Page 37 of After Paris

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sylvia

Wednesday, July 8, 1942

5:00 a.m.

We stood at the closed ticket office for two hours before it opened. Being exposed was risky, but we were confident the ticket demand would soon outstrip what was available. If anyone was heeding warnings of a roundup, they’d be trying to flee.

German soldiers were patrolling the platforms, but they stifled yawns and moved slowly at this early hour. I wasn’t fooled. As sluggish as they might appear, they could spring into action.

By the time the ticket master opened his window, several people had lined up behind us. Cécile was the first of us to push her identification papers toward the clerk. He glanced at the name, seeming to scrutinize it more than he would the others, and then studied her face. She arched a questioning brow as he stared. Finally, he sold her a ticket, and she stepped aside, not bothering a glance in my direction.

I slipped my new identity papers through the slot. Though they looked worn and had all the right stamps, using new papers always came with a risk. The clerk took more time with me, flipping back and forth between the pages, inspecting stamps and seals.

When I purchased my identity in 1938 and became Sylvia Rousseau, I paid Marc his premium price, knowing a simple mistake could cost me my life. Afterward, I’d returned to my flat, set a fire in my small cast-iron stove, and burned all traces of the young, proud Polish girl who’d left her past and father behind forever. To have kept those papers was too great a risk. Keeping the locket marked with the Star of David had also been foolish, and my nostalgia could have cost me my life.

“Lili Allard,” the clerk asked. “Where are you from?”

I’d read the papers while we were waiting for daylight and had memorized all the details. “Alsace.”

“Why are you traveling south?”

“To visit a fabric supplier,” I said. “I’m a seamstress.”

“Do you have special permission?”

I handed him a generic travel permit issued by Henri Archambeau. It allowed me to move about the cities and regions when securing fabrics for movie set costumes. Like Cécile, I tried to look annoyed and somewhat offended. The clerk turned from the window and disappeared into a back room. My stomach tightened, but I resisted the urge to shift or fidget. The world around me shrank to this narrow space my body occupied.

When the ticket clerk returned, he handed back my permits and identification without a word. He asked my destination, and I announced “Marseille” as I tucked my credentials into my purse. Once I had the price, I paid him.

Gripping the ticket in my gloved hand, I walked through the train station toward my track. Cécile and I waited for the train for the next hour. We pretended not to know each other as the platform started to fill. When the crowds grew thick, I moved toward the edge of the platform. Even a ticket didn’t guarantee a spot when the train was overcrowded.

Finally, the old train engine chugged into the station, black smoke belching from its stack. When it stopped, I stepped through the open doors and found a seat in the back by a window. Seconds later, Cécile sat beside me. Across from us was a young couple with their sleeping infant outfitted in pink cotton and wrapped in a blanket. The man and woman were nicely dressed and looked like they could have come from Paris.

There’d been a time in Poland when I would’ve wished them a good morning. But since arriving in Paris, I did what I did best. I remained invisible. The goal was to reach Marseille.

More German guards walked along the platform. They stopped random people and demanded identification. I was unsure if they were looking for us or intimidating travelers just because they could. Several guards boarded the train and walked down the aisles. They said nothing but held their machine guns close to their chests.

The mother across from me dropped her gaze to the baby, who slept soundly. She fussed with the infant’s crocheted pink jumper and cap as if its position were far more critical than the presence of the guards. The soldier paused by our seats and looked at us.

Of the four of us, Cécile was the only one to look up and offered a demure, standard “orphaned character” smile. It was timid but sultry, and men loved it. The guard nodded toward her as he passed.

After the soldiers had departed the train and the doors closed, I allowed the breath trapped in my chest to release. The woman across from me seemed to relax, too, whereas the man who traveled with her remained stiff and sullen.

More black smoke belched from the engine’s stack, the wheels scraped against the tracks, and the train rolled down the rails. We made our way out of Orléans and across the Loire River.

The steady rocking of the train was relaxing and seductive, and soon, I was lulled into sleep. I’d been on the run and hiding for over seven years, and the adrenaline that had fueled me for so long wanted to wane. How long could I keep running and hiding? I couldn’t afford to lower my guard now but keeping my eyes open was too tricky.

As my eyes closed, the woman sitting across from me jostled me awake. I blinked away fatigue and sat up, glancing out the window. We were approaching a train station, but I’d lost any frame of reference and didn’t know where we were.

Cécile’s eyes were closed, her gloved fingers knit over her flat belly. I sensed she wasn’t asleep but was paying close attention. The man who’d been across from us was gone.

The woman settled her gaze on mine with an uneasy intensity. “Pardon,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Could you hold the baby for a moment? I need to visit the toilet by the platform.”

“I’ve never held a baby.”

“She’s an easy child. Very sweet.” The woman’s voice carried hints of desperation.

Before I could offer another excuse, she was laying the child in my arms. “She’s been fed and has a clean diaper.”

The baby nestled in my arms. “What’s her name?”

“Michele.” The woman rose and smoothed her skirt flat. She left behind the baby’s bag and her suitcase, squaring her shoulders. She never once looked back as she exited the train along with other departing passengers.

Cécile opened her eyes. We both stared out the window toward the platform, where German soldiers had gathered. The woman walked past them, but they demanded she return and show them her papers. She opened her purse, pretending to search. The train engines hissed, a sign we were leaving. The woman didn’t appear rushed as she continued to dig in her bag. The train whistle blew.

“What’s she doing?” Cécile asked.

The woman’s hand emerged from the purse, holding her papers for the guard. His frown deepened, and he summoned more guards. Her expression tight with panic, the woman took a step back and reached again in her purse. This time, she held a revolver and, without hesitating, fired at the guards. Her shots caught one soldier in the shoulder but missed the other one. The crowds scattered. Women screamed. The woman turned and ran down the platform, racing through the parting crowds.

The engine hissed and the wheels ground forward as the train pulled out of the station. Unmindful, the woman evaded a man’s grasp as a soldier aimed his handgun at her. He fired once. The bullet struck her in the back, dropping her to her knees at the train station entrance.

The gunfire triggered more screams and chaos as the train picked up speed. The man who’d been sitting with the baby’s mother appeared, cuffed and surrounded by guards.

I held the baby tighter, my body stunned into silence. Neither of us spoke for several minutes as we sat still, waiting for the train to stop and the guards to board again. A woman sitting to our left stared at the child and then me. She’d seen the exchange.

“She knew,” I said.

“‘Knew’?”

“When the guards first came on the train, she wouldn’t look at them,” I whispered. “She knew they were looking for her and the man.”

“That’s why she left the baby behind.”

The war had forced so many terrible decisions like this. “What a choice.”

“There is an orphanage in Marseille,” Cécile said. “We can deliver the child to them.”

I glanced at the baby’s small pink face, reached for her bag, and searched. There were diapers and bottles ready to be filled, but nothing that identified the woman or the child.

“If the child had papers, her mother had them.”

“She appears very young, a few weeks old. The mother might not have secured papers yet.”

“The man traveling with them. Is he the father?”

“The Germans have him now. But he seemed to give the woman and child no notice.”

Cécile sighed. “Daniel will help us find the orphanage.”

“What does he know about orphanages?” I asked.

“Daniel is well connected.”

“Can you trust him?”

“He would die for me. He and I were lovers once. He wanted to marry me.” Cécile stared at the passing landscape.

“How do you know he’s still alive?”

“I can hope,” she said.

“And he won’t be angry with you?” Negotiating with ex-lovers could be treacherous. I thought about the captain. He’d been duty bound to call the authorities, but he had helped us instead.

She raised her chin a fraction. “Daniel will not be angry.”

Neither of us spoke as the train rumbled on. The baby woke as we pulled into the Marseille train station. I had no idea how to care for a child, but when we departed the train, Cécile strode toward a small area where several local women had gathered. She spoke to them briefly and then vanished for twenty minutes. I jostled the child, shifting her in my arms as we struggled to find a comfortable arrangement. As the minutes passed, I began to worry about Cécile. How long before the Germans arrested her?

When Cécile returned, she had several diapers and fresh milk. “Cartier would be appalled at what his gems are selling for these days.”

She took the fussing baby from me and moved us to a bench under a shaded tree. She changed the infant with unexpected ease as she explained how to fasten the pins.

“You’re full of surprises,” I said.

“When I was thirteen, I worked as a helpmate to a woman in town with five children. I didn’t enjoy the experience, but the work and a few stolen kisses with the father earned me some of the money that got me to Paris. One does what one must.”

She filled the bottle and, after securing the top, nudged the nipple into the baby’s mouth.

The baby fussed louder even as she rocked her from side to side. “I think she prefers you.”

“How could she?”

Cécile settled the child in my arms. She placed the bottle in my hand and guided it toward her mouth. Without hesitation, the baby suckled. “People trust you. There’s something about you.”

My eyes locked on the child as she suckled.

“Keep the end tipped up so she doesn’t get too much air in her stomach. That will make her cranky.”

The baby drank greedily.

Cécile stretched out her legs and tipped her face toward the warming sun. “I’ve forgotten how clear the air is here. Already, I feel cleaner.”

Under this beautiful sky, I couldn’t picture the woman who wore silks, furs, and diamonds dancing with German officers.

Her gaze roamed the station and the mountains beyond. “When I was sixteen, I couldn’t wait to leave and do something real with my life.”

“You did. You owned Paris.”

She sank into a silence and then said, “And then I lost it all, including my sister.”

“Will they look for you here?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never discussed my life in the south with anyone other than Monsieur Archambeau. He erased my humble past as he built me up as a movie star.”

“You’re safe for now.”

Cécile’s brow furrowed. We both knew that very few people could withstand intense German questioning. “I won’t be at peace until I find Emile.”

“She could already be dead.”

Her face hardened. “The Germans won’t be in a rush to kill her. They want to squeeze her dry. But my sister is stronger and more stubborn than me.”

“She’ll be transported to Germany if she’s still alive.”

“I’ll find her.”

The baby made a soft mewing sound as she suckled. The child appeared willful, and her cheeks were smooth and rosy. “Why was the mother running from the guards?”

Cécile reached for the diaper bag. With no one watching us now, she had more time to search. She removed spare cloths and a blanket. As she ran her hands along the bottom of the bag, she tugged at the lining until it separated. Inside was a petite pocket. She removed a black-and-white picture of the woman, pregnant, standing by the man who’d been on the train. On the back were the names Ruth and Antoine.

I looked at the picture and saw the Soviet flag behind the couple. “She was a communist. She had to be Resistance.”

Cécile regarded the image and then tucked the picture back in its hiding place. “Take care no one sees this. We must get the child to the orphanage.”

I’d lost my mother, but I’d had her for fifteen years. My father had sent away his only child to save me. I knew they’d loved me. I knew they’d sacrificed for me. This child would never know what her parents had done for her.

Cécile opened her purse and held out her identity papers. “We need to swap. Your papers are excellent forgeries, but they almost didn’t stand up to the scrutiny of a local train clerk.”

“I cannot take your papers.”

“If you take them and leave the country, the world will soon believe that Dominique Dupont has left France. Perhaps they’ll stop searching for me then.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll become Marc’s Adèle,” she said. “And you’ll become Dominique. With Daniel’s help, you’ll leave France, and I’ll return to Paris and find Emile.”

“You can’t go back to Paris.”

“I’ll change my hair and demeanor. Becoming someone else is what I do best. And thanks to your jacket, I have enough money tucked in my pockets to buy my way into any prison.”

The baby continued to nurse, and when she finished, Cécile showed me how to lay the child over my shoulder and pat her until she burped.

“We’ll buy one more milk to get you to the orphanage.”

“Will they protect her?” I asked.

“It’s not an ideal life, but she won’t starve.”

The chaos would swallow this child up. What kind of life would that be for her? “I’ll take her with me. Perhaps another orphanage in a different country.”

“They are all much the same.” Cécile regarded me. “And the journey will be much harder with a child.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Does anyone know what’s waiting for us?”

She sighed as if there was no need to argue. “On board the ship, you must rely on canned milk.”

“And if there is none?”

“Daniel will help you figure it out.”

I had no idea how to escape this country, let alone care for a child, but that’s what I had to do.

A train whistle blew in the distance. “Let’s get that milk and get you to the port. The baby might be of help. If the police are looking for us, they’re searching for two women traveling together and not a single woman with an infant. The Germans seem to enjoy babies, and she’s charming. Use that to your advantage.”

“And you just walk away alone?”

“I won’t be alone for long. I’ll find Emile.”

As we stood, she brushed the leaves from my skirt. “You have been a true friend, Sylvia.”

“Zofia.” I hadn’t spoken my real name in so long, and it sounded awkward, as if it no longer fit me.

“What a lovely name. And now you’re Dominique.” She smiled as she smoothed her hand over the baby’s head. She reached into her pocket and removed a packet of letters. “I wrote these to Daniel but never mailed them. Show them to him. He’ll believe your story. He will also know I thought about him often.”

I took the letters. Wrapped in a purple bow, they smelled of lavender. “Thank you.”

“We won’t hug or make a fuss. That might draw attention. The port is only a few blocks from here. Walk toward the water. Daniel works for the North Star shipping line, if he’s still alive. He’ll find you passage. Leave this country behind.”

“I’ll never forget you.”