Page 36 of After Paris

Chapter Thirty-Six

Sylvia

Tuesday, July 7, 1942

11:00 p.m.

I closed the door to Monsieur Archambeau’s dining room, searching for the maid. She was nowhere to be seen, so Cécile and I left.

Everything looked different now as Cécile and I hurried into the night. The shadows were deeper, the sounds of footsteps sharper, and the air thicker with humidity.

It was tempting to return to Cécile’s apartment and pack a travel case. But we could never return to the apartment. If the police were ready to arrest us, they’d be watching the apartment. I’d helped people hide all over the city but couldn’t think of a place for us to go. It was one thing to conceal a faceless immigrant, another to hide a movie star. Many people would be willing to turn us in to win the favor of the Germans.

“We need to become simple Parisiennes struggling to navigate an occupied city,” I said. “It’s too late for the Métro.”

“When is curfew?”

She’d never had to worry about it. “We are almost out past it.” Even if the Métro lines had been running, the cars would be crowded, and someone would notice Cécile.

Cécile locked arms with me. “If I’m recognized, I want you to run. You have a better chance of escape alone.”

“We’re stronger together.” My thoughts skipped to methods of travel. “Marc keeps two bicycles locked in the kitchen. We can ride the bikes out of the city to a train station south of Paris.”

“Returning to the boulangerie is a risk.”

“It’s more dangerous if we stay on the streets.”

We avoided the Métro and walked toward the Seine and moved east until we crossed at the Pont de Sully to the Right Bank. From there, we walked north down shadowed side streets in the direction of the boulangerie, in the Marais.

Several times, we heard men talking, and Cécile tensed as if tempted to run, but I cautioned her to remain steady and stick to the shadows. Quick actions, I warned, were more likely to catch attention.

“At this time of night, French police and German soldiers patrol often,” I said. “If they stop us, keep your gaze down and hand them your papers.”

“My identification papers will betray me.”

I unzipped a small pocket and removed a set of papers. “Use these.”

She looked at the documents with her image. “How?”

“Marc is clever and one of the best forgers. He knew this moment might come.”

“I should have been nicer to him.”

“He’s taken many risks for people in need.”

“He’s also made a great deal of money creating forgeries.”

Ahead, I saw three German soldiers standing on the corner. As I did with the refugees, I willed myself to relax. “Being seen on the street this late is noticed. We could either receive a reprimand or be arrested. It depends on the whims of the man stopping us.”

Cécile squared her shoulders. “I’m clever with men.”

“Not too clever. We don’t want you recognized.” As we approached the Rue Michel-Ange, the German soldiers approached us, each sporting a long rifle.

Cécile offered the soldiers an innocent, even lost smile. She was the Adèle from her last romantic comedy. “Good evening.”

“You are out past curfew,” one soldier said.

Cécile offered a meek smile. “We’re lost.”

“How can you be lost?” the soldier asked.

She giggled as she reached into her purse for her papers. The documents slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the ground. As she knelt to pick them up, she arched her back, driving her breasts upward. “I don’t know. I get confused. Are we on the Rue du Temple?”

The man watched her brush a curl from her forehead and then glanced again at the worn pages. “Mademoiselle Dupont?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“And who is this with you?”

I stepped forward with my documents. The soldier took them from me, but I didn’t hold his interest like Cécile had.

“It isn’t safe for you to be out,” he warned.

Cécile edged closer to him. “Forgive us. We should be only blocks from my mother’s apartment.”

“There’s been Resistance activity on the streets,” he said.

Cécile looked distressed. “We noticed a collection of men near the river under the Pont de Sully.”

“What were they doing?” he demanded.

“They were standing around,” I said. “Each had suitcases.”

The soldier’s expression grew grave. “Get going now.”

“Thank you,” Cécile said. “You’re very generous.”

As we hurried south toward the river, the wails of a woman echoed. She was pleading, calling for help. Her cries tunneled down a side alley before they ended in silence. Air charged with an edginess pressed against my chest. So far, no new extensive roundups had taken place. It was impossible to know when or if they’d happen.

We moved fast. Neither of us asked how we’d get into the boulangerie or what we’d do if there were no bikes. We tucked our heads and kept walking.

When we rounded the corner onto the Rue du Temple, the boulangerie came into view. The building was dark and quiet. My heart rattled, and Cécile’s face was flushed and sweaty as we moved closer to the front display window. A Closed sign hung from the door.

Before the Germans invaded, I was here often in the evenings collecting identity papers. I’d knock four times on the alley door. Marc would appear, clothes dusted with flour and fingers stained with ink.

Over the years, I grew bolder, visiting the boulangerie in the middle of the day. Before the Germans, the streets were filled with people moving through their lives. The Marais had been vibrant and full of life. Now it was silent and sullen.

As we slid down the alley that smelled of garbage and urine, a trash can crashed over, and a cat screeched. We both flinched and froze. Neither of us dared to inhale until it had grown quiet again.

We continued down the alley to an iron gate, which I pushed open. The boulangerie’s alley door was wide enough for delivery carts, at least when the flour mills still had grain to grind.

I knocked four times. No one responded. I grasped the door handle, pushed it down, and discovered it was locked.

Cécile stepped back, rested her hands on her hips, and stared at the building. “I don’t remember this place being so dismal,” she said more to herself. “When Emile and I arrived in Paris, I was so excited to be here. The Marais and the boulangerie were our new home and the first step to putting us on a new path.”

“It hasn’t changed much over the years.”

“You’re right. It’s me that’s changed.”

I searched the alley, spotted a square carved stone, and lifted it. The door lock was old, and I guessed I had two or three strikes to break it before someone would call out from one of the windows or summon the police.

From the main street, I heard the deep rumble of men speaking German. The scent of cigarette smoke drifted down the alley. Cécile moved to stand in front of me as if she could block their view. I gripped the rock and listened, hoping the sound of their voices would fade. One soldier paused to light a cigarette, and the smoke snaked down the alley toward us.

Finally, the soldiers moved along, leaving us alone in the dark silence. I drew in a breath. Traveling by bicycle at night was a risk, but staying here was far more dangerous. We’d have to find a darkened alley nearby and hide until the curfew lifted in the morning.

I struck the lock hard, the impact radiating through my clenched fingers. Hesitating, we both listened for a nosy neighbor or a passing soldier. No one appeared and the silence held.

“Again,” Cécile whispered.

I hit the lock with greater force, and this time, the handle gave way and dropped, swinging back and forth as if dangling from a hangman’s noose. I pushed on the door, and it opened.

“No locks or chains on the inside?” Cécile said.

“He’s always cautious when he’s here.” Boulangeries were becoming targets for hungry thieves willing to eat flour scraps off the floor.

I didn’t dare switch on a light, but it was impossible to get my bearings in the darkness. I tripped over a wooden bowl on the floor, and as I moved deeper into the kitchen, I realized it had been ransacked.

“They searched the boulangerie too,” I said. I thought about Marc’s small printing presses and inks hidden in the secret little room. Had the police confiscated them? Had Marc escaped, or was he in prison?

Cécile stared into the shadows, and as her eyes, like mine, adjusted to the diminished light, we saw every bowl, spoon, plate, and knife littering the floor.

“I wonder if they returned to Emile’s apartment?” Cécile asked. “What if they found her hiding spot?”

“It’s too late to worry about that,” I said. “We are going to be arrested in the morning. Why they torture us doesn’t matter.”

Broken pottery crunched under Cécile’s feet as she walked through the debris. “Dead is dead.”

“Do you see the bikes?” I looked back and saw the spokes of a wheel hidden under an overturned table. “Help me right this table.”

We each grabbed an end and, with some effort, lifted the old wooden workbench. Under it were the two bikes. I righted the first and realized only a few spokes were broken. It was rideable. The second had a bent wheel, which would slow the tire rotation, but it would work.

“We must leave now,” I said.

She took the first bike, and we wheeled it out the back door. As I took my first steps, a car’s headlights shone down the alley, blinding me. The few vehicles on the streets now belonged only to the police and Germans.

The alley deadened into a brick wall, so running wasn’t an option. And no matter how fast we pedaled, outrunning a bullet was impossible.

“Keep calm,” I whispered.

I pushed my bike toward the car. When the driver’s side door opened, I recognized the captain’s stern face. He had driven me here countless times. And it was natural for him to look for me here. Word of Monsieur Archambeau’s death must have reached the Germans.

“Hauptmann Wolfgang,” I said.

The shadows sharpened the angles on his face. “They’re looking for you both.”

“I know.”

He looked past me to Cécile. Seeing her so plainly dressed appeared to take him by surprise. “Leave the bikes.”

“We need to get out of the city,” I said.

“You won’t make it far with those. All the roads leading out of Paris are blocked.”

Cécile moved forward and stood shoulder to shoulder with me. “We can try.”

The muscles in his jaw pulsed. “Get in. Now.”

The car blocked the entrance to the alley, trapping us. The captain and I had shared tender and explosive moments in bed. But I couldn’t say what he thought about me now.

“Where are you taking us?” I asked.

“Do you not trust me?” he challenged.

“I don’t know who to trust anymore,” I said.

“I’ll drive you both out of the city. Orléans, I think. There you can catch a train.”

I moved close to him, but he grew rigid as I approached. He’d said his commander had ordered him to the Eastern Front. Was he willing to turn us in to the authorities to earn himself a reprieve from the battleground? Either way, we had no choice but to get into the car.

“Do you have travel passes?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“With your name?”

“Different names.”

The captain frowned as he opened the back door. We slid into the car. There were no handles on the inside of each door. They could only be opened from the outside.

The captain said nothing as he backed the car out of the alley and pulled onto the street. As we moved toward the city’s southern outskirts, we approached a roadblock.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Have your papers ready,” he said. “With luck, they won’t recognize Cécile.”

When he slowed, he rolled down his window and showed one of the soldiers his identification. He spoke quickly and calmly, and when the man looked in the back seat, Hauptmann Wolfgang joked that he was taking us to a party in a villa outside of town.

The soldier knocked on Cécile’s window, and she rolled it down as she dipped her head and dug worn papers from her purse. Everyone in France knew Cécile, but darkness, combined with her new name and plain clothes, made her invisible at first glance. He glanced at the documents, looked at our faces, and then handed them back.

The two joked about the captain’s ability to satisfy two Frenchwomen. He grinned, promising he was up for the challenge. “Would you be willing to share?” one of the men asked.

“On the return trip,” the captain said. “I won’t be long.”

All the men laughed and then waved us onward. The soldiers on duty were young and naive, and if we’d crossed more experienced Gestapo, we wouldn’t have been so lucky.

We traveled in silence for the next hour until the captain broke it with “The Gestapo have issued arrest warrants for you both. I only know because they questioned me.”

“Did they mention Emile?” Cécile asked.

“She’s been taken to Fresnes Prison. The Gestapo is interrogating her.”

Cécile’s expression was stoic, and I couldn’t name her mood. But I sensed violence and vengeful thoughts crowding out fear.

“They’ve had her at least twenty-four hours,” Cécile said. “Is there someone we could bribe to get her out?”

“No one would risk a bribe now,” he said. “They have no reason to kill Emile right now. They’re very good at keeping people alive when necessary. If she survives questioning, she’ll be transported to Ravensbrück.”

We’d all heard about Ravensbrück, a camp located north of Berlin that housed female political prisoners. Emile wasn’t Jewish, so she would not be executed on sight. If she survived interrogation, the camp would offer starvation, beatings, and backbreaking work. Most who were transported there died.

“What can I do for her?” Cécile said.

“Nothing,” the captain said.

“Do you have any contacts in the camp?” Cécile asked.

“No,” he said. “I find that kind of work distasteful.”

Cécile sat back and gave no sign of upset as he angled the car around the curve in the road. “The police are corrupt. It’s a matter of finding one willing to take a payoff.”

“And if you contact the wrong man, you’ll be in prison by sunrise.” He was so practical. “Emile pushed too hard. And you shattered any chance of getting her out when you killed the director.”

Neither of us denied the statement.

“Are there going to be roundups?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “In a matter of days, weeks at most.”

“The Jews,” I asked.

“Yes.”

The captain said nothing as we continued to drive. When we arrived in Orléans, it was well past 2:00 a.m. He parked in front of the train station. It was quiet. The curfew had chased everyone into hiding. At 5:00 a.m., it would fill with passengers.

“You have money for tickets?” he asked.

“We do,” I said.

He opened the back door on Cécile’s side and let her out. “Go on then, get out. Find a place to hide.” He watched as I slid toward him and rose out of the car.

He blocked my exit. His gloved fingers captured the locket. He turned it over, exposing the star. He wasn’t surprised. “The first time you dozed in my arms, I turned the charm over because I wanted to know more about you.”

He’d known this for months but had never exposed me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His hands slid to my waist. “Get out of France. You’re not safe here anymore.”

His gentle touch belied the tension straining his features. I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his chest. “Thank you.”

I broke contact and hurried toward Cécile. Neither of us looked back as we rushed toward the shadows.