Page 32 of After Paris
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sylvia
Tuesday, July 7, 1942
11:00 a.m.
The captain drove me back to the studio. For the first time, he took no detours. There was no easy chatter about his love of Paris. Silence hummed around us.
Out of the car, I’d taken two steps when his car engine roared. I watched as he drove away without a glance back.
I hurried through the movie studio’s main gate and stopped to show my papers to the guard. Then I made my way through the maze of offices to Cécile’s dressing room. Her discarded clothes littered the floor, but there was no sign of her.
When I approached the main studio, Cécile stood in the center of the set, now surrounded by several Nazi officers. She wore a slim-fitting black silk robe that skimmed all her curves. I’d had to refit the robe three times because she’d lost so much weight.
Dressed like a siren, she’d also adopted Francoise’s vulnerable air. Cécile had always excelled in the lost-orphan roles. At this point in the movie, the audiences assumed that Francoise was innocent. She was the waif in need of rescue.
Cécile moved toward several Nazi officers, smiling as if they were old friends. Black uniforms, glistening knee-high boots, and calm expressions churned fear in the crew, all looking uncomfortable.
We all knew someone like Emile who had been charged with resistance and taken to the old jails commandeered by the Germans. The facilities’ reputations were now rife with tales of torture and horrific conditions.
But none of that seemed to concern Cécile now.
She appeared at ease with these men as she wished them well and moved to her mark on set. The officers chuckled to each other. It was clear they were charmed by her.
Louis stood off to the side, the well-worn script gripped in his hand. His gaze was downcast as if learning the words on the page was the most pressing problem in his life.
Cécile made a show of picking up her script and reading through several pages. Lately, she’d misremembered a few lines that she could have recited backward.
Footsteps sounded on my left, and I felt a gaze heavy with interest land on me. Its source was the tallest Gestapo officer. His blond hair was neat and short, and his angled cheekbones had a cruel elegance that any camera would love.
“Good morning,” the officer said in perfect French.
“Good morning. Can I help you?”
Sharp hawk eyes locked on me. “No, I came to observe the filming. I’m a fan of Cécile’s.”
I couldn’t picture him in a darkened theater watching a romantic comedy. “I’m glad you could join us. We should begin soon. Can I introduce you to anyone on set?”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
“And your name, sir?” I asked.
“Hauptmann Rudolph Hertz,” he said.
“Pleasure,” I said, extending my hand to him.
He gripped my fingers, tightening to the point of discomfort. “No, it’s my pleasure.”
I beckoned Louis over with a flick of red-manicured fingers. A muscle pulsed in his jaw before he grinned and moved toward us.
“Monsieur Lambert, I would like you to meet Hauptmann Hertz. He’s a fan of our work.”
Louis clasped his hand. “It’s a pleasure, sir.”
“Can you tell me about this movie?” Hauptmann Hertz asked.
“The movie features a down-on-his luck detective and the rich woman in jeopardy who hires him.” Louis angled his head toward Cécile. “As you can see, our heroine is quite the seductress.”
“A wonderful woman,” the captain said. “I suspect your detective has no chance against her.”
Louis chuckled. “I have no defense against her.”
I smiled, ducking my head as if the suggestion was embarrassing.
“She represents degeneracy, something all good men must combat,” the captain said. “And the detective personifies old-world authority. She’ll be his ruin if not controlled.”
The undertones coiled around me, tightening with unspoken threats.
“That’s very true,” Louis said.
“Does she win?” the captain asked.
“I don’t want to spoil it for you,” Lambert said with a smile.
“It’s a classic story of Adam and Eve,” the captain said.
“You’re a biblical scholar, Hauptmann Hertz?” I asked.
“I enjoy reading the Bible whenever I can.”
“Ah, then I’m sure the actors will welcome your opinion after they’ve filmed this scene.”
“And what’s this scene?” the captain asked.
“Seduction.” Louis’s innuendo was intended for another man. “It’s the last one we’ll shoot.”
“Well then,” the captain said. “I’ll let you begin.”
“Thank you,” I said.
As Louis walked away, I didn’t dare glance at the captain. No one believed that Hauptmann Hertz was a fan of the Bible or Cécile. The Gestapo was here for other reasons.
Monsieur Archambeau gave Cécile and Louis basic directions. But neither seemed to pay close attention. Both were lost in their thoughts and fears. The director stepped behind the camera and yelled, “ Silence, moteur, action! ”
Cécile abandoned the last of her persona and became Francoise. As she moved closer to Guy, she let her robe slip from her shoulders. Beneath the robe, she wore only a gauze sheath that left nothing to the imagination. Most women couldn’t expose themselves like this, but she didn’t seem to give it any notice. I knew from the script that the camera would catch enough glimpses of her naked body to tease the audience.
“I didn’t kill him,” Francoise said. “I loved my husband.”
Guy took her arm in hand, squeezing harder than ever. “You’re a liar.”
Francoise tried to twist free of his grasp. But she was trapped. When she realized this, she edged closer and slid out of the sheath. Her bare breasts brushed Guy’s chest. A muscle in Guy’s jaw tightened. He knew Francoise was manipulating him. And yet he couldn’t pull away.
Francoise bit her bottom lip, allowed tears to well in her eyes, and gripped his shirt. Guy’s hands came to her waist. The set was chilly, hardening her nipples. In the final film, audiences would only catch glimpses of her nudity. But on the set, there was no hiding.
Paris was Francoise. The Germans were Guy. The invading soldiers had been seduced by Paris’s restaurants, hotels, art, and brothels. Now, the Germans and Guy realized their siren was more dangerous than they’d ever imagined. The only way to win was through the destruction of the temptress.
Francoise pressed her lips to Guy’s. If she didn’t win him over, she would be lost. In an unscripted moment, Guy cupped her face in his large hands and pulled her lips away from his. He glared into her blue eyes. His expression mirrored desire and resentment.
When Guy kissed Francoise, his touch was hard and bruising. He pushed her against the wall and trapped her hands over her head, kissing her neck and breasts.
The moment reminded me of the one I’d shared with Hauptmann Wolfgang hours earlier. My heart thundered in my chest as tension rippled through my body. When I looked up, I noticed Hauptmann Wolfgang for the first time. He had returned to the studio and was staring at me. Shame reddened my cheeks as desire twisted around hate.
The set went silent. Francoise and Guy’s hopelessness and futility echoed in all our lives.
And then a gunshot broke the silence.
I cringed.
Francoise stared into Guy’s eyes as tears slid down her cheek. She gripped his shirt. He kissed her on the forehead. And then, she began to slide to the floor, revealing the small revolver in his hand. Guy dropped to his knees and scooped up his dead lover in his arms and kissed her.
When Monsieur Archambeau shouted “ Coupez! ” Lambert didn’t break the kiss. The two actors remained locked together.
Monsieur Archambeau yelled “ Coupez! ” again, and finally, the spell broke.
The crew would reset the cameras up at different angles and the actors would reshoot the scene, but I wondered how they’d re-create that intensity.
I carried Cécile’s robe to her, covered her near-naked body, and helped her stand.
Hands clapped as Cécile righted her shoulders.
Louis ran his fingers through his dark hair and offered a sly smile. He shrugged, suggesting Boys will be boys . The men, even the Gestapo captain, smiled with appreciation.
As I followed Cécile to her dressing rooms, Monsieur Archambeau barked orders at the crew. Cécile closed her eyes as I cleaned her smeared lipstick from around her mouth. “What news do you have of Emile?”
“Someone searched her apartment, and there’s no sign of Marc. But he left us identity papers and a note instructing us to run.”