by Jina Bacarr
I order another coffee and ignore the stares of the two soldiers who haven’t taken their eyes off my legs. I shift my position so my bare legs are tucked under the table, then say to them with a big smile, ‘No more free looks, mes amis. Next time you’ll have to pay to see these legs.’
Yes, I said those words before when I was a sixteen-year-old kid knocking around the movie theater with big dreams. I was young, smelling of rotten tomatoes, tears flooding my eyes, but I meant every word. I mean every word now. I could not have imagined I’d be sitting here years later muttering those same words.
The two soldiers nod their heads, grinning from ear to ear while they toast me with their warm beers.
I thank my lucky stars they have no idea what I said.
My money’s running out… my shoes need fixing… and I fear going back to my apartment in the Trocadéro to pick up my clothes and grab some shoes lest I find it filled with Nazis again. Still, I’m not as bad off as some in the film industry. Thousands of people have no jobs, no income, and if they’re Jewish, they fear what will happen next.
Everyone in the motion picture business has suffered one way or another since the Germans are hell bent on confiscating films contrary to the beliefs of the Third Reich (Emil assures me they haven’t gotten their hands on the original negative for Angeline and gives me an extra print for safekeeping). Some directors flee to the Unoccupied Zone in the South with the negatives of their unreleased films, some films are lost in the chaos, and other classic films are hidden in basements and attics.
Meanwhile, the Germans waste no time reopening movie theaters to show Nazi newsreels. God help any poor soul who boos when the German Army goose-steps across the screen – they remedy that behavior by leaving the lights on.
A mental torture, if nothing else.
Then what every filmmaker fears, happens. The Germans form a committee to head up government control (as in Nazi control) over the motion picture industry. What next? Can it get any worse? Then, this so-called committee receives permission to resume production in Paris.
Emil can’t wait to share the news with me at our daily meet at the Café de la Paix. He doesn’t come to the Faubourg – the less my neighbors know the better, though it’s no secret since my presence in Paris is well established with the Propaganda Abteiling. According to Emil, the Nazis have decided they will ‘flatter’ French culture, let it flourish, and that includes shining praise on film stars like me. An idea that pleases Emil… he didn’t find success in dealing with the Vichy in the South and he’s only too happy to pick up where he left off in the French capital with his biggest star. I find this talk of admiring French culture ludicrous and insulting to me as an actress since they changed the name of the Sarah Bernhardt Theater to Théâtre de la Cité.
What next?
Today I got upstaged by a cow.
Mooing and wagging her tail, flashbulbs from the press popping when she knocks me over and I land on my butt. For the past hour I’ve been waving to crowds at a Nazi propaganda exhibition in the Grand Palais, though it’s more like a county fair. Fifi got away from her handler as I’m addressing the press about my Ninette films. I’m promising new motion pictures from me soon when she knocks me over with her jaunty gait and swinging tail. The press love it, since the whole day has been nothing but boring talk about the new social and economic order between Germany and France. Why I was commanded to speak today, I don’t know. Once the Nazis get an idea into their twisted brains, there’s no stopping them.
Emil follows the PR stunt at the Grand Palais (the headline reads ‘Sylvie Martone mooing around’) with more appearances so he can raise my profile in the eyes of the Propaganda Abteilung.
And so he can make money. Gambling debts, drinking, and he’s heavily into the black market. Then again, who isn’t? What’s uppermost on his mind is getting me front and center in the eyes of the public.
So where does he put me?
On the radio.
‘… and I want to thank all my fans who came to see me at the Grand Palais…’
Me or Fifi the cow?
‘And let you know how happy I am we’re going to make new pictures for each and every one of you…’
When the Nazi high horse gets off his butt…
‘So until I see you again on the silver screen, let us give thanks to our German friends who are helping French culture flourish and blossom…’
What? Who wrote this? Not me.
‘With movie theaters opening up again.’
I want to gag. I do gag. I garble the last sentence so nobody can understand what I said. It makes me sick.
Who changed my words? I had an uplifting speech written about celebrating our French culture in film… not this trash. Someone rewrote my script, putting words into my mouth that show the Germans in a positive light.
‘Pardon, mes amis, something got caught in my throat,’ I continue without missing a beat. I’m wary to look anywhere but down at my script. When I arrived at the last minute, I noted the radio studio filled with visitors. The heel on my black pump cracked and I had to make a stop at my Trocadéro apartment to pick up another pair of shoes (I was delighted to see the German soldiers hadn’t been back, thank God). I didn’t have time to look over what I thought was my approved script shoved into my hand.
Someone censored my words. Who?
There’s dead silence except for my heavy breathing.
I continue with an adlib that would never make it past the Nazi censors, ‘I’d like to end this evening with a quote from one of my Ninette films about surviving in these difficult times. As my humble angel character said to the two orphans she rescued from the devil’s clutches, “We must believe in the unseen power in us to overcome evil if we stick together.” Merci et bonne nuit.’
I imagine Emil is smoking his cigar overtime and I wouldn’t be surprised if two Nazi guards appear and escort me out of the building. Emil can’t wait to dig into me when I leave the control booth.
‘You’re going to ruin us, Sylvie, with your obstinance. You’re an actress, not a politician.’ His face is so red I wonder if he’s swallowed his cigar.
‘If more of us actors took a stand when the Boche invaded, I wouldn’t have to be.’ Reckless words since the word ‘Boche’ is verboten to be spoken anywhere, but I’m angry. ‘I’m no better than the words I speak. Fans listen to me. I can’t let them down.’
‘Why did you go off script with that not-so-subtle quote?’ he demands, looking over his shoulder at the man in the black leather trench coat scribbling on his crossword. He looks up, smiles at me. Dark eyes with heavy, overhanging lids that shield his thoughts, but not his piercing look. He gives me the creeps. I have no doubt he’s Gestapo. I breathe a sigh of relief when he retreats into the shadows.
‘Do you want my fans to come to our pictures? Or spit at us on the street?’ I stare at the dark corner with uncertainty. Is he still watching me? ‘Being honest with them is the only way to win the hearts of the people.’
‘I’m afraid this isn’t over, Sylvie,’ Emil warns. ‘You may have gotten your way for now, but our new German friends are not happy with you.’
‘They’re not my friends,’ I toss back at him and head toward the studio door leading to the corridor guarded by Nazi soldiers. Then I have to go through more guards to get to the street and pray my red Bugatti has enough gasoline to make it back to the garage where I’ve been storing it. Since it’s an older model I wasn’t ‘requested’ to bring it to the Hippodrome so the Nazis could decide whether or not to purchase it. I enjoyed the privilege of using my motorcar today because I’m on ‘official German government business’. I have the feeling that privilege is now revoked.
‘May I have a word, mademoiselle?’
I spin around, my heart in my throat. My hand is on the door lever, but I can’t move. The rat has come out of his corner, a big rat who enjoys crossword puzzles.
The Gestapo man.
‘Of course.’ I give him my sta
r charm, the big dimple smile I’m famous for. I refuse to cower before him, though the rumors I’ve heard about the reputation of the persistent and treacherous secret police – the most hardened political dissident can be broken and beg for mercy – are not to be ignored.
What does he want with me?
He stuffs the newspaper into his pocket and removes a small notebook. ‘I enjoyed your radio address, Mademoiselle Martone, however…’
His stern, dark eyes deepen as he flips through his notebook, making me believe Emil is right and this time I went too far.
I go on the offensive with, ‘Would you like an autograph, Monsieur…’
He grins. ‘Avicus Geller, mademoiselle, of the Gestapo.’
‘Oh, how fascinating, Monsieur Geller. I’ve heard so much about your organization.’ My voice comes out high and hollow sounding, like a young girl gushing over a new party dress.
Can it. That singsong reply isn’t going to make it with this mug. Do you see how he wets his lips over and over?
I shiver.
‘That’s excellent, mademoiselle.’ A slow grin comes over his full lips, then he shoves the black notebook at me… and a pen. ‘Your autograph… please.’
‘My pleasure.’ I take the pen though I swear he holds onto it longer than necessary, and sign my name on a blank page. Not my best signature. Wiggly with large capital letters. Nerves, I imagine. It’s not my overly zealous handwriting that worries me, but what’s written on the opposite page that sends a rolling chill across my shoulder blades.
Herr Geller has made notes on me. Yes, notes.
I can’t believe what I’m reading:
Sylvie Martone… beautiful blonde cinema star… charming… people like her, could use that talent for our work in Paris… however, she’s obstinate… doesn’t follow orders, which could be a problem… with the right incentives, I’ve no doubt we can tame her rebellious spirit.
He doesn’t blink when I give him back his pen. Instead he closes the notebook with a loud snap and then tips his bowler, knowing full well I read the notes. ‘Merci, Mademoiselle Martone, I pray we meet again.’
His words chill me. I race out of the studio, eager to change my clothes and take a long, hot bath to wash off the lingering smell of his threat, but the stink won’t go away.
Life in occupied Paris just got a lot more dangerous.
23
Sylvie
Putting on the Ritz with the SS
Paris
1941
‘You’re lucky the Gestapo man is a big fan of yours.’
Emil hustles me into the jet-black Mercedes coupe before anyone sees us. Bon. I avoided catching the glance of anyone, especially German soldiers eager to meet a French girl. Too many times I’ve seen a startled young woman approached by two soldiers and cornered into having a beer with them lest she invite trouble. For the most part, girls travel in pairs and several keep their hair pinned up tight, a subconscious act to keep their virtue wrapped up as well.
‘I wouldn’t call him a fan, Emil…. more like a tiger waiting to pounce.’
Emil doesn’t laugh at my attempt at humor. I don’t blame him. We’re both on edge. Our usual morning chat changed from the Café de la Paix to this passageway with a car and driver waiting for us after we each received a cryptic message from the Propaganda Abteiling to meet here. As predicted, after deviating from the radio script, I lost the right to drive my red Bugatti and Emil is no longer allowed to race around the city in his yellow Citroën. The Germans consider it too ‘flashy’. We’re lucky we enjoyed the privilege as long as we did since the Nazis often requisition private automobiles.
Now we’re relegated to following orders (yes, I’m taking Herr Geller’s threat seriously).
I’m still shaking from my encounter with him. Since then I find myself looking over my shoulder every time I leave the safety of the Faubourg, which isn’t often. No film roles have come my way, but I refuse to give in to the Nazis’ demands I speak publicly about the positive effects of the Occupation. All I see is how the Nazis are stifling the French people. Curfews, food shortages, no motorcars allowed.
Riding around on the open streets in a German car makes me feel like a traitor.
Emil doesn’t see it that way.
‘Be grateful you’re on Herr Geller’s good side, Sylvie. From what I’ve heard, it’s not a pleasant afternoon if he requests your presence at 84 Avenue Foch.’
‘Then that’s not where we’re going?’ I dare to exhale in a big breath. It’s well known the German Intelligence Service appropriated several buildings in the fashionable arrondissement.
He snickers. ‘No. It’s a surprise.’
‘I don’t like surprises, Emil. What are you up to?’
‘I hope you realize it’s in your best interest to work with the new regime.’
I don’t answer him. I’m uncomfortable with all this secrecy. I’ve been careful to keep a low profile. I won’t listen to German-controlled Radio Paris and its propaganda, but I admit to listening to the message of hope from Radio Londres in the quiet of the night. I wonder if things would have been different with Jock and me if there hadn’t been a war, if we could have overcome the obstacles in our path. I like to believe so, but when the clear dawn arrives with its stark reality, I know I’ll never see him again. How can I with Paris occupied? I have no idea where he is, though I pray he’s safe in London doing his job with the Foreign Office.
Still, I’ve never stopped loving him.
Emil won’t give up with his chatter about how the tide has turned and we’re a step closer to getting permission to make a new film. For once, I’m grateful for his obnoxious persistence in getting things done. I’m not flattered to believe it’s because he likes me. I’m his main meal ticket since several of his stars stayed in the Unoccupied Zone and others fled to England and Portugal. For the benefit of our nosy driver who keeps looking at me in the rear-view mirror, I’m careful to answer with enthusiasm when Emil points out the Deutsches Soldaten Kino (movie theaters for German soldiers only) and emphasizes how popular my pre-war films are with the soldiers.
I’m not so enthusiastic when the Mercedes pulls up to the Hôtel Ritz and he mentions one SS officer in particular who insists on dining with me.
Captain Karl Lunzer.
The name means nothing to me, but I have an idea he was among the officers I snubbed at the radio studio. Emil insists if I don’t want to end up in one of the German brothels in Paris, I’d better get cozy with him. They need him to influence the right general to greenlight a film.
I tell him I’d rather sleep on the pavements with the vermin.
‘Herr Geller told me you’re more beautiful in person than on the screen, mademoiselle. I didn’t believe him till I saw you at the radio station.’
So I was right. Another rat who wants his piece of the cheese.
Captain Lunzer bows low, clicks his heels, and kisses my hand. I stiffen. ‘He insisted I make your acquaintance.’
An excuse? Or does everybody in Paris kowtow to the Gestapo?
‘Herr Geller has a way with words, n’est-ce pas?’
The captain takes my arm and we walk down the long gallery toward the restaurant when I notice Emil isn’t behind me. I turn around and see him disappearing through the revolving doors. The coward. He baited the trap and now it’s sprung.
‘Everything all right, mademoiselle?’ the SS officer asks, his gloved hand moving to surround my waist. If I’d been wearing a corset in one of my period films I couldn’t have felt more confined. I can’t breathe.
‘Yes, Captain, everything is just the way you planned.’
He smiles and I accept the fact I have a part to play in this Nazi melodrama while we dine on exquisite caviar and truffles, then poached salmon, though I beg off the champagne. I’m not going to relapse because a damned Nazi captain wants to get into my pants. I know what’s expected of me, but I’ll only go so far.
We linger over coffee and an overly sw
eet strawberry-orange tart with the flakiest crust I’ve ever tasted, talking about… well, about the captain. His exploits, his passion for polo. Then he pulls out a map for German officers and soldiers marked Pariser Plan in bold Germanic script and, in not so subtle words, requests me to show him the real Paris. (I wonder if that includes my Trocadéro apartment.) I admit the tall, broad-shouldered officer has the blond good looks of an SS poster boy and the swagger to go with it. I don’t reject his attentions, but I don’t encourage him either. I play it down the middle. I hope that will be enough to keep the Gestapo man from making more notes about me in his book. I admit Karl is handsome with a cleft in his chin, a patrician nose and the physical prowess of a university athlete.
‘Like our Fuehrer, I’m Austrian by birth,’ he’s quick to tell me and I’m surprised he doesn’t click his heels under the table. Or did he? ‘I’m honored to do my duty for my country.’ He moves his chair closer to mine. I squirm. ‘As I expect you will do for yours.’
‘I’m here, n’est-ce pas?’ I don’t hide the sneer in my voice, but he chooses to ignore it. I sense he enjoys playing our little game and would be disappointed if I acquiesce too easily.
‘I’m a big fan of your work in cinema, mademoiselle. I’m looking forward to seeing you make new and better films now that the Party is in charge of production.’
‘My fate is in your hands, Captain.’ I flutter my eyelashes at him, keeping the mood light. I have nothing to gain by pitting him against me. Yet I’m taken aback by his next comment when I mention I can’t wait to work with my old crew again.
‘Some crew members won’t be returning.’