Page 39 of After Paris
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sylvia
Marseille, France
Wednesday, July 8, 1942
In the end, Monsieur Archambeau’s death and an abandoned baby saved me.
Finding the port of Marseille proved more complicated. When I took a wrong turn, I stopped to speak to a shopkeeper. He scowled when he looked me over. Even in old clothes, I didn’t look like a local and presented as a Parisienne. I’d spent so many years hiding in Paris that discarding the old persona wasn’t as easy as I’d thought.
Seeing the baby cradled in my arms softened the older man’s expression. Even after he’d given me directions to the port, I couldn’t visualize the way. Frustrated, he walked me several blocks and told me to continue west along the Rue Saint-Pierre. When the road ended, I would smell the Mediterranean Sea and hear the gulls squawk.
It was past three in the afternoon, but the day’s heat lingered. When the baby noticed the heat and began to cry, I found a small side street and stripped off her sweater, which I tucked in her bag. I took one of her blankets, ripped it, and tied the ends together, creating a sling. She fit nicely inside and seemed grateful for the change. I removed my hat and tied a scarf around my head.
I walked along the crowded streets past police and German soldiers. Marseille was a city of immigrants, and I looked like a thousand other mothers looking for food or work.
When I reached the end of the road, the old farmer had been correct. The air turned briny, and I saw the blue waters in the distance.
We arrived at the port ten minutes later. Entering the port was another matter, however. I walked up to the dockmaster’s place by the main gate. I told the man, with as much arrogance as Cécile would have mustered, that I was Dominique Dupont and wanted to speak to Daniel LeClaire.
The little man behind the gate told me to wait, and I found a shaded spot under an awning. I waited at least an hour, and in that time I discovered that when I sat, the child cried, but when I stood, she fell back to sleep.
A tall, thin man limped toward me. He wore dark pants, a white shirt rolled past his elbows, and scuffed shoes. His face was expectant, but when he saw me, that hope vanished.
“You aren’t Dominique,” he said. “Is this a trick?” He braced as if ready for trouble.
I adjusted the baby’s pouch. “I’m Sylvia Rousseau,” I said. “I was Dominique’s dressmaker in Paris.”
The man didn’t look convinced. And I didn’t blame him. The Germans were clever. And as far as I knew, he could have been a spy sent to trap Cécile and me. “She hired me in 1940. I was a friend of Emile’s.”
“Her cousin?”
He was testing me. “Sister.”
His reserve didn’t soften. “Where is Emile?”
“She was arrested in Paris on Monday. She was trying to warn families of a coming roundup.”
“I’ve heard of no major roundups in Paris.”
I could have explained that Hauptmann Wolfgang also knew of the roundups. But my association with the captain would not help my cause. “She believed they were coming soon.”
Frustration etched his face. If he’d known Emile, he’d also understand her desire to fight. “And Dominique?”
I’d never met Daniel and didn’t know this man. “We parted ways. She’s returning to find her sister.”
He drew in a breath and stared out over the bustling port. “Whose child is this?”
“I don’t know. The mother abandoned her on our train. The Germans killed her.” Remembering the letters, I fished them out of my pocket. “Dominique said to give you these.”
He accepted the packet and studied the handwriting. A deep sigh filled his chest. Slowly, he exhaled and handed the letters back to me. He beckoned me through the gates and along the water until we reached a salt-weathered building. Inside, he took me to a small office filled with piles of papers, schedules, and sea logs.
Cécile had trusted Daniel, but it had been four years since they’d seen each other. The world had changed so much, and priorities shifted. “She said you could help us get passage out of the country.”
A slight shrug lifted his shoulder. “Why should I do a favor for a woman who abandoned me years ago?”
“She said you had great honor. She still loves you. Read the letters. She said that they show she thought about you often.” The baby shifted in my arms and mewed.
His frown deepened. “What are you going to do with the child?”
“Keep her.”
“There is an orphanage in the city.”
“No.”
A brow arched, and he leaned closer and inspected the child. “She’s barely weeks old.”
“Yes.” I eyed him, suddenly unsure.
“I don’t know if I can help you.”
Cécile had been so sure of her Daniel. Now his hesitation stirred a fresh set of worries for me. He’d been limping, suggesting he’d lost a leg, but that wasn’t solid proof. “How do I know you’re her Daniel?”
He raised his left pant and revealed the wooden leg and the letters DD carved into the prosthetic. “Why are you using her papers?”
“Hers have a better chance of getting me onto an outbound ship.”
Amusement danced in his eyes. “She thinks me a miracle worker. She believes I can get anyone out of Marseille so easily. If either of you hasn’t noticed, the Germans control it.”
“Cécile said you could get passage. She said you are very clever.”
“Cécile? The famous actress? Not Dominique?”
“They’re the same. You know this,” I said. “You were lovers. You know she left Marseille for Paris in 1938.”
He appeared impressed by the bit of information but said, “The Germans would know that. They could have stolen the letters from her.”
“She’s filming Secrets in the Shadows . It’s a crime drama. Filming ended days ago.”
“That’s common knowledge in Paris.”
“She has a mole at the base of her spine. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“Why do you want to leave France?”
“It grows more dangerous by the day.”
He expelled a breath. “There’s a freighter leaving tonight. It’s bound for Portugal. From there you can book passage to England. We must hurry if you’re going to make it.”
“I have no papers for the child.”
“I’ll ask the captain to certify she was born on board. He owes me many favors.”
“Just like that?”
“Ah, that’s the power that Dominique has over men.”