by Jina Bacarr
‘Have you ever seen this photo of Sylvie?’ I ask her. The sudden fluttering of her eyelids tells me she has. ‘I found it in a box among my mother’s things wrapped up in a lace veil.’
‘Oh… mon Dieu, I never thought I’d see this picture again.’ Sister Rose-Celine rubs her gnarled fingers over the glossy photo with a reverence that touches me. Her crinkly eyes look tearful as she says, ‘She was so beautiful… and kind, mademoiselle.’
I smile. ‘Call me Juliana, please.’
She nods, then continues in a wistful voice, enjoying the lovely sentiment of a day long ago. ‘Madeleine asked me to keep the photo, pin, and veil for her. Perhaps she was afraid she’d destroy them, too, in anger and a part of her wanted to remember her mother. I wrapped up the photo in the lace veil along with Sylvie’s diamond pin and slipped the slender box into her carrying case before she left the convent for America so she wouldn’t know it was there till she was far away.’
Now I understand why Maman hid away the box, though I find it interesting how the sister said she didn’t destroy the photo… as if she, too, harbored a deep-seeded wish Sylvie had a reason for doing what she did during the war.
‘Merci for sharing that with me, Sister—’
A loud buzzing echoes in the old dungeon, raising the hairs on the back of my neck, but it doesn’t rattle the elderly sister. She shakes her head in frustration, then reaches into the pocket of her tunic and pulls out the culprit. Her cellphone, ringing madly.
She shoo-shoos the notion of answering it, choosing instead to turn it off. ‘I’m sorry, Juliana, I fear Reverend Mother will track me down here since I missed the noon meal.’ She sighs. ‘We haven’t much time to find Sylvie’s boxes before her lackeys find me. Allons… quickly… before they discover us.’
With the sister pointing here then there and clutching the photo in her hand, I move around crates, lamps, old clothes. ‘I remember Sylvie marking a crate with red lipstick.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Ah, oui, she told me it was a special lipstick because she’d first kissed the man she loved wearing it.’
My heart sings with a special joy at hearing that. So Sylvie did fall in love with my grandfather. He couldn’t have been a Nazi SS officer, not if she had that much sentiment for him.
With renewed hope, I scramble over the newspapers scattered around my feet and shine the flashlight from my cellphone over crates on the far side of the dungeon wall. Embedded brass rings jut out from the stone wall along with rusty chains, making me shiver. A reminder of the cruelty of man which makes me only more determined to find out the truth about a woman I can’t believe was involved with such depravity during the war. I make a wide arc with my light, looking at each crate until I hit a lucky streak and find one with Les Orphelins Perdus smeared on it with lipstick faded to a soft pink rose.
I grin. Of course… the Ninette film, Lost Orphans.
‘Sister Rose-Celine, I see the crate!’
‘Très bien,’ cries out the nun with glee, clapping her hands.
Then, with more anticipation than I could have ever imagined, I open the crate and pull out a sealed box that must weigh at least twenty or thirty pounds. What’s in it? I can’t wait to find out. I’m not home free yet. Before I can tear it open, a bright light hits me in the face, blinding me.
I don’t need to guess who when I hear a stern voice.
The Mother Superior.
‘If you don’t leave immediately, mademoiselle, I shall send for the gendarmes.’
I’ve never talked so fast in my life.
When I explain to the Mother Superior who I am, why I came to France, the pain I have in my heart finding out my grandmother was Sylvie Martone, a Nazi collaborator, and I can’t believe it’s true, I see utter confusion in her eyes. She lowers her flashlight and I see relief on her face. Her shoulders relax, and for the first time since I got here, she smiles at me.
‘I think we both need a cup of tea, mademoiselle.’
She invites me to her office and, over hot lily flower tea with fresh lemon and a cherry tart, I tell her my story with Sister Rose-Celine chiming in with her own information about the lost boxes and suitcase. I see the Mother Superior’s brows arch in amazement, but to her credit, she doesn’t admonish the elderly nun for her silence all these years. If anything, she respects the sister’s code of loyalty to Sylvie and my mother.
‘And you believe Sylvie Martone, your grandmother,’ Reverend Mother asks again for clarity, ‘was not a Nazi collaborator?’
‘Yes. I know it sounds crazy, that I don’t have proof, but my gut tells me there’s more to Sylvie’s story. And, I admit, in my heart I want to give her a chance to tell her side. I believe she left the box and suitcase filled with information about her life during the war for my mother to find, but Maman never looked for them. She remained in denial my whole life about Sylvie’s past. I came here on a hunch when I found her photo and this note Sylvie wrote on the back.’
The Mother Superior reads the inscription on the back of the photo and her hand goes to her lips, parted in awe. Smiling with a warmth I never expected from the woman, she hands the photo back to me. ‘I’ve heard the rumors for years Sylvie Martone hid here after the war. There was even speculation she’d borne a child, but the baby perished in a bombing. It was only hearsay. As you are aware, we make our sustenance from our lacemaking to keep the convent running smoothly. I’ve always felt it was my duty to protect the sisters from any more scandal.’ She pauses to sip her tea and I have the feeling my entire mission rests on what’s going through her mind. And her heart. ‘You’re not the first one to show up wanting to know about Mademoiselle Martone. However…’
‘Yes, Reverend Mother, I know.’ I grab Sister Rose-Celine’s hand and she grips mine tight.
‘All the others who came wished to sell their newspapers and make a mockery out of our Order for hiding a Nazi film star. I could not let that happen.’
Heart thudding, I say what’s on my mind. ‘I want to prove Sylvie’s innocence.’
‘And if you’re wrong?’
‘Then I will go away and Sylvie Martone’s connection to the convent will stay hidden. I promise you.’
The Mother Superior ponders the situation, weighing up all the factors, but having Sister Rose-Celine on my side helps my case. Glowing like a Christmas angel, the elderly nun hasn’t touched her cherry tart or her tea. She’s been hesitant to speak and looks like she’s going to burst until she has her say.
‘Please, Reverend Mother,’ Sister Rose-Celine pleads in a steady, determined voice. I can’t believe the sister is eighty-three; she’s as spry as a perky robin and as lucid as a bright, shiny star. She remains calm as she recites what Sister Vincent told her about Sylvie, that the war years were difficult ones for her and how she found peace here afterward. The degradation the film star went through after the liberation was devastating to her. The nuns didn’t judge her. It wasn’t their place, she says, the Mother Superior then reminded them, for only God knew the truth. Sister Rose-Celine harbored the notion the woman knew more than she was telling and it pained the nun to keep silent. ‘God will be so pleased if we can right this wrong to a woman I knew to be good and pure of heart.’
The Mother Superior nods. ‘So be it. You have my permission to stay, mademoiselle. And may God help you. The truth is in His hands now.’
‘Merci beaucoup, Reverend Mother.’
I squeeze Sister Rose-Celine’s hand and she squeezes back. Yes, together we’ll find out the truth about Sylvie Martone.
The truth… and whatever it is, I’ll have to accept it.
Having received the Mother Superior’s blessing, I feel certain I’ll find the answer to the mystery of Sylvie Martone quickly. That isn’t the case. What I find in the sealed box is a red leather diary filled with Sylvie’s precise but feminine handwriting in large, elegant capital letters. The diary looks brand new, its shiny, smooth cover kept sealed and away from the scurrilous hand of daylight for nearly sevent
y years. I open it and the pages are still fresh-looking… as if Sylvie wrote them yesterday.
I can’t wait to read it.
We also find reels of film and a photo album. I feel it’s important to discover the personal side of Sylvie before we tackle the films. We’re like two kids opening up presents on Christmas Eve, huddled together in the study which was Maman’s room when she lived here.
I breathe in the past, still so evident here in spite of the renovations. The elegant wooden cornices from another era give the room a feeling of solidity, comfort. Two long, arched windows add a spiritual essence along with built-in bookshelves with elegant mahogany scrolls that remind me of a lordly manor. I feel Maman’s presence here. I imagine her spending her days working on her medieval manuscript translations, attending prayers in the chapel, and dreaming of what life would be like for her and her child.
Did she ever think about her own mother? I suppose I’ll never know. For now, I embrace her spirit in this lovely room decorated with a brown leather divan with old-fashioned, handmade lace doilies made by the sisters and a throw rug the color of a muted sunshine interwoven with a blue woolen design. I love the antique desk with a million drawers, jade-glass study lamps, and an electric burner plate to put the kettle on, as the sisters like to say. The young postulant who helped me earlier keeps it humming with hot water and the nuns’ own brand of tea. A soothing, sweet chamomile infused with lemon and lily flower.
Over the next few days Sister Rose-Celine and I are never far apart. I swear the nun has more energy than I do and speaks enough English to fill in the gaps for me in French; translating odd phrases or current expressions on my phone only goes so far. I’m delighted the Mother Superior insists I stay at the chateau instead of the village inn where I’d booked a room. Never have I been happier for this chance to reconnect with my mother’s past. The convent modernized several years ago to keep up with the times and the once sparsely decorated rooms with the barest essentials now resemble a modern dormitory with Internet and Wi-Fi. My mother’s room is our workroom, but Sister Rose-Celine assures me I’ll find the guest room set aside for visiting clergy most comfortable. Again, I feel like I’m on a film set with the brick fireplace and marble mantelpiece, eighteenth-century writing desk and chair, and snow-white canopied double bed.
I call Ridge and fill him in on everything that’s happened. To say he’s amazed is an understatement. I pray I’ll soon have good news to tell him.
And now for the most anticipated moment in my life. We go through Sylvie’s diary with blue lines and black ink detailing every aspect of her life from the time she was brought to the convent when she was three years old, growing up with Sister Vincent as her mentor, and then later discovered for films at sixteen by the French film director, Emil-Hugo de Ville. Her diary paints him as a controlling man in a white Panama hat and not the paternal image she sought him to be, selling her like a piece of property to the studio, how he manipulated her to get her to stardom and then keep her there. She speaks lovingly of her Ninette films (Sister Rose-Celine has never seen them and I promise her Ridge will somehow make that happen so she can watch them on her phone), then more films. Pills, alcohol, men. Emil is there guiding her career and encouraging Sylvie to engage in them all. A quick Google search turns up a film biography of the director that makes my head spin, adding to what I already knew about Sylvie from the research Ridge and I did before I left LA. For thirty years Emil guided young starlets through the ups and downs of the film business. Sylvie was his greatest success.
Unfortunately, Emil also disappeared after the war.
Which doesn’t give me any leads to follow regarding Sylvie’s activities during the war. Besides his work directing and producing Sylvie’s films, Emil wasn’t involved in any scandals except for spending too much money on women and cognac at the Hȏtel Ritz and making money on the black market. From what I can tell, the director falls into the ‘grey’ area of resistance against the Nazis. He kind of did… he kind of didn’t.
He was considered a genius in his time and the Nazis were so involved with making a positive mark in French film production, they left him alone as long as he produced hits, and he did. Besides the Ninette serial films, he produced two of Sylvie’s biggest hits, a circa 1931 Weimar era film and a historical drama about the Sun King.
After three days of going over every page of Sylvie’s diary chronicling her rise to stardom and asking Sister Rose-Celine for help with unfamiliar phrases (when she’s not dozing, the poor dear), I come to the end of 1937. Sylvie has documented her life up to then with a conscious effort at honesty, not holding back. She spends time chronicling her slide into drug addiction and alcohol and later recovery, and how difficult it was for her to stay sober. I come away with the idea she was very proud of attaining her sobriety and keeping clean during the difficult years that followed.
Which again makes me question how such a woman could collaborate with the enemy.
Such a woman would be lazy, ruthless, hedonistic… everything Sylvie wasn’t. It didn’t make sense.
I sit back in the comfortable chair in what was once my mother’s room, listening to Sister Rose-Celine’s gentle snoring since the hour is late. I feel guilty reading another woman’s diary, even if she is my grandmother. My brain is wired with so much information, my reading skills maxed out trying to interpret the actress’s precise, perfectly shaped handwriting cascading across the pages. She does a lovely job of making me feel her intense highs, how the work is all that matters. How she creates her characters and the extra spice that gives a character flavor with the right makeup and wardrobe (Merci, Grand-mère, for understanding how important the job of the costume designer is), and the sincere love she has for her fans. Which makes me wonder how she could let them down by working with the Nazis. Then her world spins into a different direction when she talks about the darkness she lived under during that time. My heart suffers with her when she speaks about the years of torment she endured under Emil’s control, her road to addiction and back, her sorrowful track record of falling for the wrong men.
And her intense desire to have a child.
Then a big surprise lights up before my eyes as I turn the page to 1938.
My heart flutters, my eyes tear up.
The years leading up to the war reveal a torrid love affair Sylvie had that keeps me turning the pages…
14
Sylvie
Falling in love… c’est si bon
Monte Carlo
1938
When I walk through the swinging doors into the casino and see the suave rogue in the white dinner jacket and black bow tie steal a wad of British pound sterling notes from a young woman’s purse, I switch gears.
Instead of grabbing a vacant chair and watching a ball spinning around the roulette wheel and losing several thousand francs, I decide to play the avenging angel.
I continue to ponder my options, grinning as I study this handsome specimen of masculinity. Thief or not, I allow my needy, hungry senses to take as much time as they want to drool over him. I’m not going anywhere till I have my fun. It’s part of the game of being a film star, n’est-ce pas? When Emil insisted I go on a junket to promote the film, I agreed. I love the attention, the glamor. The studio wardrobe department outfitted me with spectacular clothes. Wearing a black wig and a slinky, white silk jersey dress with a low, hanging back that hugs my curves, I could be anybody. A Castilian countess. A rich American heiress on holiday.
Or even a spy.
I admit this trip is a good test of my sobriety. I spent all afternoon at a press party avoiding the champagne and a Swedish producer trying to con me into going to his hotel room. I need some fun. And the casino is a short walk from my hotel.
I never expected to stop a crime.
I stand near the four floor-length mirrors in the corner of the gaming room, observing the gentleman thief with more than a casual interest. This gorgeous man is the most handsome villain I’ve played against, uppin
g the stakes on what I believed would be a quiet but boring evening after I dumped the bodyguard Emil set on my tail.
We had the usual argument earlier about me having a night off.
After a long day meeting with the European press jamming the Hȏtel de Paris to interview me, an American reporter told me in broken French I should come to Hollywood. I replied back in decent English, Never say never. I don’t see myself going to the States, but Emil is in talks with the biggest film studio in London about dubbing my films in English and hiring me to do the voiceover. Why not? I studied English during my stay at Sainte Albertine.
I sigh. Ah, that seems so long ago. The detoxing. Shivers. Sweats… and the intense mental deprivation of a normal life when I was under the influence. Sobriety is a road with many pitfalls. Unfortunately, in my business, I’m never too far from a drink.
I exhale a breath, let the moment pass.
And keep my eyes riveted on the handsome thief.
Enter from stage right Sylvie Martone. Angel and temptress.
I sashay across the salon with fire in my blood and sex appeal in my walk. I move with the sleekness of a tigress, catching the eye of more than one gentleman daring to look away from the roulette table to take a peek. I’m more interested in the sexy rogue with the broad shoulders who makes my breath catch.
I find it surprising the cad had the gall to make his move on the young English girl.
Uh-oh.
They’ve progressed to a heated exchange with the young woman stomping her foot. She’s upset about something, but she hasn’t looked in her purse yet.
Odd. She’s not backing down from his stern rebuke, rather pressing her hands on the gaming table to stake her claim. The rogue smiles. I know what he’s thinking. There’s nothing more intriguing to a con man than a willing mark who doesn’t know she’s willing. Him and his soldierly moves. A command decision to steal from his mark in one, easy manipulative sleight of hand. Even if he does have strong shoulders a dinner jacket can’t hide, he needs to be taken down a peg.