Page 7 of After Paris
Chapter Seven
Ruby
Thursday, July 3, 2025
9:00 a.m.
Old Town Alexandria was crowded with Independence Day weekend out-of-towners, all wearing shorts, T-shirts, and vaguely confused expressions. They reminded me of myself when I’d first moved to Paris. Confusion coupled with missed Métro stops and constant stress had plagued those days.
Today, I’d chosen a red A-line skirt, a white collared shirt cinched at my waist, and the same ballet flats and purse. I knotted a red, black, and white scarf to the purse handle and wore a headband with a subtle flower off to the side.
When I rang madame’s bell, quick steps followed, and the door opened to her.
Today, she wore navy pants that skimmed her trim figure, a loose Breton striped sweater, tucked only at the front of her waistband, and a chunky gold-link necklace. The scent of Dior drifted around her.
Madame Bernard’s lips curved with a pleased smile. “Welcome, Ruby.”
“Madame,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’ve allowed me to return. I was up late watching Secrets in the Shadows , but I marveled at your mother’s work this time.”
Madame closed the door behind me. “She took great pride in her creations.”
I followed her into the same parlor. But this time, five outfits were hanging from silk-padded hangers. Tea and cookies rested on the table between the couches.
Immediately, the yellow tulle gown with the black lace embellishments around the waist caught my attention. “Cécile wore this during the cocktail party scene in Secrets in the Shadows .”
Madame smiled again. “She did.”
“How did you ever find these?” I asked.
“My mother died when I was forty, and I was raising a distant, moody teenager. I thought discovering my mother’s past would give my daughter and me a common cause.”
“Was your daughter close to your mother?”
“Yes. Sophia adored her grandmother. They were close from the day she was born. So, I became determined to find anything related to my mother and her life in Europe. So much of her past was a secret. As a child, I didn’t give it much thought. But once she was gone, all those missing early years mattered so much.”
“Sophia must have been excited for this adventure.”
“Sophia, like most teenage girls, was dissatisfied with her life. At first, she had no interest in traveling to Europe, but I insisted. And off I went, dragging a sullen teenager.”
“I gave my parents a run for their money in my teen years.”
“I don’t mean to give you the wrong impression of my daughter. Sophia was a typical child. I was also moody when I was young. It’s the way, no?” She stood beside me, staring at the gown but not touching it. “This was the first gown we found of Cécile’s.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In a secondhand shop in the second arrondissement, near the Louvre. Once I found my mother’s diary, I hunted down Cécile’s films on VHS. I made Sophia watch Secrets in the Shadows before we left for France. And when we saw the gown, we both suspected it was one of my mother’s creations. And then I found my mother’s initials embroidered on the underside of the hem. I was so excited, and a miracle happened. My sixteen-year-old Sophia smiled.”
Under madame’s tone was a sense of finality. I didn’t know the woman well enough to ask about her personal life. “Sophia is such a pretty name.”
“My mother suggested the name. A very romantic name from an efficient woman.”
“Does Sophia live nearby?”
She cleared her throat. “My daughter died of cancer two years ago. She was forty-seven. She never married or had children.”
“I’m so sorry.” My whisper-soft voice slipped over my lips, and a chill puckered my skin. I immediately pictured my parents sharing similar news about me one day.
A slight shrug lifted her shoulder. “We all die.”
I sat straighter. “I was diagnosed with cancer three years ago.”
Madame’s brows drew up in a frown. “How are you doing?”
I crossed my fingers. “In remission now. Hoping it holds.”
She didn’t offer any platitudes because, like me, she understood that all the best wishes in the world couldn’t stop a disease if it came to claim a life. “Feel free to touch the gown.”
I cleared my throat. Speaking about my illness to a near stranger felt good, much like dragging a demon from the shadows into the sunlight. “I don’t want to damage it.”
“It’s survived a war and over eighty years. Despite it all, it still exists, like you and me. I think it can withstand your touch.”
I captured the tulle and lightly rubbed the textured fabric between my fingers. “Cécile was so beautiful in this gown. The lighting, the camera angles, and the dress made her glow.”
“My mother wrote about the fitting in her diary. It took her days of adjustments to fit Cécile’s waist. Cécile kept losing weight, according to my mother, and each time she tried on the dress, it was a little looser.”
“This would have been early 1942,” I said. The faint scent of lavender drifted from the gown. “I know there were food shortages by then, but she lived well, didn’t she?”
“She lived in a rarefied circle.”
“The articles I’ve read about Cécile claimed she was a collaborator.”
“Who wasn’t in those days?” madame said. “Survival, for most, requires giving the appearance of getting along. Yes, there were traitors, but most were simply trying to survive. These people fell into gray areas.” She twisted a simple gold ring on her index finger. “Germany and France shared close ties before the war. For those in the upper classes, there was a real connection, even a kinship, with the Germans. Some women slept with the soldiers willingly. For others, their affairs with a German were strategic. An occupier provided access to food, protection, comfort, and sometimes military secrets.”
“Was Cécile a spy?” What a twist that would be for my article.
“Cécile was a practical woman. She understood how to get what she wanted.”
“What did she want?”
“Who’s to say? She vanished, and we cannot ask her.”
I turned my attention to a smooth brown velvet dress. It had a high collar, fitted sleeves, and a skirt that floated over her knees. “Where did Cécile wear this dress?”
“Cécile wore that frock to a midday party at the German embassy. I have a photograph of her wearing it next to Otto Abetz, Hitler’s ambassador to Paris.”
“She moved in elite circles.”
“Yes, she did.”
The other three dresses were just as elegant. One was a rich ruby gown with a cross bias and long skirt, and the other two were suits.
Sylvia had created all this beauty during the German occupation, when silk went to parachutes and wool to military uniforms. Many seamstresses recut and repurposed older clothes.
If Cécile moved easily among the Nazis, Sylvia must have been concerned for her own safety. “You mentioned your grandfather was Jewish.”
“Ah yes, he was. And as you can imagine, my mother guarded that secret during the war and ultimately to her grave.”
“She never told you she was Jewish?”
“No. I learned of this while reading her diary. I wish she’d been honest with me, and for a long time, I was angry that she hadn’t told me. I would like to have known more about my grandfather. But some secrets hide under so many lies there’s no retrieving them.”
If I ever had children, I’d have to explain Scott, the biology of their connection, and the choices I’d made long ago. Regardless of how I felt about Scott, his genetics would be a part of my children.
Madame reached for a folder filled with photographs. “I have many dresses dating back to this era, but these are the only ones with provenance.”
I flipped through the photos, marveling at how they captured the glamour in such a dark time.
Several images showed a German officer with short blond hair, a straight nose, and a strong jaw. He wore SS insignia and an Iron Cross and appeared to be over twenty years Cécile’s senior.
In one photo, he had his hand on the base of her back, and she was smiling. Photos didn’t tell the entire story, and she’d been an actress, but she looked relaxed and happy. “Do you know who she’s pictured with here?”
“ Oberst Johann Schmidt.”
“ Oberst . A colonel.”
“A decorated Luftwaffe World War I ace who commanded a squadron during the Blitz over London and crash-landed in Brittany in late 1940. As a reward for his service, he was sent to Paris in 1941 to recover. In 1942, he returned to Berlin.”
In another image, Cécile sat beside Oberst Schmidt in a nightclub. She leaned close to him, gazing into his eyes, a cigarette dangling between two manicured fingers. “She looks totally in love with him.”
“Before you judge her too harshly, read my mother’s diary. I made copies of it all, and I also have a few letters that Cécile wrote but never mailed.”
“Why didn’t she mail them?”
“The censors opened and reviewed all letters as a matter of course. And some of the information in the letters could have gotten her arrested. Many women were transported north of Berlin to Ravensbrück prison camp for less.” She handed me a folder with neatly bound pages. “That might explain who she was and why she did what she did.”
“Thank you.”
“Please sit, and let’s have a coffee. I ordered the cookies special from my favorite bakery in Old Town. I’ve always counted my calories carefully, but today, I wonder why I worry about fitting into my clothes.”
I laughed. “I never say no to a cookie.”
We sat, and I set the file aside. I no longer brushed aside quiet moments like this as I had before. “Tell me about yourself. Wife, mother, daughter.”
“That about sums me up.” She poured a coffee for me and handed me the cup and saucer. “I went to college but dropped out when I met my husband. We had one child, Sophia, after several miscarriages and twelve years of marriage.”
“How awful. Did your mother have a difficult pregnancy?”
“She never said.” She drew in a breath. “My husband, daughter, and I lived a wonderful, charmed life. My parents lived close to us, and I saw them often. And then I lost them all one by one. Now it’s just me and my collections.”
“What else do you collect?”
“Only my mother’s creations.” She poured herself a coffee and selected a cookie. She took a bite, and for a moment, her face softened with pure pleasure.
“Did your mother say anything about living in Europe?”
“On infrequent occasions, she spoke about her early years in Poland. She adored her father and her mother. It broke her heart when her mother died.”
“Did your mother give you any lasting advice?”
The question gave her pause. “Once, when I was a child and told a friend that my mother lived in Paris, Mom later cautioned me not to share details about my family. One never knew who in their circle could turn against them. I’ve stuck to that advice until now.”
“Her war experience had a profound effect on her.”
“Read her words and Cécile’s. They can tell you more about that life than I ever could.”
We spent the next hour chatting about fashion, movies, and a trip madame was planning to the South of France in the fall. For all her losses, she kept her life full and busy. I admired her fearlessness in the face of so much loss.
I wanted to embrace life and plan my future, but I was like the little child too afraid to jump into the pool. As I hemmed and hawed at the water’s edge, time passed, summer ended, and the water grew cold. The opportunity to enjoy my life would pass.