The Resistance Girl

by Jina Bacarr

  Dead silence.

  I tap my tomato-juiced toe on the stage, giving them a moment to think about what I said – brave words, but I’m not waiting to see what happens next.

  I spin around on my heel and head for the back exit, my film career lasting not even twenty-four minutes.

  The length of a one-reeler.

  ‘It took real guts to make that speech, mademoiselle, after those rabble-rousers kicked you around like a dead toad.’

  I feel a tug on my arm and smell the cigar smoke before the man blows it in my face. I don’t cough, though I want to. I recognize that voice. He yelled at the audience to let me go on. I sense it’s more important I put all my attention on him, give him a pious nod for saving my butt. I look up slowly, not surprised to see the man in the white Panama hat.

  ‘Thank you for what you did, monsieur, but it won’t do any good. They’ll do it again the next time I sneak into – I mean, come to the theater and they’ll bring even more rotten vegetables.’ I wrap my lace shawl over my face. ‘I have to go…’

  I try to be polite as Sister Vincent taught me, but the good sister is probably frantic waiting for me, saying a novena, wondering what mess I’ve gotten myself into. The sister often makes excuses for me, but today I dread showing her my uniform soiled with seedy tomato mush.

  ‘You’ve got real acting talent.’

  I stop. ‘Me, monsieur?’

  ‘I’ve been watching you… Sylvie, n’est-ce pas?’

  I nod. ‘Yes.’

  ‘At first, I was merely amused when I saw you acting out the scene in my film—’

  ‘Your film?’ My pulse races with a different kind of excitement than I’m used to when I’m called into Sister Ursula’s office for being late to vespers.

  ‘But that performance on stage, the way you grabbed the audience by the throat, pulled every emotion out of them and didn’t let them go…’ He smacks his fingers against his lips. ‘You were magnifique!’

  ‘Who are you, monsieur?’ I beg to ask, my head aching with the downside of my exuberant high crashing then soaring upward again at hearing his praise. ‘Don’t make fun of me, please.’

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself, mademoiselle.’ He takes off his white hat and bows from the waist, his cigar dangling from his fingers and dropping ash everywhere. I catch a glimpse of Monsieur Durand wiping his sweaty face with his long, black cravat, but he makes no move to reprimand the man. In the next moment, I find out why. ‘I’m Emil-Hugo de Ville, the esteemed and successful director of such films as…’

  He rattles off a long list of motion pictures – some I know, some I don’t – but what’s most important is, he said he was a film director.

  I try to get my feet to walking, but my fervor to leave the theater is gone. He proffers me a small white card, and, with sticky fingers, I take it. I hold it up to the bare lightbulb hanging from ceiling, turning it this way and that, marveling at the elegant, raised text on the pristine, white card. Under his name I make out an address in Paris on Rue de Sevis and the name of a film studio, Delacroix Films.

  ‘Are you really from Paris, Monsieur de Ville?’ I sound like a country schoolgirl because I am a country schoolgirl. ‘I’ve never been to Paris… the Eiffel Tower and the Moulin Rouge…’

  ‘Call me Emil,’ he says, then continues, ‘I often travel to villages and towns outside Paris to gauge how my films are doing.’ He leans down closer to me and I feel oddly breathless as if I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. He tells me at first his only interest in me was that he thought me pretty enough to be a background player in his next film, but after my stage performance—

  I giggle. He calls it a performance. I call it my moment of liberation. I never expected it to last past this afternoon.

  I don’t protest when he guides me out of the back of the theater toward his parked Citroën as shiny as a tart lemon. He keeps talking about how he can make me a film star if I leave everything behind and become his protégé. It will take hard work, he says, and I’m buying it. Long hours, hot lights, scripts to memorize, no time for anything but the work… and dedication. He doesn’t let me get in a word. I couldn’t speak if I wanted to as he opens the passenger door and ushers me inside the plush vehicle.

  I should run, tell him I’m not that kind of girl, but I don’t. I have no illusions about my looks. Except for my white-blonde hair, I’m ordinary-looking. Taller than most girls my age, skinny with no bosom, and a deep dimple in my left cheek Sister Vincent says means I was pinched by an angel when I was born. Now I feel more like the devil is after my hide because I want to go with him. Want it badly.

  I don’t protest when Monsieur de Ville puts the motorcar into gear and off we go.

  ‘I see a great future for you, Sylvie… what did you say your last name was?’ he asks out of curiosity.

  ‘Martone… Sylvie Martone.’

  ‘It has an elegant ring to it and perfect for a theater marquee. I like it.’

  I grin big. ‘Merci, monsieur. My mother was a grand aristocrat who fell in love with a stable hand, a dark, handsome stranger who wooed her then mysteriously disappeared before I was born… it’s his name I bear.’

  ‘An amazing story, Sylvie.’ He looks over at me like I’m making it up. I’m not. I sit quietly, my jaw clamped, determined not to budge with my story. Sister Vincent told me where I came from, though I admit her black rosary beads were tightly wound around her fingers, her lips moving in silent words afterward, but I’m sticking to it.

  The big, clunky motorcar rambles over the cobblestone driveway behind the theater as I settle back in the plush white seat. I let go of my final bout of butterflies and settle in. ‘Why did you pick me, monsieur?’

  ‘I meet a lot of girls who want to be in pictures, but I see something different in you, Sylvie. An exquisite, platinum-blonde with fire and tenacity, as well as raw acting talent. What you need is my tutelage. I have connections in the film business everywhere and the savoir-faire to know what the public wants, and they want you.’

  ‘What about my life here… the convent, the nuns who raised me… Sister Vincent might understand, but she reports to the Mother Superior…’ I make an anguished sound, ‘Sister Ursula will forbid it.’

  He winks at me. ‘Then we won’t tell her. I’ll drop you off near the convent, then you get your things and I’ll come back for you for after I complete my business in town. I booked a call to Paris to check on the times of my film showings in another town. An hour, tops. If you don’t show up, then I’ll know you’re not interested in being a star.’

  ‘Oh, but I am, monsieur.’ I roll down my window to get some air. I stopped breathing a while back and I feel lightheaded. ‘Being in the films is all I ever wanted—’

  I bolt up in my seat, panicked.

  I see Sister Vincent waiting for me outside the theater near the box office ticket window as we round the corner. She sees me in the motorcar and drops her basket filled with wrapped packages then wipes her face shiny with sweat with her full black sleeve. The shocked look on her face will stay with me always. I’ve never seen her soft, kind face so taut, her pale skin pulled so tight with fear, her eyes big and wide.

  She’s afraid for me, but that won’t stop her from throwing her rotund body in front of the car to stop it. My fear of seeing her body mangled over the front fender is real to me. I turn to Monsieur de Ville, the fear of the heavens opening and raining down on my plans draining my courage.

  ‘Stop the car, please. I must talk to Sister Vincent… explain to her why I’m leaving with you.’

  ‘We can’t stop, Sylvie. Make your choice. Do you wish to stay here and spend your life praying, your heart torn, your soul in chains? Or do you want to go to Paris with me and get into pictures?’

  4

  Sylvie

  When you wish upon a star… then it crashes

  Ville Canfort-Terre, France

  1926

  I clutch the door handle, my eyes filled with hot tears. G
ut twisting, I hold my breath. Yes, I want to be in pictures, yes, I may never have another chance, but I’d never do anything to hurt Sister Vincent. Oh, no, she’s approaching the car as we slow down to let children cross the road… she waits for the children to pass, then she darts out—

  ‘What is that nun doing?’ Monsieur de Ville yells, waving his arm out the window to get her to move out of the way. She stops, thank God, he floors the gas pedal, a loud squeal of rubber, then a wild skidding off to the side to avoid hitting her. She blesses herself as he straightens the large, bulky motorcar back onto the road and we race off away from the theater. I turn around in my seat, stretching my neck, see her head down, her shoulders slumped. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her because of me.

  This is all wrong.

  I don’t know what to do. So many questions, so many emotions hitting me in the gut. I can’t go. I owe her an apology… I want to see her smile again… hold my hand.

  All the while these thoughts tear me apart, Monsieur de Ville never stops talking.

  ‘I’ve never seen such a crazy sister. No wonder you want to leave that place.’

  ‘Sister Vincent is trying to protect me… I have no family, monsieur.’

  ‘I’ll protect you, Sylvie. I’ll be like a father to you, guiding you. Remember, I have your best interests at heart.’

  I listen. A father… the family I never had. Oh, God, yes! A chance not to be laughed at, ridiculed, not stuck in a stuffy convent and forced to wear ugly hand-me-downs, never able to look in a mirror because it’s considered a sin or have sweets on Sunday. I always believed I had no choice but to become a novice and take the veil – but not now… no!

  I huddle in my seat and think. Then there’s the matter of Sister Vincent.

  I go over in my poor, turned-inside-out brain what to do about the one thing that would keep me here.

  Monsieur de Ville drops me off at the chateau gate and I slip inside the convent grounds under a veil of twilight granting me sanctuary. I slink past the tall chestnut tree that has stood here for hundreds of years, then down the cloistered passageway toward what used to be the servants quarters back in the seventeenth century but is now the cells for the postulants and novices. My door is unlocked (only the sisters have keys) and no one is about as I light a candle with a matchstick. It burns with indecision in the tin candle holder, swaying back and forth on a nocturnal breeze, then nearly blowing out before flaring up again.

  Warning me?

  I pay it no attention as I pack the cloth bag I use for laundry. Sunday Missal, knickers and clean chemise, stockings, a comb. I grab a sweater then wrap my lace veil around my head, concealing my face. I have an hour. If I know Sister Vincent, she’ll hightail it back here for help so I have to find her first. Then I’ll beg her forgiveness… tell her what happened at the theater… tell her Monsieur de Ville is a famous director and then she’ll see things my way. I know she will—

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, mademoiselle?’

  I spin around and a deep cold engulfs me. Sister Ursula stands in the doorway. The reality of her stark presence unnerves me, along with her rigid posture and that dreadful stare. I can’t let her stop me.

  I pick up my bag, sling it over my shoulder. ‘I’m leaving for Paris, Reverend Mother,’ I say with confidence, chin up. ‘I’m going to be in pictures.’

  ‘You?’ She laughs. A deep, penetrating laugh that speaks of her surprise. ‘A skinny orphan who can’t keep her promise to God for giving you sustenance and a place to bed down?’

  ‘I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, Mother. When I’m a big star, I’ll pay it all back, I promise.’ I cross my heart, look upward. She doesn’t believe me, but it’s a truth I give to Him.

  Sister Ursula dismisses my plea. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Monsieur Durand rang me up and told me what happened at the movie theater. Parading around on stage half-dressed, acting like you have talent when you have none. Have you no shame?’

  I shuffle my feet. Monsieur Durand was worried about me so I don’t blame him. The telephone service never works properly, why today?

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you and the convent, Reverend Mother, but Monsieur de Ville has faith in me.’ I head for the door, praying she steps aside. I don’t like her, but I respect her position as a member of the Church. ‘Let me pass… please.’

  She folds her arms across her chest. ‘I forbid you to accept the director’s outrageous proposition. Your life is here with us, serving God.’

  I stand up tall, straighten my shoulders. ‘If God is as all-knowing as you say He is, then He knows how much I want to be an actress, or He wouldn’t have sent Monsieur de Ville here today to find me.’

  Sister Ursula is having none of my philosophical tirades. The woman has an agenda that goes deep, a hatred for me that is mercilessly female at its core. Jealousy.

  ‘You’re a sinner like your mother, Sylvie Martone. Yet unlike her, you’ll not do your penance in the next life, but in this one.’ Her eyes shine. ‘You’ll repent for your sins now. On your knees.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ I say, my voice going up an octave. ‘This is my chance to be somebody, a chance while I’m young to follow my dream so I don’t end up like you… old and shriveled up and mean.’

  I don’t know why I let go with such hateful words, words I’ve kept inside me for so long, but I’m desperate. And they hit home. Sister Ursula’s face turns purple, her smooth forehead below her wimple wrinkles up with lines so deep they appear like ugly scars.

  I pull back, mumbling, trying to take back my words. I’ve gone too far this time.

  ‘You insolent girl!’ she shouts, spewing hatred. ‘How dare you speak to me in such a manner.’

  I see the rage flooding her black eyes like burning coal ash. She’s not thinking of her vows now. She wants to teach me a lesson. The nun raises her arm up high, her long, black sleeve fanning through the air like a whip when she slaps me. Hard. Oh… the pain… like liquid fire singeing my skin. Her anger stuns me. I try to duck, but she hits me again… her insistent blows sending me reeling, splitting my lower lip and knocking my bag off my shoulder. Fighting for balance, I stagger a few steps, the hot pain slamming through me, burning like a firebrand. A dizzying motion sends a bout of nausea through me and the coppery taste of blood fills my mouth, making me gag. I land with a thud on the hard cot in my cell. My face burns, but it’s my pride that hurts more.

  ‘I was wrong to say those things, Reverend Mother,’ I say with honesty. The woman is a monster, but there are times in your life when you have to bite your tongue to save your hide. ‘But I’m not like the other girls here,’ I sputter, spitting blood. I touch my right eye, which is starting to swell and is half-closed. ‘I don’t find peace in taking the white veil and adopting the holy habit of the order and changing my name. I’m Sylvie Martone and I have a right to choose my own path in life.’ I pause. ‘I don’t know why you hate me so much. What happened to you that you’ve lost the joy of what it’s like to be young and want something so bad it consumes you like a holy fire.’

  A flicker of her eyelids tells me I’ve touched a nerve and for a moment I see a human side of her in those eyes. What I’ve said is true, but whatever horrid secret she’s keeping stays under her wimple.

  ‘Tidy up and I will send for you.’ She smirks. ‘Remaining locked in your room is too easy a punishment for your sin of vanity. You shall be admonished in front of the nuns and novices after evening prayers, lying prostrate on the cold stone, your arms spread wide, and beg for forgiveness. Then you shall remain locked in your cell for a week, mademoiselle. No food, only water, praying the Lord doesn’t send you to Hell, a vile, black place where bad girls go, because I will.’

  Then she slams the door behind her and locks me in.

  Taking deep breaths in spite of the pain in my chest, I try to calm down. I’m still reeling over how I ignited such fierce anger in the woman that she st
ruck me like I was a godless soul. I can’t ignore the fierce heat that radiated from her eyes, the posture of her body as she rose up to her full height before she struck me. Hard. I touch my face with my fingertips and the pain makes me wince. I want to curl up and cry. Let my body heal as well as my mind till I get over the shock.

  I can’t. If I don’t make my move now, I never will.

  I put my ear to the wood, hear her breathing heavily. I imagine she’s outside my door, expecting me to cry, yell, and bang on the door. I won’t. There’ll be time for tears later if Monsieur de Ville leaves without me and I miss my chance. I have to get out of here. I want so desperately to be an actress. I have to go to Paris, find a life for myself.

  Relief floods my veins like holy water when I hear her footsteps echo down the hallway.

  Then it’s not tears I shed. A giggle escapes my bruised lips.

  Sister Ursula doesn’t know I have a key.

  I spend several minutes on my hands and knees trying to retrieve the old, rusty key I begged off Sister Vincent a while ago. I hid it under a loose floorboard, but the board is stuck. I keep trying to pry it open in spite of the intense pain in my shoulder.

  I never dreamed it would be the key to my freedom when I got into trouble for stealing milk to feed a litter of kittens and their mother that took up holy sanctuary in the chapel. I fed the family of five for a week before Sister Ursula found out, locked me in my room, and dumped the kittens and their mother out into the rain. Sister Vincent told me it was cruel to turn out the poor things, so she opened my door with a spare key and after a lot of cajoling on my part, she let me keep it so I could come and go without Sister Ursula knowing what we were about. Together we searched for the tiny creatures till we found them, the furry bundles shivering and nearly drowned, huddled under the weeping willow in the center courtyard, the tall tree keeping them safe like a majestic guardian.