the bridge’s center, and Cécile moved to her spot. I followed, checking for flyaway hairs, readjusting a twisted earring, and fluffing her skirt. As I worked, I heard the click of the camera’s shutters. And when I glanced over my shoulder, the photographer snapped another image.

“Stunning,” he said.

I turned my face away from the camera and rose. “You’re wasting your film on me.”

“No, I don’t think so. The world wants to see how a lovely woman makes another woman stunning. It’s an interesting story.”

“Cécile is our star.” I stepped to the side. I didn’t want my photo taken. If someone from my past recognized me, they could turn me in to the police.

The photographer raised the viewfinder back to his eye. Click. Click. “Mademoiselle Cécile, can you clasp your hands at your waist?”

Cécile was accustomed to direction and found her pose in seconds. When he asked her to raise her arms, she did. When he asked her to walk away from him and glance over her shoulder, she tossed back a carefree smile few in the city could muster. He took photographs for half an hour.

The photographer lowered his camera. “Perhaps another outfit.”

“Of course,” I said.

“A lighter dress will work better in the fading afternoon sun.”

“Give us a few minutes.” I had come prepared with several outfits selected from the set. We returned to the dressing room, and I helped her change into a smart white suit. She stepped into black heels, and I cinched a belt around her wait. A black fascinator sporting an ostrich feather finished the look. Outside in the dimming light, the sun caught the brim of her hat and cast a glow over her pale features and ruby-red lips.

A Mercedes pulled up behind the photographer. Hauptmann Wolfgang stepped out and opened the back door, and Oberst Schmidt exited the car. The colonel settled his cap on his head and tugged the visor lower. He was attractive, cold, controlled, and impressive in many ways. I might have admired him if I didn’t despise his kind so much.

Oberst Schmidt strode up to me. “How’s she doing?”

“Excellent.” I was careful to keep my gaze averted.

“She’s stunning. Your work with her wardrobe is top notch, Mademoiselle Rousseau.”

Hearing my name from his lips unsettled me. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

He continued to watch Cécile as she angled her face toward the camera. “How is her sister, Emile?”

My breath caught. “Work in the boulangerie keeps her busy.”

“And you deliver food to her on Tuesdays?”

No surprise that he knew what was happening in Cécile’s circle. Cécile was too precious a prize for her not to be guarded.

“Yes,” I said.

“The sister can be troublesome. But I hope her gentle warning will discourage further problems.”

The “gentle” warning had cost her two broken fingers. “I’m not aware, sir.”

“When you deliver your next basket, make sure you impress upon Emile that I’m aware of her. The next warning will be more direct. I cannot afford any scandal.”

I didn’t respond. Had Oberst Schmidt ordered the attack on Emile? Or was he using the incident to his advantage?

“Nothing can tarnish Cécile. We have big plans for her this summer, so Emile needs to behave.”

Blood rushed to my head, and my heartbeat raced. I’d been tamping down my rage for years. And now it was constricting my throat and robbing me of my voice.

“You understand, Mademoiselle Rousseau?” A slight smile suggested he’d interpreted my reaction accurately.

I wouldn’t be so reckless as to confront him. But given the chance, I would kill him. “Yes, sir.”

“Johann!” Cécile left her position just as the photographer clicked his camera. His flash of annoyance vanished when he saw Cécile kiss Oberst Schmidt. “This is a lovely surprise.”

“I just returned to the city. I couldn’t stay away.”

She grinned. “Wonderful.”

“Have dinner with me.” He touched her necklace. “ Schon. ”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, smiling. “I’ll hurry home and change.”

“You look flawless,” he said.

“I’m a mess,” she said. “And I want to be beautiful for you.”

“You’re perfect for my suite at the Ritz. I ordered room service dinner.” Dark desire flickered in his eyes, and dinner clearly wasn’t a priority.

“Of course, darling.”

He offered his arm to her, and she took it as she followed him to his car.

As the car drove away, the photographer came up to me. His jaw tightened. Anyone witnessing this scene would claim she was a collaborator like Corinne Luchaire. The photographer spit on the cobblestone street, turned, and packed up his camera in a battered wooden case. When he stood, he shook his head. “Boche.”

He fell silent after the muttered slur. Like me, he understood the Boche were no longer interested in playing nice.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

He grunted. “I’ll send you the picture of you and the actress. You can show it to your grandchildren if we all live through this.”

“That’s very kind.”

He grunted, lit another cigarette, and walked away. I returned to the makeshift dressing room and packed the rejected outfits, makeup, extra shoes, and jewelry. I wouldn’t see Cécile this evening, but in the morning, I needed to be ready to deliver another basket to Emile.

Couriered espionage letters, false identity paper deliveries, and even clandestine BBC broadcasts were all flint strikes against dried kindling. Only one spark could catch my life on fire and reduce it to embers.

I held up a ruby Cartier bracelet. If I found a buyer, I would make enough money to leave France and remake myself. My father would tell me to run. He’d begged me to be safe and survive. And I’d done that. But where would I go now? The northern and southern ports were closed. My original travel papers issued in Poland were unusable, and my counterfeit papers might not hold up to scrutiny.

Even if I chanced an escape to Spain or Switzerland, what would happen to those I could still help? Who would deliver the letters to Emile? Poland and France had been my homes, and I would not disrespect either by ignoring her people.

“ We are all afraid, Zofia ,” my father had said when I’d hugged him so close at the Warsaw train station. “Better to make peace with it.”