Page 31 of After Paris

Chapter Thirty-One

Sylvia

Monday, July 6, 1942

10:00 p.m.

When I arrived at the boulangerie, it was dark. I climbed the stairs to Emile’s apartment and found Marc standing in the dark by her window, peering through the curtains, holding a cigarette that was little more than ash.

“Were you followed?” he asked as he stubbed out his cigarette on a small saucer.

“No. I was careful.” I’d taken several back alleys and avoided all the German and French patrols.

“No German driver escorting you?”

“No. Why did you call?” I asked.

Shadows bathed Marc’s face. “We received word that the police are going to be conducting roundups of Jews in the next week. We don’t know when, but it will happen.”

“There have been roundups before.”

“Not like this one,” he said. “This one will be massive. Emile and I were in the neighborhood knocking on doors, trying to warn the families we know.” He clicked on a small lamp. “No one was listening to us.”

“Why did you call Cécile’s phone?”

“When the police arrived, Emile and I were separated. I made it back here. She hasn’t returned. I went out looking, and an old woman told me several police officers tossed Emile into a car.”

“When did this happen?”

“Ten hours ago. I have contacts in the police department who aren’t offended by a bribe. They told me the police were instructed to take Emile to 11 Rue des Saussaies, the Gestapo headquarters. If they haven’t started questioning her by now, they soon will. If she breaks, the police will come for Cécile and you.” Marc lit a fresh cigarette.

“And you’ll be arrested.”

“I know how to vanish.” Lamplight sharpened the angles on his face.

“Emile is tough.” I hoped saying the words out loud would add weight.

“You and I both know the Gestapo can break anyone.” He looked out the window. “The irony is that no one was listening to our warning. No one.”

I’d wanted to believe the worst couldn’t happen even as my father had escorted me to the train station in Warsaw seven years ago. He’d seen it coming, and I hadn’t believed him.

“We must both leave this building now. It’ll be overrun with officers soon.”

“I’ll talk to Cécile. She has contacts.”

“Tell her about her sister and caution her that saving Emile will be difficult.” Marc drew in a slow, steady breath. “It’s time for you to leave France. They’ll find out the truth about you sooner or later.”

I reached for the door handle, knowing the sooner I found Cécile, the better.

“There are others I can bribe,” he said. “I’ll try to find out more.”

“Leave any information in the compartment under the carpet.”

Outside, I hurried down the side steps. On the street, shouts and a gunshot cut through the darkness. Across the street, I saw a policeman standing at the corner. I hurried down the sidewalk as footsteps echoed closer. Walking faster, I wondered if my luck had run out. I’d always believed I would be fine if I was careful. But I’d begun to take more risks with Cécile, Emile, and the captain.

I hastened down the stairs of the Bastille Métro stop, bought a ticket, and ran toward what was likely the last train of the night. When I spotted a collection of German soldiers boarding the train, I hurried past the car and up the stairs opposite. Ducking my head, I moved swiftly. I was grateful I knew the city’s shadows and shortcuts so well.

When I arrived at Cécile’s apartment building, it was after eleven. Hauptmann Wolfgang’s car was parked across the street, but his head was slumped back. He was sleeping.

I angled through the front door, but as I moved toward the central staircase, the building’s concierge opened her first-floor apartment door.

Though Cécile used the old woman’s penchant for gossip to her advantage, I wasn’t sure she wouldn’t turn into a police informant.

“Mademoiselle Rousseau.”

“Madame Balzac.”

The concierge was a slender woman with thin, graying hair and long bony fingers. Weariness lingered in the curve of her stooped shoulders. “What are you doing out so late?” she asked.

I turned and descended the two stairs toward her. I stood at least three inches above her. “I lost track of the time.”

“You broke the curfew.”

The old woman glared at me with narrowed eyes. She’d lived in this building for decades and had known the family who’d lived in our apartment. I’d always assumed she saw Cécile and me as interlopers.

“It was a mistake. I was working late,” I said.

“Cécile returned an hour ago.”

“I know,” I lied. “I used the extra time to scout fabric sources.”

She glanced at my empty hands. “After curfew.”

“I’d been told a shopkeeper had a rich yellow silk that would be perfect for a costume I’m making. But he’d swapped it for cheap cotton. It was a waste of time.”

Madame Balzac pursed her lips. “I know liars. And you’re a bad one.”

To disagree would have underscored her suspicions. “You’re right. I wasn’t working. I saw my lover. He didn’t want me to leave.”

“The German driver? The one always parked out front?”

“He’s not the only one I see,” I lied.

The old woman’s scowl deepened. “Be careful, girl. You and the actress are playing with the devil. The Boche will turn on you both. They’re all hungry tigers circling and ready to eat every one of us alive.”

Lifting my gaze, I was surprised to see concern etched around her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Get up to your room and be more careful next time.”

“Yes, of course.”

I ran up the stairs and was breathless when I reached Cécile’s apartment door. When I entered, I closed and locked the door, allowing myself to release a breath I’d held for hours.

Cécile emerged from her bedroom, tightening the folds of a silk robe. “Where have you been?”

“With Marc. The French police arrested Emile. Marc and Emile were warning families about a pending roundup when the police arrived. They were separated, and the police took her.”

Cécile drew a slow, steady breath as she removed an envelope from her robe pocket. “I’ll return to her apartment and put this in her hiding place. Then I’ll go to Henri.”

“You’re expected on set this morning, and Hauptmann Wolfgang is parked out front. He’s sleeping for now, and I snuck past him when I approached the building. Madame Balzac is awake and watching. I’ll deliver the letter. I’ll wake up the captain and have him drive me to Emile’s.”

She considered my offer and then handed me the letter. “That’s valuable information. Much is about the U-boats.”

“What do we do about Emile? Are you going to see the colonel?”

“No, the colonel is finished with me.”

“Why?”

“He’s jealous of Louis. I couldn’t calm him.” She seemed more irritated than hurt as she moved past me toward a table sporting my delivery basket. “There are extra francs in the basket if Marc needs to pay more bribes. Stuff the letter in the bread as we always do.”

“You’ll go to the studio?”

“It’s the last day of shooting, and Henri will be waiting. Henri has contacts in the city police and with the Germans. He’ll help me. He owes me a great deal. He’ll call in favors and save my sister.”

“I should be at the studio to help you with your costumes.”

“Today is the seduction scene. I won’t be wearing much.” She studied her manicured fingers. “When I first arrived in Paris, a nude scene would have shocked me. Now, it seems trivial.”

“But if I alter my routine ...”

“Then you do. Charlotte manages Louis’s costumes, and she can help me. Louis never argues when I ask for a favor like that. Your delivery is more important.”

“Once I’ve dropped off the basket, I’ll come to the studio. It’s more important that nothing appears amiss. And perhaps Marc knows more now.”

She considered my statement but didn’t look encouraged. “Perhaps.”

“Do you think Oberst Schmidt or Monsieur Archambeau suspects anything?”

“I’ve been cautious. But who can say? Emile’s arrest might not be linked to my letters, but I don’t trust coincidence.”

When I rushed outside, the captain was waiting, leaning against his gleaming car, staring at the building. Faint moonlight glistened on the car’s shiny exterior. He walked toward me, his footsteps steady and sure. “Where are you going?”

“To deliver Emile’s basket.”

He leaned closer. “It’s very late.”

“I must be on set by nine. It’s the last day of shooting.”

His gaze lingered on me. “I’ll drive you.”

“Thank you.”

He opened the door for me, and I slid into the front seat. He closed the door with a hard thud and moved around the car. He sat behind the wheel and started the engine.

The weight of the basket felt heavy on my lap as the captain drove through the quiet streets. There was a sullenness about him that was troubling.

“You’re worried,” I said. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m concerned about you,” he said.

“Me? Why?”

Gravel popped under the tires as the vehicle moved through the dark streets. “You’re in trouble.”

I struggled to keep the tension from my face. I pushed aside thoughts of Emile’s arrest and the hidden compartment under the threadbare carpet. “What do you mean?”

“You must know the police questioned Emile last year. The marks on her hands. Did you see them?”

“She told me it was an accident,” I lied.

Shadows smoked the edges of his clenched jaw. “The police did it to her as a warning.”

It wasn’t challenging to feign shock or fear. “Why would the police arrest Emile?”

“She has ties to the Resistance.”

“Those meetings? She told me she stopped,” I lied.

He didn’t look convinced. “She didn’t. She was arrested in the Marais last night.”

“Why?”

“She’s trying to warn families of a coming roundup. She’s interfering with Reich policy.”

“Roundup of families? Why?” I wanted to hear him say what the Germans planned.

He countered with his own question. “Why were you sneaking into Cécile’s building?”

I said nothing.

“I saw you.” He gripped the wheel tighter as he drove through the darkened and narrowing streets. He wove past the Marais’s ancient stone buildings. “You were at Emile’s.” When I didn’t answer, he said, “I turned a blind eye to Emile. But she’s pressed too hard.”

“She’s done nothing wrong.”

As he parked in front of Emile’s building, he glanced ahead, staring down the street toward a group of three women who were breaking curfew. One glanced up and saw him, and the women dispersed.

The captain kept his gaze trained ahead as a muscle in his jaw pulsed. “Stay off the streets as much as possible for the next few weeks. There are going to be arrests. Be very careful.”

I dug my thumb into the basket’s brittle wicker.

The captain placed his hand over mine, startling my gaze up to his. “I care about you, Sylvia. I don’t want to see you dragged into anything that causes you trouble.”

“I sew. I visit Emile. I sleep with you. That’s my life.” I touched his arm, wondering if he was being truthful.

His frown deepened as he dropped his gaze to my hand.

I added, “It’s been too long since we’ve had time together. Let me deliver this basket, and we can take care of that. I have several hours before I need to be on set.”

He studied my face.

As I ran my hand over his thigh, his body tensed. I could sense his desire for me clouding his mind and blurring his growing suspicions. But he could regain his clarity very soon. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“I won’t be gone more than five minutes. Stay with the car.” I opened the door and hurried up the side staircase. When I knocked on Emile’s door, there was no answer. The other two apartments were quiet and dark. I twisted Emile’s doorknob and pushed open the door.

Silent shadows bathed the small space. The only sign that Marc had been here was the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. A disturbing hush wrapped the room, and when I flipped on a light switch, I realized the apartment had been ransacked. All the drawers had been emptied out on the floor, feathers lay near ripped pillows, and the bedding had been dumped into a heap next to pieces of a clay urn.

Who had been here? Had Emile already been broken and confessed?

My heels clicked across the parquet floor as I checked the closet. Emile’s few meager outfits had been shredded and tossed on the floor. Two well-worn shoes lay on their sides.

The captain’s warning rattled in my head.

I crossed to the round rug and, with trembling fingers, pulled up the carpet and opened the small hiding hole. Waiting for me in the hiding space were several sets of identity papers and a note from Marc. It read: Run!

With a shaking hand, I dug Cécile’s letter out of the bread and placed it in the compartment. I shoved the new identity papers in an inside jacket pocket. Beyond the front door, heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs. I covered up the compartment and smoothed out the rug. As I set the basket on the table, the door opened.

The captain stood on the threshold. I was gone only a few minutes, and yet he was checking on me. Was he hoping to save me or catch me? His gaze surveyed the destruction, and he didn’t appear surprised.

“She’s not here,” I said. “Something terrible has happened.”

“Leave the basket. If Emile returns, she’ll know you were here. Don’t leave a note. If this was the work of the SS, they’ll question everyone who knows her.”

I left the basket on the table, and as I walked, a tremor ran through my body. I had no one to rely on in this moment other than this German.

On Tuesdays, I dressed for him, choosing the colors and fitted bodices that caught his interest. Today, I’d had no time to prepare for him, and I felt shabby.

He watched me as I passed by. He closed the door with a hard click.

“I’m terrified,” I said.

“I’ll ask around. I might be able to find out where the police took Emile.”

I took his hand. Powerful fingers gripped mine.

“Thank you,” I said.

I wanted to run back to Cécile and tell her what I’d seen in Emile’s apartment, but to do so would have alerted the captain even more. I needed to remain calm.

He released my hand as we approached the bottom of the stairs. Without a word, he escorted me outside and to the car. The perfect gentleman, he opened the door and waited until I was seated.

He said nothing as he drove through the Marais to the brothel where my refugees had hidden. Fear ripened by years of deception swelled in my chest.

The captain revealed none of his thoughts. He shut off the car engine. “There will be fewer prying eyes here,” he said.

“Why here?” How many times had I passed the lobby’s shabby red wallpaper and climbed to the third floor with frightened families in tow?

“You do not like it? I thought you were familiar with this area.”

Was this a test? Or was he showing me my worth to him? “It’s an unorthodox choice.”

The captain walked with me into the building. The woman at the front desk, who’d seen me many times, was accustomed to discretion and didn’t say a word or give a hint she recognized me. I looked to my right into the familiar gilded mirror in the green parlor. I didn’t recognize this version of me. The girl from Poland was gone. She’d been erased by a thousand choices that had created the woman staring back. A woman who now belonged in this brothel.

The captain requested a room, gave the woman a generous sum of francs, and was given a door key.

We climbed the center staircase to the second floor, and he unlocked room 22. The place smelled of desperation and sadness.

It wasn’t until our door was closed and locked that the captain reached for me and pulled me roughly toward him. All traces of the gentleman vanished. In his place stood a man starving for something I doubted even he could name.

I didn’t flip on the lights. I didn’t want to see the shabby carpet or the stained bedspread.

An undercurrent, intimate and foul, surged through the narrow space between us. And then he grabbed me, hiked up my skirt, and pushed down my silk panties. The sudden force ripped fabric and the last of my dignity.

Before I could catch my breath, he pushed me onto the bed. He fumbled with his pants and braced a hand by my head. He used the other to shove inside me with a despair I’d never felt. Desire flowered out of my shame. And it grew with each of his thrusts.

I knew the end was here for us. And he seemed to sense it. What did he know? Was he turning me in to the police after we left the brothel? His anger, fear, and frustration became mine as my desire peaked.

After we both had finished, he dropped his head into the crook of my neck. His panting, ragged breath was as labored as mine. Our sex was not love but a fulfillment of a primitive need.

He raised his head and reached for the charm around my neck. Rough fingers ran over the cross and then against the star on the underside.

I froze, unable to breathe, teetering on a tightrope.

He released the charm. He rolled off me onto his back and lay beside me. He stared at the water-stained ceiling. “You should have left the city two years ago.”

“I couldn’t,” I said.

“Then go now,” he said. “I might not be in Paris much longer. My superiors have ordered me to the Eastern Front.”

“Where?”

“Poland and then to Russia.”

Poland. The Germans had decimated my home country. I lay beside him. Our shoulders pressed against each other, and I drew comfort from the simple touch. “Why are you being transferred to Russia?”

“Germany will move on the city of Stalingrad soon.” The lines furrowed his brow. His dread had the consistency of futility.

Cécile had said a few German officers had privately expressed their concerns about the Russian invasion. They whispered that hubris would devour the Reich.

I knew what it was like to see your country fall. But I had no pity for the Germans. Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to witness Germany’s ruin.

“When will you leave?” I asked.

“Next week.”

Perhaps in a different world we could have cared for each other. Perhaps we’d have met on the German–Polish border. He’d have wooed me in a proper courtship with poppies. Our families would have witnessed our vows.

But in this world, I’d given his secrets to the Allies. And he could turn me over to the police.