Page 27 of After Paris

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sylvia

Tuesday, March 24, 1942

11:00 a.m.

As the captain drove me to the boulangerie, he chatted about our upcoming dinner tonight and his selected restaurant. I wasn’t familiar with the establishment, but he assured me I’d be pleased. Dinner between a man and a woman shouldn’t change anything. It was a meal. But I was crossing another invisible line and turning back later might not be possible.

Alone, I climbed the stairs, wondering if the family in the extra apartment was still there. Once, I’d heard children giggling, but now the room was dark and silent.

After knocking on Emile’s door, I stepped back, the basket held close to my body. To my surprise, Emile opened it right away. Most days she took her time, as if she was busy hiding Marc or whatever it was she was working on.

Today, dark circles ringed under her eyes, her hair was disheveled, and her face was pale.

Sitting at the small table in her flat were two of the three boys I’d seen out front playing with the ball. The oldest, who was absent, had kicked the ball into the captain’s leg. Each of the smaller boys was now nibbling on crackers.

When Emile saw the basket of food, her gaze brightened. “Is there anything special inside?”

“Not today. Perhaps next time.”

“Where is the captain?”

“Waiting for me in his car outside.”

Emile glanced over her shoulder to the boys. “The children would appreciate whatever you have.”

“Of course.”

The threadbare carpet dulled my heel strikes as I crossed to the children. “I hear there might be someone looking for a bit of cheese and sausage.”

Both boys looked up, nodding. I took two dishes from Emile’s cabinet and made a plate for each child. I set them in front of both, and they stared at the food as if they weren’t sure if it was real.

“Go on, enjoy it,” I said.

The boys each took a large slice of cheese and slipped it into their pockets and then began to eat.

“Where is your cousin?” I asked.

“He’s working today,” the oldest said.

“Where does he work?” I asked.

“At Les Halles,” the younger boy said.

Many young children found small jobs to make a few coins that now bought so little, but, like Rupert, work often put them in the path of Germans. “Take food for your cousin. He’ll need more than two slices of cheese.”

“Thank you,” the boys said, their mouths already full.

I crossed to Emile. “Where is the mother?”

“Waiting at the market, hoping to spend her ration stamps. She left early to beat the lines.”

“And the cousin is working at the market?”

“He delivers messages.”

“For the Resistance?” I whispered. “The Germans will shoot a child as easily as an adult.”

“He is smart and quick. He knows all the shortcuts and places to hide.” Emile folded her arms over her chest. “Something is brewing in the city. The SS are making more arrests, and I fear there’ll be more.”

She didn’t mention the target of these roundups. But I knew most were Jews. “I feel the tension in the air.”

“What about you?” Emile said. “Aren’t you worried?”

Suspicions about my heritage lingered behind her words. “Always, but I’m used to it.”

“Are you ever leaving Paris?”

“I’ll stay as long as I can.”

The door opened, and the boys’ mother appeared. She looked shocked and then scared, as if my presence was a threat. She’d no doubt seen the captain’s car parked out front. Only when she saw the boys eating did her eyes soften. “Bonjour.”

“I had extra food,” I said. One thing to ask Emile about the cousin’s Resistance work, but another to discuss it with a stranger. Spies were hidden all over Paris. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m Sylvia.”

“Pleasure.” She wisely didn’t offer her name as she set down a small parcel on the table. “The clerk at the market would only let me buy a little cheese. There was more stock, but she wouldn’t sell it to me. They save the best for themselves.”

Emile’s face bore no resentment. “The women working the market counters are as poor as the rest of us, but they delight in telling others what they can or cannot have. It’s a small slice of power, but they guard it with care.”

The occupation had brought out the best and worst in us. “I can’t stay long. I have plans for this evening.”

My plans. I had a dinner date with Hauptmann Wolfgang, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell Emile or the Frenchwoman. My association with my German driver afforded me small privileges that had made my life easier. I wasn’t so different from counter ladies guarding their own small luxuries.

I’d delayed having dinner with the captain for weeks, and now here I stood dressed in a smart navy blue suit, polished heels, my mother’s pearls, white gloves, and a small hat. I should have escaped this path, but I couldn’t find a way clear.

I stepped outside and found Hauptmann Wolfgang standing by his Mercedes. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and a silver tie. His shoes were polished, and a handkerchief peeked out from his breast pocket. He wasn’t a classically handsome man, but when he looked at me with appreciation, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered.

The captain handed me a small lavender bouquet. “You look lovely.”

I accepted the flowers. Raising them to my nose, I inhaled their delicate scent. “Thank you.”

He opened the car door, and I slid inside. When he angled behind the wheel, he sat tall as he put the car in gear and pulled into traffic. “The café I selected is not the Ritz, humbler, but the food is perfection.”

“Sounds wonderful. I’ve been to the Ritz and find it overrated.”

A slight nod acknowledged a shared kinship. “Exactly.”

We drove through the near-empty streets. Neither of us spoke, and I think he was as nervous as me. We arrived at the café, and he parked on a side street. He met me at the passenger side and opened the door. I rose, and he offered me his arm as we walked inside. The perfect gentleman.

Inside the café, the ma?tre d’ greeted us. He was a rawboned man in his sixties with black hair streaked with gray. If he was casting judgment on me, he gave no sign of it as he escorted us to a back table.

The waiter explained what the chef had prepared tonight as he filled our water glasses. The captain looked at me, but I demurred to him, suggesting he make the choices. He made our selections, and soon we were sipping wine.

“When I first arrived in Paris, the pace of the waitstaff frustrated me,” the captain said. “So slow. For years in Germany, we had terrible food shortages. Whenever I had the opportunity to eat, I was always too rushed and anxious to enjoy the process. In this last year, I’ve learned to slow down.”

And everyone else in Paris struggled not to rush when they ate what little they had. “It’s indeed special.”

I savored the wine and, like my Cécile, asked enough questions to keep him talking. I’d watched her do this so many times with Monsieur Archambeau. Her questions always had a way of steering the conversation and tugging him out of a sullen mood.

The meal began with an aperitif; then we progressed to soup, fish, main course, and salad. By the time the cheese arrived, despite my best efforts to eat small portions, my stomach was ready to burst. The captain, however, had cleaned his plate at each course, and when the cheese arrived, I sat back with my wine, watching him consume each morsel. He did the same with a chocolate crepe.

As we lingered over coffee, I asked him about the places he still wanted to visit. He listed several countries and confessed he was hungry for more adventure.

When he tried to coax me into conversation, I described the plot of Secrets in the Shadows and the excitement over its production. I talked about making Cécile’s costumes; however, I didn’t mention that I often sneaked out and visited Rupert’s contacts in the black market in search of fabrics.

Once our meal was complete, he escorted me to his car. We drove, not back to Cécile’s apartment but to another, unfamiliar building.

“This is where I stay,” he said.

I understood the implication immediately. He’d been patient with me over the last few months. My toes touched another more dangerous line.

“You don’t have to come up,” he said.

The wine had softened the sharp edges of my nerves. “I want to.”

Later I would look back on this night with some shame. That night I’d told myself I was sleeping with him in the hope that he’d be distracted from Emile and her activities. But the truth was I missed a man’s touch. I was tired of being alone.

His rooms were large and overlooked the Seine. Stars winked in a clear sky as a full moon dripped light on the river.

I didn’t want to think about who’d once lived here and enjoyed this view or who was hungry when my belly was full. He offered me a drink, which I accepted. His eyes darkened with desire. He set my drink aside and pulled me into his arms.

His touch was gentle but full of authority and purpose, two elements missing from my life. I wish I could say that sex was him was unpleasant, but that would have been a lie. I enjoyed his touch, his scent, and the brief moments of feeling connected.

As we both lay naked in his bed, he suckled my breasts as his fingers teased my wet folds open. When he pushed inside me, he moved with a force that was thrilling. In those moments, there was nothing but the feeling of us, and I welcomed it.

How could I open myself to a man who, if he learned my truth, could turn me in to the Gestapo? I had no doubt that the captain would be as loyal to his country as I was to my adopted land. We were each in this fight to the death, yet my mind and body separated as I gripped his shoulders, arched toward him, and climaxed.

Later I dozed, and when I woke, he asked me to stay the night, but I refused. Cécile typically arrived home by 2:00 a.m., and it was always better if I was available to help her undress.

“I’ll be busy for a few days,” he said as he drove me back to the apartment. “ Oberst Schmidt has many important meetings, and he requires a driver.”

“Then you must be available to assist him.”

“I would rather be with you.”

As Cécile did so many times with the men circling around her, I dropped my gaze. “Coquettish” was what Monsieur Archambeau called Cécile. “If you have free time, then send word to me. Perhaps we can steal some time.”

He leaned toward me and kissed my lips. “I will.”

The captain didn’t call me for five days. When he did, there was no time for dinner. No time for talk or a drink. I met him at his apartment, and this time, his hands were on me as we passed a large dining table. He paused, kissed me, and then bent me forward until my cheek pressed against the polished mahogany. Rough, impatient hands raised my skirt and pulled down my silk panties over my very precious stockings.

“I’ve been craving this for days,” he said.

He drove into me with a force, startling a cry from me. He hesitated, reaching his hand around and placing it against tender swollen tissue. He began to rub. I moaned. He drove harder. When he finished, I could hear the quickness of his breath.

I stood, pulled a handkerchief from my pocket, and dabbed away his semen. I hadn’t thought about the consequences of our actions the first time, but now I wondered if I’d end up like the women with bellies swollen with German babies.

He adjusted his pants, his cheeks full of color. “I’ll see you again soon.”

I straightened my skirt, surprised by my primitive reaction to him. Shame warred with satiation. “Where are you and Oberst Schmidt going this week?”

“Brittany,” he said.

“So far away.” The west coast of France had been closed to the French since the Germans arrived.

“It’s where the U-boats are docked.”

I moistened my lips and kissed him gently. “What is a U-boat?”

He rested his hands on my hips. “An underwater vessel. Very efficient at sinking ships. The Americans are sending cargo vessels full of supplies to England, and they must be stopped.”

His manner was candid. Perhaps later he’d look back and wonder why he’d been so open with me. Perhaps he sought a human connection. Or perhaps he was baiting a trap with information hard for a spy to resist. “It isn’t dangerous, is it?”

“No.” He smiled as if my worry pleased him. “You’ve never used my given name.”

I had not. Thinking of him as “the captain” created distance for me. “I haven’t?”

“Say my name,” he insisted.

Another line crossed. “Otto.”

“Thank you, Sylvia.”