Page 25 of After Paris
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sylvia
Tuesday, March 17, 1942
11:00 a.m.
The Allies bombed the Renault auto factory two weeks ago. The raids occurred over two nights and, according to witnesses, lit up the night sky. The facility, which made over twenty thousand cars each year for the Germans, was devastated. Because the studio was six kilometers from the factory, all movie production had ceased for several days. When crews returned, they found shattered glass windows, the lingering scent of smoke, and more German soldiers checking identification papers.
The information Cécile had gleaned from Oberst Schmidt last fall and that I’d passed on to Emile had led to the factory’s destruction. Oberst Schmidt’s commanding officers demanded an in-person report on the attack, and he’d left for Berlin last week.
Cécile had made a great show of crying when he’d said he was leaving. On the night before his departure, she had shown up at his room at the Ritz with a bottle of champagne. She’d worn only a thick mink fur and heels. He’d left Paris satiated and none the wiser.
Food grew ever scarcer. Although Cécile’s cook could still get coffee, butter, and paté, many in the city went hungry. My baskets to Emile fed her and the growing number of people Marc allowed to spend a night or two in the flats above the boulangerie. I never asked who these people were but had begun to stuff more cheese and dried meats into my basket. Cook was never happy with me, but she kept her complaints to herself because she had plenty of ration cards and banknotes for the vendors in the black market. She, of course, stole extra food for herself and her family, but we all turned a blind eye.
With Oberst Schmidt gone, the intelligence had dried up, so Cécile cast her net wider. She avoided music concerts, the opera house, and exhibitions at the Musée de l’Orangerie. These activities were favorites of the “gray mice,” the locals’ name for female German soldiers. Instead, she frequented locations favored by the male German soldiers. Her favorites were Coco Chanel’s parties at the Ritz, Comédie-Francaise productions, and the risqué shows at the Folies Bergère.
“All men,” she’d said days ago, “do their best thinking between their legs.”
Cécile’s role at Continental Films remained on the rise after the release of her last romantic comedy, which had been out for weeks and was already a hit. Her first drama, Secrets in the Shadows , would begin production in several weeks.
In Secrets in the Shadows , Monsieur Archambeau cast Cécile as Francoise, a young widow accused of killing her husband. Francoise hired a cynical private detective, Guy LeRoy, to prove her innocence.
Her favorite leading man, Louis Lambert, was cast in the role of the detective. The initial publicity shots of Cécile and Louis were already getting noticed by Le Temps , and many hinted they were lovers. Many suggested in private that the couple was reminiscent of American actors Clark Gable and Carole Lombard.
Once the production of Secrets in the Shadows wrapped in the summer, she was to travel to Berlin and tour Germany with eight actors and actresses. I’d agreed to accompany her, but I worried the Gestapo would realize my identity papers were false once I crossed into Germany.
My basket for Emile in hand, I left the apartment after eleven. Cécile was still asleep, having been out until dawn. This afternoon, we were to meet with the set designer and director to discuss costumes.
As I stepped onto the sidewalk, Hauptmann Wolfgang’s gleaming Mercedes waited. He stood at the passenger-side door, a cigarette in hand. When he saw me, he tossed the butt aside.
I’d grown to expect the appreciation that flashed in his gaze when he saw me. In another time and place, I’d have been flattered, but under all his politeness and my obliged responses, he was German, and I was Polish.
After the recent bombings, the Germans chased all information leaks, no matter how small. If Oberst Schmidt had determined that he himself was the source, I doubted he’d be quick to inform his superiors. He’d use someone like the captain to make the problem go away.
“Hauptmann Wolfgang, good morning.”
“Good morning,” he said with a slight bow. “Are we headed to Emile’s today?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Each time he drove me to Emile’s, he often found a detour and chatted as if we were touring the city for pleasure. He liked to share his discoveries, whether it was a museum or a new restaurant. He’d invited me once or twice to join him for dinner, but I’d begged off because of work. Thankfully, I had a meeting at the studio at five today, so we couldn’t dally too long.
We never talked about the war. Most days, I listened to him reminisce about his hometown on the Polish border. He often described his family home as a quaint cottage surrounded by red poppies in the spring and summer. The pictures he painted reminded me of my own childhood. Our conversations were oddly normal.
At times when he spoke about home, I became terribly homesick, and painful longings tempted me to share the truth of my past. But each time I believed he might be an ally, I remembered the roundups, executions, or arrests.
The captain opened the car door. I no longer protested this kindness and now found it charming.
A woman passed us on the street. She was thin, and her coat was old and worn. When her gaze locked on mine, she telegraphed her disapproval. But with Hauptmann Wolfgang so close, she didn’t dare speak, and I didn’t show remorse.
More subdued, I settled into the front seat and tucked my skirt in as he closed the door. The car heater was running. The warmth felt good, and this small comfort shamed me.
The captain slid behind the wheel. “You have to be at the studio by five.”
“Yes.”
“I noticed that your schedule is clear a week from today. We’ll go out to dinner. It’s time we shared a proper meal in a nice restaurant.”
I hadn’t been to a restaurant in two, or was it three, years? Before the Germans, I had little money to spare, and after, well, I chose to stay away, knowing soldiers crowded all the cafés and restaurants. Eating good food served on a linen cloth was tempting but impossible.
“Ah, I can see you want to say yes,” he said, pulling into the empty avenue.
“It’s an extravagance,” I said.
“That’s the point. You work hard and deserve a nice evening out.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Nonsense. You’ve turned me down twice already, and my pride might be damaged if you refuse this offer.”
To decline now with no tangible excuses would tempt fate and perhaps invite the suspicions of the Gestapo. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
He grinned. “It’ll be an evening you won’t soon forget.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Excellent.”
I listened as he talked about home, a new café, and his plans for life after the war. He spoke as if the war had been settled, and it was just a matter of him moving on to his next assignment.
When he parked by the boulangerie and reached for his door handle, I said, “No, please, stay. I’ll be in there for just a minute. Keep this lovely heater running.”
He hesitated. “Don’t be too long.”
As always, I hurried up the back staircase, a little fearful of what I might find. Emile hadn’t given up her Resistance meetings. And I always dreaded what I’d find in her rooms or the spare apartments.
When I arrived at Emile’s apartment door, I could hear voices on the other side. I knocked and stepped back.
Marc answered, his right hand hidden behind his back. “Sylvia, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I come every Tuesday. I don’t understand the confusion.”
“It’s Tuesday?” He threaded ink-stained fingers through his hair. “Right. I’ve lost track of the time.”
Emile came up behind him, smiling. Her hair hung loose around her face. It was messy, and her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. “Sylvia, our salvation. We wouldn’t eat if it weren’t for Cécile’s German food.”
“Marc, would you give us a moment?” I asked.
He hesitated but retreated, and Emile closed the door. I handed her the basket. “I won’t take too long. Your sister’s driver brought me today.”
“It’s not the best time to bring the Boche to my home,” Emile said. “There’s work scattered all over my kitchen table, and there’s a family in the apartment next door.” She didn’t explain who they were, and I didn’t ask.
I lowered my voice to a whisper and glanced at her disfigured fingers. “If you think they won’t shoot you because you’re a woman, don’t be fooled. They don’t distinguish between male and female disrupters. The authorities deport women like you to the camps daily.”
“I cannot sit and do nothing,” Emile whispered. “You know how passionate we are about this.”
“We’ve had a great success. I caution you to be careful. Oberst Schmidt is having you watched.”
“Let them follow me. I refuse to cower. We must force change and win this war.”
I gripped her damaged hand in my gloved fingers. “You’ll change nothing if the police or Germans arrest you.”
She snatched her hand back. “I can hold my head high, Sylvia.”
“So can your sister. So can I.”
She glanced at the basket. “Is there anything special for me?”
“Not today.”
“Then keep it. Today I have no appetite for Nazi food.”
“Give it to the family in the other apartment. They must be hungry.”
My comment silenced her retort, and she took the basket. “Marc’s sources are pressing for more bombing locations.”
“As soon as Cécile has information, I’ll tell you.” Outside, the heavy thump of footsteps reverberated on the stairs. “The captain is coming.”
“Let him in. Marc will take care of him, and no one will find the body. We’ve done this many times before.”
Heat rushed through my face as I struggled with frustration. If they killed the captain, he would be reported missing, and the Germans would initiate a search. How many French people would they kill as they went from apartment to apartment?
“Go on,” Emile coaxed. “Call to him.”
I shoved the basket in her arms, hurried out the door, and found the captain halfway up the stairs. I paused and drew in a breath, knowing he would notice my mood shift. Finding a slight smile, I descended toward him.
“Everything all right?”
“A quick visit. Emile has bread to bake.”
He blocked my path on the stairs. “You look upset.”
A faltering smile tugged at the edges of my lips. “No, I’m fine.”
He didn’t move. “I know your moods, Sylvia Rousseau. You’re not as guarded with me. Is Emile in trouble?”
The heat in my face rose, and my skin burned. The captain was inches from me. If I allowed him to continue up the stairs, Emile would be ready for him.
“No,” I whispered. “It’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?”
I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his mouth. He tasted of tobacco, surprise, and desire. His hand came to my waist. I drew back, knowing a kiss witnessed by others would seal my fate as a traitor. “I was thinking about you.”
“Were you?” The hand remained on my waist.
Cécile had insisted that men, all men, could be distracted. She could make men melt where they stood with a look. But I wasn’t a movie screen seductress.
The captain pulled back and descended the stairs before waiting for me at the bottom. My hand firmly on the railing, I climbed down the remaining risers. We crossed the sidewalk. He opened the car door, watching closely as I settled into the front passenger seat. He hesitated, his arm resting on the open door as he displayed his large frame. It was a silly moment of male posturing.
My cheeks burned with fresh heat, but this time, it wasn’t fear or fury but a surprising jolt of sexual desire. I’d had a lover when I first arrived in Paris, but he’d always rushed the sex. I suspected the captain was a patient man, and he would take his time in bed.
“Ah, those red cheeks.” He winked. “I’ll never forget that look.”