by Jina Bacarr
And, I admit, checking the lens on the hidden movie camera in my traveling bag, to do a little spying. Daring or stupid? Both, I suppose, but I’m an actress. I’ve been making films since I was sixteen. I live, breathe, filmmaking. I can’t let the opportunity pass by to film what I see here in a city that proudly states it’s been ‘cleansed of Jews’. What strikes me as odd is the nonchalance of the populace. Young people queuing up to see my film seem oblivious to what’s happened. They become more upset when during a showing, the film is stopped for a temporary cut in the power. Yet they show little understanding when I ask in a casual manner in German while I’m signing autographs if they miss their Jewish friends. Blank stares, an occasional show of concern. One girl looked genuinely horrified I would ask such a question and warned me in high school French the Gestapo could be listening.
I imagine the newsreels show me all smiles as I visit Berlin movie theaters and wave to adoring fans, but I have little tolerance for this phony world the Nazi High Command has created. How they can keep the people so blindly in line frightens me. Yet aren’t they doing the same in Paris? We have the Resistance, I remind myself, and word reached us in Paris last year about an Underground movement here in Germany led by students till it was quashed.
There must be more résistants in Berlin… who knows what they’re planning?
I pull my autumn haze mink coat tighter around me to keep out the chill that makes my heart shrivel with sadness. Yes, mink. And a stylish mink hat to go with it, courtesy of the studio wardrobe department. To keep their star warm and cozy in the cold Berlin weather? I doubt it. More likely to keep up appearances in front of a foreign audience.
The voluminous coat with its high collar has the added benefit of concealing my pregnancy, but it can’t protect me in case of another RAF attack.
The irony is, I could be killed in my sleep, bombed by a pilot I saved.
Which is why I have to film as much of the city as I can. Whatever I capture on film could be helpful to the Allies.
Buildings… burnt and bombed by the RAF at night.
Buildings still standing… ready to be bombed.
I’m pleased with how Bertrand and I accented my carryall tote bag with large, glass buttons. One of the buttons is a round hole, exposing the camera lens of my 16mm home movie camera hidden inside the bag. Whenever I want to record, I pull on the hanging chain with the long, decorative cord and point the camera. I’m never sure if I’ve got the focus right and the windup power supply causes me moments of panic when I forget if I wound it or not (I blame that on ‘pregnancy fog’).
Then our journey is cut short due to weather. It’s not that cold. I imagine our early departure has something to do with what Bertrand told me before I left Paris.
The rumor is the Americans will soon begin the daylight bombing of Berlin.
I can’t say I’m sorry to leave, though we escaped the embarrassment of an unpleasant lunch with Goebbels. It’s been canceled. Unfortunately, I’ve used up less than half the film. I’ve had a few missteps. I bemuse the fact I may be a good actress, but I’m not the best cameraman. I thought I was filming Nazi officials huddled together in a brief argument in the theater lobby and I wanted to chronicle their presence in Berlin, thinking it might be useful to the Resistance, when I realized I didn’t wind it up.
I got nothing.
We board the private railcar to take us back to Paris, each of us lost in our thoughts about what we’d seen in Berlin. The indifference of the German youth to anything not in their world, and how the older people blotted out what they didn’t want to see… the salutation to der Fuehrer ringing in our ears everywhere we went. Even if we wanted to discuss what we saw, we won’t. Not here, but privately, when we’re behind closed doors. I should be filming what I see out the window as the train speeds by the countryside, but I’m exhausted. I’ve got shooting pains in my swollen feet from so much walking and my lower back has had better days. I’m not complaining. I’m grateful to be returning to Paris which seems like an oasis after what I’ve seen in Berlin.
The Nazi officer in charge (treating us like we’re a nuisance he’d like to be rid of) keeps the temperature warm in the railcar. I keep my mink coat on in an effort to hide my starting-to-show baby tummy. Closing my eyes, I settle back in the royal blue velvet seat and dream of Jock and me, a loving moment I allow myself, letting my mind wander, a place not even the Gestapo can peek into—
When the locomotive whistle blasts loudly in my ears and the train screeches to a halt.
Shaking us awake.
Sending us to the windows to see what’s happened.
‘Where are we?’ I ask the Nazi officer in charge.
‘A most distressing incident has forced the train to stop near the French–German border, mademoiselle,’ he answers me in French.
‘Mechanical problem?’ I prod him.
The Nazi officer, a nervous, young lieutenant who keeps checking his watch, blurts out without apology, ‘We’ve been inconvenienced because of a boxcar of dirty Jews.’
I clench my fists to my side, all the anger building inside of me coming to a head.
‘They’re human beings, Lieutenant,’ I tell him point blank, poking my head out the window. I see where the train ahead of us broke down, leaving a rustic-brown, closed boxcar with four tiny windows on the side sitting idle on the tracks.
‘Are they, mademoiselle?’ he says, smug.
I hesitate to make myself a target. A sudden bout of dizziness reminds me I have my baby to think about, but his superior attitude angers me. ‘How can you be so sure who’s in that boxcar?’ I ask. ‘I don’t see anyone.’
‘You have my word as a German officer of the Reich, I’ve seen many such boxcars and they are all filled with Jewish, Romany, and political prisoners.’
A roundup from outlying towns, no doubt, like we had in Paris in 1942.
‘Where are they going?’ I have to ask. I can’t let this go. I have an idea.
‘If you must be so curious, mademoiselle, they’re on their way to a concentration camp where they will work for der Fuehrer.’
He means death camp, the coward.
‘What about giving them food, water…?’
His brows shoot up in surprise. ‘Jews are not entitled to such privileges.’
I can’t believe what he’s saying in that cold, nasal tone, what horrors await those poor people.
I take a bold step I can’t take back. ‘I want to see for myself.’
He’s as surprised as I am by my brashness, but he doesn’t stop me when I grab my tote bag with my hidden camera and get off the train. Why I don’t go back to my seat and my lovely dream, I don’t know. I feel compelled to do something, though I’m shaking all over, sweating in spite of my fur coat. The other members of my troupe watch me with disbelief, the lieutenant warning me to hurry. A seven-seat staff car is being dispatched for us from a nearby Nazi command post and will be here in precisely ten minutes, he says, tapping his watch.
‘German efficiency at work,’ I mutter under my breath.
I remind him I’m an important film star and his personal responsibility. That doesn’t sit well with him, but I’ve made my play.
An unforgiving, cold wind is at my back when I make my way down the three railcar steps, but my determination to record this first-hand account of what the Nazi officer admitted were inhumane conditions takes me out of myself. I become the conduit for what I believe is an important visual document.
I freeze when I hear the screaming, the crying coming from inside the boxcar… crushing my soul with the incessant wailing that will haunt my dreams for the rest of my life. And the smell. A decisive blow to my senses I never would have imagined. Human fear mixed with lost hope and unwashed flesh. A stink so profound it’s gone straight up my nostrils, bringing on a headache so blinding I can’t think.
Go back, go back!
I can’t, I won’t.
I’ve led men to freedom, risked my life. I can do
this.
Ignoring the muddy terrain around the railcar, I inch closer, my black suede pumps sinking into the goo. As I make my way, I hold my tote bag steady and, with a careful tug on the chain, I secretly film what I see.
Hands reaching through the four small, broken windows on one side of the boxcar. Tossing scraps of paper onto the ground.
So many hands, so many stories, each one heartbreaking.
I can tell it for them. My camera doesn’t record sound, but I believe anyone who sees this film will ‘hear’ their anguished voices pleading for mercy.
Minutes tick by… I’m well aware the lieutenant is watching me.
I imagine his obsession with efficiency overrules his curiosity. A frivolous French actress without a brain, I can hear him recount later to his beer-drinking buddies.
I move closer, trying to get a better shot—
‘Halt, Fräulein!’
I do nothing. No doubt I’ve been spotted by a German guard from the transport train. Any quick movement could be my last.
I turn around… slowly… and come face to face with a disgusting German sergeant. Pudgy, gross manners. He yells at me to go away while brandishing his Luger at me.
I grin slightly… hoping what I do next works. I give him what I call my ‘Hollywood wave’, putting him off balance while my secret camera keeps filming.
‘Bonjour, bonjour!’
The man has no idea who I am, but he’s not fool enough to shoot a snoopy Frenchwoman in a mink coat. Not when he sees a big, silver Mercedes touring car race to the scene and screech to a halt nearby. No doubt this is the vehicle the lieutenant mentioned.
He lowers his weapon, clicks his heels, and gives me the ‘Heil Hitler!’ salute. Then he walks away. I nearly faint with relief.
And have a surprising moment that warms me in spite of the cold.
My baby kicks.
I’m imagining it, but it’s a good feeling that stays with me. In my haste to get to the waiting motorcar, I underestimate the usefulness of high heels in mud. I take a few steps when I notice scraps of paper sticking to my shoes. The notes from the prisoners. A sense of duty overtakes me and I gather up as many as I can and stick them in my suit jacket pocket. I reach down for more when I stumble, almost dropping my tote holding the hidden camera.
Oh, no… no!
Before I can contemplate the foolishness of my action, I hear the tramping of boots running up behind me and in a shocking moment, the dutiful lieutenant grabs me from behind and picks me up in his arms. I can’t express the panic that races through me.
Thank God I didn’t drop the bag and lose my camera.
The lieutenant grunts, not expecting to find a zaftig Fräulein in his arms. He wobbles, steadies himself, and I do my best not to grin. With the heavy mink coat and the kilograms I’ve put on during my pregnancy, he’s huffing and puffing by the time we get to the touring car.
Der Fuehrer’s army isn’t in the shape it should be.
I thank the Nazi officer for his trouble, wanting nothing but to get going, get this film to Paris and tell the world, but he insists on holding my large cloth bag as he hustles me into the Mercedes. I manage a smile, but I don’t take a breath all the way to Paris as we speed off with my military escort holding the bag with the camera and precious roll of film. I doubt if anyone ever experienced a stranger series of events. The adoring crowds in Berlin and the fanfare for me – an actress. Then how strange afterward to find myself standing in the mud near the train of anguished prisoners, desperately filming what I see so no one will ever forget.
All I can think about is how dangerous it was to record on film the prisoners begging for mercy. It could have turned out differently if I had been discovered. I’d be tortured then shot. I’m not sorry. It’s never been clearer to me what atrocious actions that defy the core of human decency the Nazi party will stoop to in their march across Europe.
I can’t stop the shudders going through me, well aware I could be caged in that boxcar… or Bertrand, Raoul, or Halette.
I make a promise to myself.
I’ll do anything to keep them safe.
31
Sylvie
Adieu, dear friend… till we meet again
Paris
1944
‘The Gestapo have Raoul.’
Chilling words I prayed I’d never hear. How did they find him? I ask Bertrand. I blame myself for not being here to keep this from happening.
Someone betrayed him, he tells me.
Who?
A misty rain falls outside the old, deserted cinema in the 7e arrondissement, our meeting place. I rushed over here as soon as I received his cryptic message to meet him here at the appointed time.
The film begins at 14:00 hours.
‘From what I gather, Halette was on a mission for her father and didn’t return to the farmhouse for two days. Raoul was worried sick about her and ventured back to Paris.’
My stomach plummets. Again, my fault. I should have been here, helped him find her. ‘What happened?’
‘Raoul checked the safe house, but she wasn’t there. Word on the street is Halette had important intelligence to leave at the drop-off point near the Louvre when she witnessed her contact being dragged off by the French police.’
‘Did the man betray Raoul?’
Bertrand shakes his head. ‘No… he never made it to the police station. They shot him when he tried to escape.’
‘Oh, my God.’ My heart thuds in my ears. I didn’t know the résistant, but there’s no mistaking a good man was lost, his bravery saving mon bon ami. This heartless action of the police strengthens my resolve to continue the fight. ‘And Halette?’
‘She ran off before they spotted her and hid in the doll and candle shop. The Germans ransacked the building during the roundup last year, took what they wanted, then left. The place is deserted and she knew she’d be safe there.’
I nod. Halette showed me the alcove hidden behind the glass cabinet showcasing the antique dolls.
‘Where is she now?’
‘She’s here, Sylvie. Frightened but safe.’
He takes me to her and my heart cries for the young girl who’s suffered such a nightmare. The child stirs in an uneasy sleep. Her soft, brown hair in long plaits wrapped around her head like the Dutch doll she gave me, dried tears on her cheek. I hold her hand, whisper to her not to worry, though in my heart I fear the worst.
‘She turned her ankle escaping from the French police,’ Bertrand explains, ‘and hid in the shop for two days without food or water, resting her ankle till she could make her way back to the farmhouse.’
‘Raoul guessed where she’d go.’
‘Yes. He found her hiding in the shop, she told me, got her food and water, but he was so worried about her, he wasn’t careful about his comings and goings.’ He draws in a heavy breath, works his jaw.
‘An informant.’ My voice is flat, but inside I’m seething. Every apartment has a concierge whose duty it is to know every merchant, report everything, an insufferable human being ready to betray their neighbor for money.
‘The French police showed up within minutes and arrested him.’ From what Bertrand could find out from a frightened neighbor, Raoul gave himself up without a fight before they could enter the shop and tear it apart.
My heart swells. He gave himself up to save his daughter.
‘Where did they take him?’ I ask.
‘At first, we believed he was interned in the Gestapo torture chamber near the Eiffel Tower.’
I panic. I’ve heard about the place. Soundproof, prisoners tied to wooden posts for execution.
‘… but he was moved to 84 Avenue Foch.’
The headquarters of the SS counterintelligence.
I have a chance to save him.
I breathe a ray of hope, praying my relationship with Karl can help me… In the past, I’ve paid outlandish bribes to clerks there for special privileges, including more ration books or gasoline for my motorcar.
I make my decision. ‘I’ll go.’
‘I should come with you, Sylvie.’
I shake my head. ‘No, Bertrand, you’re too valuable should something go wrong.’
He cocks a brow. ‘Nothing is more valuable than the secret you carry, ma belle Sylvie.’
I should have known I couldn’t keep my condition from this big, powerful man who watches out for me. ‘Who else knows besides you and Emil?’
‘No one, ma chère. I’ll be waiting nearby if you… well, if you need me. These are strange times we live in. You never know if there’s a tomorrow. I don’t want you to feel that you’re ever alone. Allons, let’s go save our friend.’
‘You’ve made a terrible mistake, Lieutenant. Raoul Monteux isn’t a political dissident and God knows, he’s not a threat to the Reich. He’s a writer,’ I plead to the SD officer in charge. The SD is a fearsome offshoot of the notorious SS known for its torture methods. ‘He’s a dear friend of mine and Captain Karl Lunzer of the SS.’
The obstinate lieutenant scans the notebook in front of him with a pencil, moving it up and down the rows of names.
‘I see here in the film registry, his name was struck from the credits of several films because he’s Jewish.’ He looks up, balancing his tiny pince-nez on his short nose. ‘This Juif is a friend of yours?’
‘Yes… yes, he is.’
‘I see…’
‘I’ve known him since I made my Ninette films,’ I argue, telling a white lie to gain sympathy from the stodgy SS officer newly arrived from Berlin. The prison cells are located here. Knowing its reputation as a torture kitchen, I’m wondering if I should have come alone. I convinced Bertrand to wait for me at a nearby café and if I’m not back in thirty minutes, to make his play.
The first lieutenant isn’t impressed.
He’s never heard of Ninette.
‘It will be difficult to arrange for you to see this Jewish person before he’s transferred, Mademoiselle…?’ He looks at me quizzically, searching for a name.