Page 30 of After Paris

Chapter Thirty

Ruby

Monday, July 7, 2025

8:00 a.m.

“I have a surprise for you.” Jeff’s voice echoed through the phone.

I sat in the center of my hotel bed, and Cécile’s letters surrounded me. As glad as I was to hear Jeff’s voice, I was annoyed by the interruption. “And what is that?”

“I traced the official travel papers of one Dominique Dupont. Want to know what I found?”

I shoved my glasses back on my head. “Shut up! You didn’t find her.”

“I did.” He sounded very pleased with himself.

“Are you going to tell me?” I coaxed. He enjoyed the drama of a big reveal, and as much as that drove me crazy, I was going to give him this one.

“Want to know how I found her?” A chair squeaked in the background, and I imagined him leaning forward toward his massive computer screens.

I didn’t. I wanted the punch line. “Yes, tell me every single detail.”

He chuckled. “Am I driving you crazy?”

“I’m going to reach through the phone ...”

“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing. “I won’t bore you with the technical details of computer programming.”

I reached for the cup of coffee I’d made in the room and discovered it was cold. “Bless you.”

“Long story short, I wrote a program to search for travel data from the French ports between 1941 and 1944. The Germans were excellent recordkeepers, and much of the old documents now have been digitized.”

“And?”

“Escaping France at this time was difficult. The Germans had locked down the Atlantic and southern coasts because they were considered German military assets. Some people skied or hiked into Switzerland, and some walked south over the Pyrenees Mountains into Spain.”

“But likely no written record of that, correct?”

“Very clever.”

“Does that leave the port of Marseille?” I asked.

“Bingo.”

“The port was controlled by the Germans in 1942.”

“As with all things, there were always exceptions. If someone had connections at the docks, there were ways to smuggle any goods or person in or out of the country. And Daniel worked at the port,” he added.

“Exactly,” I said.

“Any traveler was required to report to the local Nazi office in the port city and present a passport and exit visa.”

“Said visa might have been possible for a well-known actress,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied. “And that’s what happened. On July eighth, 1942, port officials approved Dominique Dupont’s exit visa from Marseille. And on the same day, she boarded the Sea Angel and set sail for Portugal.”

“Portugal.”

“The port of Porto. From there, she vanished.”

“How? Why?” I asked.

“I suspect she swapped her identity papers for a new set. I would bet she was carrying extra papers.”

“Emile’s lover was a forger.”

“That would fit.”

“So, she disappeared?” I asked.

“We know she escaped France alive in July 1942. And Porto was a good place to vanish from.”

“What about Emile?”

“No records of her leaving France. The records of the 1942 Paris police have also been digitized but can’t be accessed online. I’ve requested the report. It’ll be a couple of weeks.”

“I know Marc lived until 1969,” I said.

“As a forger, he could slip into the shadows and stay ahead of the police.”

“Sylvia hasn’t mentioned in her diary that the police raided the boulangerie. I’ve reached the passage when she mentions Marc suggesting there’s an emergency. Something happened, but I don’t know what yet.”

“I’ll also check the records for the Ravensbrück camp for Emile Dupont. Records for the camps were spottier. Many were destroyed as the Allies closed in on Germany.”

The idea of Emile’s life ending in a dark cell, in tortured pain, was heartbreaking.

As if sensing my mood shift, he said, “Emile was living with a forger. Marc could have created exit visas for her as well. She was familiar with the southern routes out of Paris. Maybe she trekked over the mountains into Spain.”

“I don’t think she left Paris willingly. She wouldn’t turn her back on her cause.”

“When her sister left, maybe she decided to leave as well.”

“Maybe. What about Sylvia Rousseau? Her daughter said she arrived in the port of New York in June 1944.”

“I’ll have a look into US immigration records.”

“You’re amazing.”

“How amazing?”

I smiled. “Very.”

The keyboard keys clicked. “Are you in Alexandria much longer?”

“I’m headed home tomorrow. Time to pull all the pieces of this article together and tell Cécile’s and Sylvia’s stories.”

“Want to have dinner?”

It would be dinner, and then it would be sex in my hotel room, which would be awesome. And then we’d create more emotional ties, and then we’d try to pretend that my health was perfect.

“I hear the gears turning.”

“I’d love to have dinner and whatever comes next.”

“But.”

“No buts.” Sylvia and Cécile had faced death like me. They’d lived their lives to the fullest for as long as they could. And there was no reason why I couldn’t do the same. “See you at six?”

“It’s a date.”

I changed and hurried to Madame Bernard’s house. After I knocked, the steady clip of footsteps echoed in the hall. It wasn’t polite to come unannounced, but I needed to talk to her about what Jeff had told me.

“Ruby?” She made no effort to hide her surprise. “How nice.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead, but I had to tell you about something I discovered.”

She motioned me inside. I followed her to the kitchen, and she began making coffee.

“You don’t have to make coffee,” I said. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Nonsense. We’ll sit at the table and sip our coffee like civilized women, and then I’ll hear your revelation.”

Something in her tone made me think she hadn’t told me everything. I moved to the back windows, which overlooked a long, thin backyard encased in an old brick wall. There were dozens of varieties of flowers, all well watered and pruned. A wrought iron table with two chairs sat atop a stone patio. A mossy angel figurine in the garden looked as if it was centuries old.

Madame set the coffee carafe and cups on the table, along with sugar and cream. “Sit.”

I sat at the table, doing my best not to rush, and allowed her to pour my coffee. I filled my cup with plenty of cream and sugar.

She took a careful sip and set her cup down in the saucer. “What is your great revelation?”

“My friend Jeff discovered that Dominique Dupont boarded a ship in Marseille during the summer of 1942. Cécile escaped France.”

Madame didn’t look surprised by my revelation. “Keep reading.”

“Are you saying she didn’t escape France?” I asked.

“Keep reading.” Again, she sipped.

“Did your mother tell you about Cécile’s fate?”

She brushed away my worry with a flick of her fingers. “No. My mother hid her past for her entire life. She wanted me to know the truth. Otherwise, she’d have destroyed the diaries and letters. But she couldn’t tell me herself for reasons I don’t understand.”

“The early forties in Paris were a difficult time.”

“Have you finished Sylvia’s diary?”

“Almost.”

“When you reach the end, you’ll understand how complicated life can be.”

“You knew about Dominique’s departure from Marseille.”

She circled a manicured finger on the marble countertop. “Yes. But it’s more than you realize.”

“Tell me.”

She traced the rim of her cup. “You must hear it from Sylvia. I could never do those days justice.”

“I know what Cécile did for Louis. She covered for him. A Google search told me he lived until 1980.”

“It was one of the small brave moments that no one will ever know about.”

“She did it for her career. To hide her spying.”

Madame’s shoulder lifted and then dropped. “Maybe. But turning Louis in would have deflected attention away from herself. She would have gained favor with his arrest.”

The unanswered questions nudged me, demanding to be satisfied. “Can you at least tell me where Dominique Dupont is now?”

“You must read.”