Page 5 of After Paris

Chapter Five

Sylvia

Paris, France

Saturday, October 5, 1940

When I wore my tailored scarlet jacket, I was Kobieta w Czerwieni , or the Woman in Red. The garment’s vibrant color always stood out in crowds, and so made it easy for the Warsaw refugees to find me.

The coat’s padded shoulders dipped into a fitted slim waist that enhanced my curved hips. Though it epitomized the current Parisian style, it was also very useful. Inside the jacket were a half-dozen pockets crafted to blend with the design. Hidden zippers secured identity papers, enough money to sustain me for weeks, a small knife, and lipstick.

The station was busy today, but it was not humming with panic and confusion as it had been in June. Then terrified French citizens had scrambled to escape the invading German army, dragging massive trunks, toting large bags, or carrying paintings as they crammed onto train cars. Ultimately, the lucky few who managed to obtain a seat on a train were forced to abandon their possessions in the station or on the platform.

Today, I was searching for a young couple with two small children. They were from Warsaw, fleeing the Germans, who were now walling off a section of the city.

I caught the gaze of a man in a dark overcoat wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He held a small sleeping boy with bright-blond hair and rosy cheeks. Next to him was a sturdy woman wearing a scarf and darned wool stockings and carrying a baby. I moved toward them, careful not to shout. As I approached, the man’s scanning gaze settled on my jacket. Slowly, his eyes met mine.

“Albin?” I asked.

He stood straighter.

“Come with me,” I whispered in Polish.

Hearing his native language eased some of the tension in his face as he nudged his wife. I knew little about the couple other than their first names and former jobs: Albin and Miriam. The couple had owned a shoe shop on the eastern side of Warsaw, near the Vistula River. Now in the shadow of the rising wall built to contain the Ghetto.

I led Albin, Miriam, and their children out of the Gare de l’Est. We crossed the cobblestone street and headed south toward the Marais district. The buses weren’t predictable, and uniformed German soldiers often guarded the Métro. Many bicycles rambled past, but no motor traffic. The Germans had banned most car traffic in June. Our only option was to walk.

“It’s a couple of kilometers,” I said in Polish.

Albin and Miriam braced as if this was one of many hurdles they’d faced. They followed close behind me as we wove down a side street and cut to another. A half hour later, we arrived in the Marais district, the most ancient neighborhood in Paris. I guided the young family to a vivid green building that had no signs or markings. As we approached the front door, a man stumbled out, a scantily clad woman waving goodbye.

Albin took hold of my elbow. “What is this place?”

“It’s a brothel,” I said. “The owner was originally from Poland and is sympathetic to guests like you. She’ll give you a place to stay while I sort out your papers. There’s food, milk for the children, and a bed to sleep in.”

Albin looked as if he’d argue, but Miriam shot him a look of warning. “A bed and meal would be very welcome.”

We entered the house. The first sitting room to the right was decorated with antiques, gilded mirrors, and paintings of large-breasted women. “We’ll climb the stairs to the third floor. It’s quiet, and there’s no business conducted there.”

On the third-floor landing, I opened the door to a room with two double beds, a small table with four chairs, and a window that overlooked the back alley of another building. On the table was a man’s dress fedora and a woman’s black wide-brimmed hat.

As Miriam looked around the room, the baby began to stir. “I need to feed him.”

“First, I must take your pictures for your new papers.” I beckoned Albin to sit, and I bade him to swap his hat for the Parisian style. I removed a small camera from my purse and took several pictures. Next, I draped a white sheet over his chest, settled his oldest son in his lap, and took a picture. I did the same with Miriam and the baby.

“We are to wait?” Albin asked.

“Yes. Stay out of sight. The Germans have been polite since arrival, but they’re always watching. You don’t need to catch their attention.”

“Polite Germans?” Albin’s distaste was palpable.

“For now, yes,” I said. “But we both know that will change.”

Albin grunted. “When will you return?”

“As soon as your papers are ready, in a day or two. Then I’ll take you to another contact, and you’ll travel south toward Spain.”

Miriam sat on the bed, and as the baby fussed, she unfastened her blouse and attached the infant to her breast. “I’m grateful to you.”

Last year’s bombings had crushed Poland. Warsaw had fallen under siege. Weeks later, the city surrendered, and its occupation began.

My father was a stubborn old man who’d refused to leave Warsaw, no matter how many times I’d begged him. It seemed father and daughter were no different.

“Do you have news from Warsaw?” I asked.

“It’s bad,” Albin said. “People are dying. There are roundups and shootings. Rioters burned your father’s shop to the ground.”

“You know my father?”

“The tailors’ and shoemakers’ families are well acquainted,” Albin said. “It’s how we heard about the Woman in Red.”

“Is he alive?”

“No. But he died peacefully,” Miriam said.

Unshed tears clogged my throat. So many regrets clawed inside me. But a part of me was glad he wasn’t witnessing his city’s destruction. “You were with him?”

“My mother was. Your father was glad you’d left Warsaw. He was proud of the daughter who wore the red jacket.”

I couldn’t speak for a moment.

“Do the people in Paris realize the wolf has cornered them?” Albin asked. “The beast is full and fat now, but when it gets hungry, it will strike.”

“No one seems worried,” I said.

France and England had declared war on Germany, but no one in Paris had exhibited any sense of urgency. They went about their lives as if Poland was a distant land and the Germans would treat France differently.

“They’re fools,” Albin said.

There was a knock at the door, and I crossed the room and opened it. A young serving girl with dark hair and pale skin handed me a food tray. “Thank you. Our guests will only be here a few days.” My French now mimicked the best Parisian accent.

“Madame isn’t worried,” the girl said.

“You’re very kind,” I said.

When I closed the door, Miriam said, “You look like you were born and raised in Paris.”

“Blending in to the city is important.”

My former employer was Monsieur Jarek. He had spoken French with a heavy Polish accent, and he knew the police were watching him. “ Your French is perfect, and you look like a good Christian Frenchwoman. No one will question you. You could be of great help to others like us ,” Monsieur Jarek had said nearly five years ago.

“When we leave, wear these hats. There are French clothes hanging in the closet,” I said.

Miriam glanced at her discarded headscarf. “What’s wrong with this?”

“It’s lovely,” I said. “But as I said, it’s important not to draw attention to yourself.”

“We wait just a few days?” Albin asked.

“Yes. Have your money ready when I return.” I rewound the film, removed the case, and tucked it into a pocket. The camera went deep into my purse. If anyone searched me, the camera would be cause enough now for an arrest. The German soldiers all had cameras and snapped pictures as if they were on holiday, but the devices were forbidden for the French.

“I can give it to you now,” Albin said.

“No, keep it until I have your documents.”

I’d met the forger Marc LePen five years earlier, when I’d determined that I needed French identity papers. When I first arrived at LePen’s boulangerie, I was running late after my shift at the factory. A cigarette dangled from his lips as he unlocked the bakery’s large wooden back door. Tall and lean and with dark hair, Monsieur LePen wore a shirt that was dusted with flour, and his fingertips were stained with ink. I tried to hand him francs, but he told me to wait until the papers were ready. When I returned three days later, I exchanged money for my new identity papers as well as sets for three of Monsieur Jarek’s immigrant employees.

That day we’d barely spoken two words to each other, and now more than ever, we monitored our conversations whenever we made our exchanges.

“We’ll do whatever you say,” Albin said.

I uncovered the platter of cheese, bread, and sausages. We all lived under rations now, but food was still attainable. This brothel was a favorite of the Germans, and the madame was granted extra ration cards. “I’ll return soon.”

After exiting the house’s side door, I moved along the city streets until I reached LePen’s boulangerie in the Marais. I knocked on the back door. Moments later it opened to a grayer, thinner LePen.

“Sylvia.”

Standing in the kitchen wiping down a butcher block countertop was Marc’s lover, Emile. The young shop girl was tall and slim, with dark curly hair that skimmed her jaw. Last year, I was surprised to learn the two were sleeping together. Monsieur LePen liked his solitude and, given his work, had to be careful. But the young Emile from Provence had taken a job in his shop and soon found a way into his bed.

I entered the kitchen, savoring the soft scents of yeast and flour. The boulangerie had been swept and cleaned since the morning baking, and in these few hours, it was gleaming and waiting for the next round of baking.

Emile looked up from her worktable. “Sylvia. I was wondering if we’d see you again. We were sorry to hear about Monsieur Jarek’s passing.”

It had been a blow to us all. The older man had the constitution of a bear, and we’d all imagined him living forever. He’d died in mid-June.

Emile came around the worktable, and we kissed each other on the cheek. “How are you? I heard the factory closed,” she said.

“Monsieur Jarek’s wife and sons don’t want to keep the factory. They’re selling and leaving Paris for the south.”

“You no longer have a job?” Emile asked.

“I don’t. But there is plenty of piecework with the German soldiers.”

“How can you work for them?” she asked.

Her hatred for the Germans had narrowed her vision of the bigger picture. “What’s most pressing are the papers for my latest guests. I need to move them to Spain in the next few days.”

“It may take longer,” Emile said. “There’s greater risk crossing the borders now.”

“When do you think they can leave?” I asked.

“It will be several weeks,” Emile said. “Do you have film?”

“I do.”

I handed her the film case and followed her into a storage closet. Inside, she pushed back coats and opened a hidden doorway to a small windowless room with a tabletop press, ink bottles, and official government stamps. This was where Emile and Marc developed pictures and created forgeries.

“This is a list of their new names,” Emile said. “They should all use these names now. It’s important the children hear only their new names.”

For security, I never shared a family’s identity or where they were currently staying. “Thank you.” I tucked the list in an inside jacket pocket.

“Of course.”

Marc waved inky fingers. “Go, I have work.”

As Emile and I left, he shifted his attention to his press. She closed the door behind her.

When we stood in the kitchen, Emile rested her hands on her hips. “You’ll need work. The cost of food rises every day.”

“It’ll sort itself out.”

“You sound so relaxed.”

I was worried, but talking about it was fruitless. “Others suffer much more than me.”

“You could work for my sister.”

“The actress?”

“I still call her Dominique, but to everyone else she’s Cécile. More mysterious and glamorous, I suppose. Cécile isn’t happy with the man who dresses her.”

Through the shop’s back window, I noticed a French policeman lingering in the alley. I turned away, feeling the list of new names pressing against my body.

Emile was silent for a moment and then glanced over my shoulder. “He’s gone.”

“Good. We don’t need the attention.”

“They’re everywhere now,” Emile said with disgust. “All of them ready to turn us over to the Germans in exchange for a kind word or a favor. I’ve come to despise anyone in a uniform.”

“Be careful,” I said.

“You sound like my sister. She’s always warning me to be more cautious.”

I hadn’t met the actress but had enjoyed her last film. “Why is your sister not happy with her dresser?”

“He’s having trouble fitting her figure. He’s enamored with her large bosom and seems to enjoy touching her. Yesterday, she walked off the set when her dresser kept fiddling with her cleavage. The director told her if she did that again, he would fire her. Now that you’re free, you could be of help to her.”

“I’m certain I’m better than anyone your director has hired. And I do need the work.”

Emile regarded me. “It’s not only the costumes. Cécile will need gowns for premieres and parties.”

“That’s what I do, but does she have the power to hire me?”

“That’s up to Henri Archambeau, the director, but no man has told my sister what to do since she was young. If you’re free, we’ll visit her on set now.”

I didn’t know the world of movies, but I knew its production was now controlled by the Germans. I could point out that this job wasn’t so different from mending clothes for German soldiers, but I didn’t. “Introduce me to your sister and the director. They’ll both see I’m the person to dress Cécile.”