Page 4 of After Paris

Chapter Four

Ruby

Wednesday, July 2, 2025

9:00 a.m.

I didn’t sleep well.

When I woke up in the hotel room last night, it was past 1:00 a.m. For several minutes, the sterile surroundings had thrown me off. I blinked, searched for my bearings, and then remembered.

It was a nice hotel. But its decor and furnishings were industrial enough to evoke memories of strange hospital rooms. The beds were always too hard, the side rails too restrictive. My mother tried to make my room friendlier with a favorite quilt, a stuffed bear, and even a few Taylor Swift posters.

Sometimes, when I’d wake in the middle of the night, I’d panic. Then I’d see my mother sleeping in a recliner or on a cot, and I’d calm.

But as hard as Mom tried to soften the experience, she couldn’t go with me to all the tests, blood draws, and scans. I started to send her home, insisting she sleep in a real bed. There was no reason for my cancer to kill her. On those nights, I’d wake to the beep of machines, the rumble of carts, or the quiet conversations of nurses and doctors. And on those nights, my darkest worries would creep out of the shadows and circle my bed.

That’s when I’d text fellow patient Jason, who was often on the same ward as me. Jason was forty-one and fighting non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. So far, the “foma,” as he called his disease, was winning.

Me: Tell me something funny.

Jason: Why was the calendar afraid?

Me: Why?

Jason: Its days are numbered.

His brand of dark humor made me laugh and slew the late-night dragons. When he graduated from the ward, I followed him into the hallway, waving a handmade sign that read Bon Voyage . The nurses and doctors cheered him on as his parents wheeled him out of the hospital.

After Jason left the ward, we rarely communicated again. There’s this weird barrier between the living and the dying, and as much as we pretend that we’re all on the same team, we aren’t. He’d hopped to the living side of the line, while I remained with the sick and dying.

I rose early and took a long hot shower. After drying my hair, I applied makeup, choosing understated beiges and browns for my eye shadow and minimal blush. The point was for the red lipstick to pop. I scrutinized the foundation with a critical eye, pleased it covered the circles under my eyes.

My outfit debate had finally ended. I chose a white linen blouse, a blue Hermès scarf, fitted black pants, tan ballet flats, and an oversize brown purse. Gold hoops dangled from my ears, and a small gold cross settled in the hollow of my throat. Effortless chic took work.

I double-checked my bag for my notepad, covered with questions and ideas, and headed out.

I considered getting an Uber but opted to walk the five blocks north along Union Street to Michele Bernard’s town house.

The air was softened by a cool river breeze. I enjoyed the historic brick buildings with wrought iron railings, the small cafés with outdoor seating, and the elegant trees dating back centuries. It was reminiscent of Paris, though if I’d made the comparison to someone from France, any one of them would have raised an eyebrow. Three centuries versus fifteen. Ridiculous.

I was breathless when I arrived at the three-story brick town house at the corner of Union and Cameron Streets. I knew Madame Bernard was a widow, and her late husband had been in commercial real estate. Beyond that, I knew very little about the woman. Her mother was Sylvia Rousseau Talbot, who had dressed Cécile circa 1940 to 1942, not only for her most iconic roles but also for galas, parties, and photo shoots. Based on Cécile’s fashion photos, Sylvia Rousseau Talbot had been an enormous talent.

I climbed the ten brick stairs, breathless, wishing I’d taken the Uber. I still struggled with stamina, which could be elusive. I pressed the doorbell. If Jason were here, he’d have another corny joke: “My husband said I should do lunges to stay in shape. That would be a big step forward.”

Smiling, I straightened my shoulders, and I heard music drifting toward me. I recognized the French singer édith Piaf. She was crooning her most famous song, recorded in the late 1950s, in the final years of her career. In the refrain, she continued to emphasize that she’d regretted nothing.

Was Madame Bernard getting into the mood of my interview, or was the idea of my questions stirring up something?

Determined, heeled footsteps moved toward the door. It opened to a petite woman attired in a stylish black dress. Silver hair twisted in a chignon, diamond studs winking from her ears. I was a little shocked at her clear, direct gaze. Madame Bernard was at least eighty, but she had the vitality of a woman twenty years her junior.

“Madame Bernard, I’m Ruby Nevins,” I said. “I’m here to talk to you about your mother and her work with Cécile.”

“‘Madame’? I like it.” The woman looked me over. “Are you French?”

“No, but I lived in Paris for several years.”

A brow arched. “And why did you leave?”

“Family matters. It made sense to come home.”

Madame Bernard inclined her head forward. “Of course. Family is everything. Please come inside.”

The entryway was long and thin, and a Turkish runner stretched over oak floors toward a white kitchen. On my left was a parlor decorated in French country style, complete with white pillows, soft pastel paintings, an ornate chandelier, and a white marble fireplace. It was lovely.

I followed Madame Bernard into the parlor. After she beckoned me to sit, she sat on the white cushions on the couch across from mine. Between us was a Louis XIV table with a silver tray holding coffee and cookies.

My mother loved white furnishings. But she said that with two active children and two golden retrievers, they had only been a dream. She had vowed to redecorate once her children left for college, but the thick, durable navy blue fabric remained. Trips to Johns Hopkins in Maryland, hotel stays, food, and deductibles had drained their wallets. So, chic whites remained a dream.

“Could I record our conversations?”

“Perhaps later. Today I thought we could take some time to get to know each other,” Madame Bernard said.

As I set my purse by my feet, I was fearful I might forget key details. “Of course.”

“Coffee?”

“That would be nice.”

“Cream, sugar?”

“Yes.”

Nodding approval, she poured two cups of coffee, flavored with both cream and sugar, and set a napkin alongside my cup and saucer. “Help yourself to the cookies.”

“Thank you.” I set a cookie on my napkin and imagined my mother warning me about crumbs and stains. “I love that song you’re playing.”

“It’s one of my mother’s favorites,” she said. “You live in Norfolk, you say?”

“Yes. I grew up there. My dad was navy, and now he’s an advertising executive. Mom was a teacher, then stayed home with my brother Eric and me.” I considered sipping the coffee but opted to wait until my nerves settled.

“What does your brother do?”

“Eric’s an engineer,” I said. “Lives in Norfolk too. Very smart.”

“And you?”

“I graduated college early, moved to Paris, and was a tour guide there for several months. My specialty was French film tours, and I wrote dozens of online articles on the subject.” I hesitated a fraction. “And now I’m back in the States, revisiting a subject I love.”

Madame Bernard sipped her coffee, her lined hand as steady as a surgeon’s. “For the tourism department’s French film festival?”

“Yes. The Virginia Tourism Bureau is my boss and the sponsor of the festival. There will be five festivals across the state next spring.” Did she see freelance writing falling somewhere between work and a hobby? “If all goes well, the bureau might hire me full time to coordinate more festivals.”

Madame set her cup in the saucer so gently there was no sound. “I was surprised your event chose to feature Cécile. She’s all but forgotten by most today.”

“I pitched the idea. I’m kind of a Cécile superfan.”

“Ah, so I’m not the only one who admires her work.”

“Cécile had so much talent, unfulfilled potential, and beauty, and then she disappeared. I’ve read all I can about her. Several articles credited your mother’s designs. I found a photograph of Cécile. It was never published but was part of a French Vogue fashion shoot in 1941 on the Passerelle Debilly footbridge.”

In that image, Cécile was wearing a black off-the-shoulder dress with a fitted waist and a flared skirt. Sylvia was fussing over the lines of Cécile’s skirt. She had glanced at the photographer, who had snapped the picture.

Madame didn’t stifle a weary sigh. “My mother wouldn’t like the idea of me talking to you. She never talked about Paris.”

“Why? Her work was excellent.”

“The war. The occupation in Paris forced many to make choices and keep secrets. It was difficult for so many, and my mother was no exception.”

“How did she come to fashion?”

“Ah, her father was a tailor in Warsaw. He was one of the finest. She said his address book contained contact information for the city’s most elite men. My mother learned from him. And, of course, from her mother, who was French and a talented seamstress in her own right.”

“When was your mother born?”

“1918. My grandmother died when my mother was fifteen. In the midthirties, the situation in Poland was deteriorating, so my grandfather sent his only daughter to Paris. She was seventeen. She didn’t want to leave him. But he insisted and set up an apprenticeship for her with his old friend Aleksy Jarek, who owned a lingerie factory in Paris.”

“When did your mother arrive in Paris?”

“1935. My mother sewed and cut patterns and later sketched designs at the factory for five years. She also began to help Mr. Jarek with the incoming Polish refugees he often employed.”

“‘Sylvia Rousseau’ doesn’t sound like a Polish name.”

“By the mid-1930s, many from the east were fleeing to France. The French government, fearing overcrowding, began deporting foreign nationals. My mother decided to get forged papers that stated her name was Sylvia Rousseau. Zofia Rozanski, the daughter of a French Catholic and a Polish Jew, ceased to exist.”

“What did her father say about her name change?”

“He supported it. The Germans were stirring more trouble in Germany by 1936, and he feared they’d come for the rest of Europe one day.”

“When the Germans took over Paris, she must have been terrified.”

“If she was, she never said. She refused to leave her job and the Polish nationals who needed her help.”

“How did she help them?”

“Mama worked with a French forger, Marc LePen. He made false travel papers all through the war. He also ran a small boulangerie and employed a young woman named Emile Dupont.”

“Cécile’s sister?”

“Yes. Emile always disliked the film industry. But she followed her sister to Paris and became committed to Monsieur LePen and the French Resistance.”

I’d tried to dig up information on Emile Dupont but so far had yet to find anything. “Did your mother ever speak of the sisters to you?”

“No. She would talk about the lovely fabrics and the dresses she made then. However, she never discussed her clients, politics, or the difficulties during the occupation. She began keeping secrets at a young age, and years of staying silent left a mark on my mother. Up until the day she passed, she was cautious and never discussed anything related to the government.”

Tension crept into Madame Bernard’s features, and I shifted topics. “What was the first film that your mother worked on?”

Her taut smile softened. “Cécile hired my mother to dress her on Too Many Choices . That was the fall of 1940.”

“The Germans were in Paris in 1940.”

“Yes. They’d been in the city since June.”

“The Germans closed the film industry for months,” I said. “It didn’t reopen until the following year.”

“The film’s director had connections in Germany. They allowed him to finish Too Many Choices .”

That explained why, when movie production officially began again in 1941, Cécile was one of the first actresses to be rehired.

“Why did your mother leave the lingerie factory?”

“The factory closed when the owner, Monsieur Jarek, died in June 1940. For a few months, she sewed piecework, often for German officers or their wives; then her friend Emile arranged a meeting with her sister.”

“That must have been difficult for her.”

“She never said if it was or wasn’t. She was on her own and didn’t have the luxury of awkward conversations. By 1940, her father had died, and whatever assets he’d had in Poland had been seized.”

“Did your mother date? Was there anyone she fancied?”

Madame Bernard smiled. “She was always a very passionate woman. She and my father were always kissing. So, I suspect she had her share of lovers during the war.”

“When did she meet your father?”

“In 1943. She sailed out of Marseille to Portugal and then later to England. That’s where they met. After the war, they returned to America. She often joked that England was swimming with American GIs. And all she had to do was pluck out her favorite.”

Her tone had lightened. I suspected this was a favorite family story. It was much like when my mother and father talked about their first meeting. They’d met in a downtown Norfolk bar. Mom had asked Dad to dance, and he’d said yes so fast she’d laughed.

“Did your mother ever return to France?” I asked.

“No. When my French club planned a trip to Paris in the early sixties, I had to beg my mother to let me go. My father finally convinced her, but she insisted I call her each evening while I was there.”

“Tell me about your father.”

“He was an airman who survived twenty-five missions and then asked my mother to marry him. I was born in England.”

“How did you learn about your mother’s work with Cécile?”

“I knew my mother could make anything from fabric, but again, she said little about Paris. When she passed in 1982, my father couldn’t bear to handle her belongings, so the task was mine. I found a leather-bound diary, and inside was the original picture you mentioned. It showed Cécile and my mother on the Passerelle Debilly bridge, with the Eiffel Tower in the background. The photographer had scrawled on the back: ‘Fashion shoot, 1941. Cécile with her dressmaker.’”

“Your mother kept a diary?”

“Yes. From the day she moved to France until the day she left Europe for good. Over ten years.”

Madame Bernard rose and walked to a desk tucked in the corner. She lifted a small leather-bound book and gave it to me. “Handle it with care. The pages are quite delicate.”

“Yes, of course.” I skimmed my fingers over the soft, stained leather. The book’s spine had broken, and many of the pages were no longer bound.

“We all think we know our parents. I thought I had a mother who worried too much and made me wear homemade, albeit elegant, clothes.” The silence grew thick with her regrets. “What I wouldn’t give for one of the dresses she’d made me. They were far beyond anything a girl could find at the mall, but I was a teenager, and we aren’t our brightest at fourteen.”

“When I was fourteen, I rocked the Taylor Swift look like no one else. I begged my mother to let me dye my hair blond, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

Madame Bernard smiled. “Your mother was wise. Your dark hair suits you, and I like the short cut. It’s very chic.”

“Thank you.”

I looked down at the neatly penned entries. The closely spaced lines of text saved paper too precious to waste. The first entry was June 2, 1935.

Paris, like Warsaw, shares similar traits of a busy capital city. People hurry about. And there’s a delightful blend of rumbling horse-drawn carriages and roaring car engines. France has an air of old-world elegance, as one would expect. Poland’s Second Republic, like me, was born in 1918, and has a youthful brash energy. If Paris and Warsaw were family, Paris would be the older sophisticated sister. Warsaw would be her vibrant, less polished younger sibling.

In Paris, the women move with a confidence I envy. They paint their nails and wear silk stockings and makeup. I want to look like them. I’m in love with Paris.

I glanced up at Madame Bernard. “She wrote her diary in English.”

“Her father insisted she not write her letters to him in Polish, French, or German. Of course, writing down any thoughts could get anyone arrested. Using English was no guarantee of safety, but so few people read it in those days. If one were to get a hold of the journal, it would take time to decipher. The French were already censoring her people when Mama arrived in Paris in 1935.”

“Before the war? I had no idea.”

“It was a different time.”

“What were your mother’s impressions of Cécile?”

“Mama said in her diary that Cécile didn’t have as extensive an education as she did, but Cécile had a brilliant memory. Her recall was photographic. What she lacked in education, she made up for in raw brainpower, cunning, and bravado. Though Cécile couldn’t read German, she learned how to speak it fluently when the Germans arrived.”

I smoothed my hand over the worn pages. So many questions bombarded me. I wanted to read this journal and dissect every line. “Did your mother save anything else from that time?”

“A few letters,” she said as she sat on the sofa again. “I’ve collected anything associated with the movies my mother worked on. I have ten dresses she made for Cécile.”

“How did you find them?”

“There’s quite the vintage auction market in Paris. And I put out the word that I wanted anything Cécile had worn. There were many fakes, of course, but I insisted on photographs of Cécile in the dress. The first few garments that came to me were from the 1940 film Too Many Choices . The costumes were nothing spectacular. My mother inherited the creations from the film’s former dressmaker, but she managed to add her own flair. But word has a way of getting out, and about ten years ago, I received a call from a dealer. I flew to Paris to meet him. That’s when he showed me these dresses from Secrets in the Shadows .” From a folder she pulled out a collection of black-and-white photos featuring Cécile. “My mother always sewed her initials into my clothes. When I inspected these dresses, I discovered a very discreet ‘SR’ on the underside of the hem.”

“It must have been thrilling.”

“I was excited and sad. My mother kept so much of her life from me. I would’ve loved to have talked to her about her time in Paris. But she never discussed the occupation days.”

I understood shutting the door on a troubled past. Pain and sadness were a part of life, but that didn’t mean one had to keep reliving it.

“If you come back, I’ll have the dresses ready to show you. I wanted to meet you before I got too far ahead of myself.”

I smiled. “I understand. Could I take pictures of a few of these diary pages? I’d love to read them.”

“Of course. But I would ask you not to share them.”

“I won’t discuss anything you don’t want me to.” I turned the pages, holding my breath when they creaked. I snapped a couple of dozen images. “Does your mother know what happened to Cécile?”

“Read those entries, and then we’ll talk again. How about tomorrow?”

“Excellent. I have a meeting on Friday with Hank Johnson, a film expert at the Smithsonian national history museum.”

“Lovely man. You’ll enjoy him. Call me when you wish to meet again.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“I’m happy you called me about this article, Ruby. I rarely get the chance to talk about my mother.”

“I’ll bend your ear until you tell me to stop.”

She sipped her coffee. “I’m sure I’ll be able to handle it.”