by Jina Bacarr
‘Sylvie Martone… the cinema star.’
‘Ah, yes, I saw your Versailles film last week at the Soldatenkino on the Champs-Élysées.’ He removes his tiny glasses, looks me up and down. ‘You look different in person.’
‘The camera adds ten pounds,’ I joke, knowing I’m twenty-five pounds heavier and not expecting this pencil pusher to get it. I’m panicking, wondering if Raoul is to be tortured.
From what I was told earlier, he was brought here for questioning and encouraged by the Gestapo to ‘give up’ other Jews in hiding. Names, locations.
‘Raoul has written wonderful speeches for me,’ I toss back at the SD officer with a sway of my hips, my low, husky voice. ‘Would you deny the French people the talent of this accomplished writer? What would your superiors say if they knew you were interfering with orders from Herr Goebbels to encourage the arts between our cultures?’ I make my big move. ‘I just got back from Berlin where I spoke to the Minister of Propaganda—’
‘You spoke to Herr Goebbels?’ His glasses slide off his nose.
‘Yes.’ I smile. ‘A most charming man.’
‘I see.’ He picks up the phone. ‘Bring Monsieur Monteux, schnell,’ he orders when—
‘Ah, Mademoiselle Martone, I pray when you spoke with Herr Goebbels, he was in good health.’
The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I freeze when I hear that gruff voice behind me.
I spin around. ‘Herr Geller.’ I choke. I can’t move. He knows I didn’t meet Goebbels in Berlin. What’s his play?
‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard the great Sylvie Martone was seen entering the building,’ he says, surprised. ‘And now she’s pleading for a Jew’s life.’
How long has he been listening?
‘Raoul is no threat, Herr Geller,’ I repeat.
‘He’s a Jew and we must protect our people.’
‘He’s a writer, not an activist.’
He narrows his eyes. ‘You would swear to this?’
I think carefully before I answer, pray my baby doesn’t kick me when I say, ‘Yes.’
‘Most interesting.’
I feel a great wave of dizziness. The Gestapo man didn’t call me out for telling the SD officer a lie. Now the man I both revile and fear is using that lie to trap me. I’m afraid if I don’t keep talking, I’ll faint.
‘I’d be willing to do anything for the people who made me a star. No matter what their faith. I’m certain der Fuehrer would understand how important it is to protect those loyal to us.’
‘You’re a good actress, Mademoiselle Martone,’ Herr Geller says, ‘and I admire your performance, but you needn’t worry about acquiring future assignments because you worked with this Jew. Your trip to Berlin proved you’re a valuable asset to the Reich.’
I raise a brow. ‘What do you want from me, Herr Geller? I’m not a fool.’
‘Neither am I, mademoiselle, but I fear you’ve been spending too much time in your make-believe world of films and are misguided in your plea.’ He leans closer to me, staring at me like he can read into my soul. Do I see more lines etched on his stodgy face? More anger in those burning eyes? ‘I have it on the best authority from the French police Monsieur Monteux has been identified as a member of the group behind several railway incidents causing delays to our transport trains.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘So you see, your plea for this Jew is for nil. He’s an enemy of the Reich and will be dealt with as such.’
I refuse to back down and allow him this abuse of power.
‘I will swear—’
‘The Gestapo man is right, Mademoiselle Martone. I’m not the man you think I am.’
Raoul.
He’s standing in the doorway, flanked by two German guards, his hands tied behind his back. Hatless, his clothes torn, his face bruised a deep purple, the scar along his cheek open and oozing with fresh blood. He shakes his head, his fierce eyes begging me to play along.
‘Monsieur Monteux… Raoul.’ I act surprised, praying the Gestapo buys it.
‘I could interrogate you as well, mademoiselle,’ Herr Geller snarls at me. ‘You may have heard information about Resistance activities from Monsieur Monteux since you’re so chummy with him.’
A direct threat.
My game of passionate film star trying to help a writer I admire has turned a new page. My muscles are tense, bracing for an attack I’ll never be able to endure.
He’ll find out you’re pregnant.
Torture you till you give up the father’s name.
And you’ll lose both your baby and any chance of seeing Jock again.
I try to focus but can’t. The love I have for my unborn child rips through me with such intensity, I touch my stomach and a small vibration from deep within my womb makes me shiver.
‘I – I, uh…’ I stumble, reading Raoul’s body expression as being one of a man facing sheer terror. Not for himself. But for his child. And for the first time in my life, I also know that terror. For both our children. What a fool I’ve been. I’ve been so cavalier trying to save my friend, I neglected to realize I could get caught up in the Gestapo’s cruel web of duplicitous deceit. Two traitors for the price of one, not that Herr Geller has reason to suspect me. I have no doubt he doesn’t count sheep at nights, but how to trap innocent lambs for fun.
No, I can’t let this vile man win.
I know when to let the other actor have their moment in the spotlight and react. Acting is reacting. I remain quiet but solemn as the German guards drag Raoul away. I see in his eyes a clear message as he mouths the words, Save Halette. We both know Herr Geller has no grounds to hold me here. I can walk out, free. Besides, the Gestapo man has more to gain by keeping tabs on me, praying I slip up.
Before I’m escorted out by a Nazi guard, I give Raoul a slight nod. I understand. He’ll do anything to save his daughter.
Including giving up his freedom… and his life.
Bertrand is waiting for me outside the courtyard of the elaborate SD headquarters, pacing up and down, smoking a cigarette. When he sees the fear on my face, he says nothing. He follows me without a word.
‘It was a trap, Bertrand,’ I tell him in a hushed whisper when we’re far enough away from the dreaded place. ‘Herr Geller knew I’d show up to help Raoul.’
‘Merde, if I ever get my hands on that Gestapo bastard—’
‘Raoul saved me but condemned himself.’
Bertrand grabs me by the shoulders and squeezes me so tight, I feel like I’m going to cry. I’ve never seen such anguish in his eyes.
‘I beg you, Sylvie, not to take chances. You have the child to consider.’
I nod. We agree not to meet till things quiet down.
I walk back to my Trocadéro apartment, Bertrand tailing me at a safe distance to make sure I’m not followed. Once I get home, I pull off the two-piece suit I’m wearing. The smell of despair clings to my clothes. A metallic, sharp smell. Alcohol and bleach. I can’t wait to wash it off. I slip on a lavender-smelling kimono and wait. Two hours later I let Halette in through the back entrance.
When I hear a rustle of the bushes, I know Bertrand is gone.
‘Take the yellow Star of David off your sweater, Halette, and then we’ll burn it.’
‘Oui, mademoiselle.’
The girl is quiet, too quiet. I don’t press her. She dutifully rips off the cloth star, then I see a moment of regret. A sniffle and intake of a deep breath that tears me apart. It may be a tool of the Nazis, but the star is also a link to her father, her faith.
And now she’s lost both.
I sit with her for a long time, my arms wrapped around her as best I can in my condition, her head on my shoulder. I like to think she finds comfort in the warmth of my body, a mother’s warmth when she needs it most. And my baby. A comfort to me.
Halette said little when I explained why I insisted Bertrand bring her to my Trocadéro apartment, she had no resistance left after I told her in a soft voice what happened at 84 Avenue Fo
ch. I didn’t tell her they beat her father or what would happen to him, only that he’d be interned at a camp. I pray I’m right, that he has a chance to survive.
Then I remember the boxcar of prisoners I saw on my way back from Berlin.
And I cry.
Softly at first as I unwrap the sleeping girl’s arms from my waist and lay a paisley blue soft blanket over her. I leave her sleeping in the den and go upstairs to my bedroom and sob so hard I can’t breathe. I can’t control the hatred rushing through me for the injustice I’ve seen played out today. I will never forgive myself for not convincing Raoul to go to America.
Instead, what did I do? I pleaded with him to stay in Paris and write for me. A hit I needed. Who cares about a damn movie? Because of me, he stayed. I shudder at how my dearest Raoul played down our friendship to keep the Gestapo off my back.
I can do nothing more to save him.
But I can save Halette.
I’ll hide the girl here in my Trocadéro apartment and if anyone asks, she’s my new maid. I start tearing through my wardrobe, looking for suitable clothes, shoes for her. We’re the same size… or we were, I smile, before my body changed. I pull together conservative outfits, comfortable flats I haven’t worn in years, sweater, socks, coat—
A knock on my front door slams the breath out of my chest. I bend over to protect my baby, listening, going through every horrible scenario imaginable.
Who… what?
Another knock. Loud.
I make my way downstairs… The knocks becomes louder. My brain hurts from flipping through so many scenes.
It’s Emil. He has a habit of showing up drunk.
Raoul escaped… no, impossible.
Herr Geller never believed a word I said and sent his goons to pick me up.
The last human being I expect to see when I open that door is Karl.
His SS cap askew on the back of his head. His blond, Aryan looks distorted with a hellish look of blatant lust.
Uniform collar unbuttoned.
Snarling at me and very drunk.
What happens next moves so fast, I can’t put it together in any logical order. All I know is, I have two children to protect and one despicable SS officer trying to take them both away from me.
Karl pushes his way inside with his black hobnail boot kicking the door in, then he grabs me around the waist.
‘I heard what happened at Avenue Foch, Liebling… how you defended that Jew prisoner.’ He tries to kiss me; I turn my head and his sloppy lips lick the back of my neck. The disgust I feel overwhelms me, choking me.
‘You’re drunk, Karl. Go home.’
‘Who is he, Sylvie… your lover?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I push him away, pull my kimono closer around me, but he grabs onto the thin silk, pulling it off my bare shoulder. I turn my back on him to shield my stomach. It’s then I hear a slight creaking of footsteps on the winding staircase.
Halette. How much did she hear?
‘Do you think you can insult an officer of the Reich and get away with it?’ he yells. ‘Not after what you and I had together.’
He’s referring to the night he thinks we slept together. So that’s what this is about.
He’s jealous.
‘I was trying to help a friend.’ I suck in my breath, knowing I must choose my words carefully. ‘Herr Geller made it clear to me what my position is.’
‘No more games, Sylvie. You’ll do as you’re told.’ He nuzzles my neck. ‘Kiss me.’
My face gets hot. I feel numb.
‘Please, Karl, you’re upset. It won’t happen again.’
I hate myself for placating him, this ugly feeling of submission I have every time he touches me. A horrible realization washes over me. That’s what I’ve been doing since I agreed to this insanity of working against the Nazis by working with them. A puzzling fear grips me. I’m in too deep. I can’t back out now. Everything I’ve worked for will be lost if I don’t find a way to placate him. ‘Let me get you a vodka.’
Could I fill him with booze so he passes out? It worked once. Will it work again?
If not, then what?
He doesn’t want a vodka. He wants me.
‘I’m ordering you, Fräulein, to remove your robe or I shall tear it off you.’
I no longer feel in control, like I’m being hunted. The use of the German word shows his mindset, his intent to treat me as his personal property. He stands with his arms folded. Eyes narrowed into slits. I see their accusing blue stripping me. I freeze.
‘Karl—’
‘Do it.’
When I don’t move, he slaps me hard and I fall to the floor, my life suddenly becoming a living hell. I try to move, but can’t. I see Halette out of the corner of my eye. I shake my head, motion for her to run. Karl’s back is to her, so he doesn’t see her trembling, visibly shaken. I attempt to move farther away, give her a chance to escape out the front door, but every effort I make to get away from him is painful.
‘I’m asking you, Karl, to remember you’re an officer of the Reich, a soldier.’
‘You will do as I say, you French whore—’
He grabs the hem of my kimono and holds it tight in his fist as he drags me toward him.
‘Karl, please…’
‘Do as I command… now!’
He pulls me to my feet as if I’m made of straw and with a seediness low and base and inhumane, he rips my kimono open, exposing my belly so round and filled with a new life. The shock reaching across his facial muscles is a slow wave of surprise, then an intense hatred that sends my pulse racing so fast, making me acutely conscious of his every action, knowing I’ll have to defend myself with my fists, my nails. Bite him, if I have to. He yells at me in German, ugly words I don’t understand. A pitiful excuse to take me down to his level.
Then he strikes the fireplace with his polo whip, chipping the marble.
‘On your knees, Fräulein.’
‘You don’t want to do this, Karl. I’m no threat to you.’
‘No? You’re carrying the Jew’s bastard.’ He cracks the whip again, then tosses it away before drawing his pistol. He points it at my belly. I curl up in fear, my eyes searching for something, anything to use as a weapon. ‘You leave me no choice—’
A swift movement in the shadows behind him alerts my senses… the sound of footsteps slow and steady. I catch a brief glimpse of Halette, holding a heavy Louis XIII vase in both hands, a deadly determination in her eyes. In a slow, concentrated sweep through the air, she raises the vase up high, her intention clear. I gasp, my heart in my throat. I can’t stop her, a frightening punch my brain absorbs in slow motion. It’s all over in a few seconds.
The SS officer never sees it coming.
Crash!
I scream when she smashes the heavy porcelain object on the back of Karl’s head. Pieces fly everywhere… in his hair, on his shoulders, the floor. He staggers, disbelieving, before hitting the parquet floor with a dull, horrifying thud.
Knocking him out.
‘Is he dead?’ Halette cries out, her fist going to her mouth. She’s shaking badly.
I search for a pulse on the side of his neck with my fingers. Weak, but steady.
‘No, he’s alive,’ I tell her, relieved, ‘but we’ll end up in a concentration camp if he’s found here.’
I hear her heavy breathing behind me. The words she heard about the baby seared her soul, the pain ripping through her.
‘Is it true about the baby, mademoiselle?’ her voice croaks. ‘Is my father…?’
I smile, a soft and tearful moment as I try to assuage a difficult situation, find the right words. Halette is in a delicate state of mind having nearly ended the life of a feared Nazi, but pushing heavier on her mind is whether or not I betrayed her.
‘No, Halette, your father is the most honorable man I’ve ever known and faithful to your mother.’ I rub my belly to calm the child growing inside me. ‘All I can tell you is the father of my child is some
one I’ve loved for a long time, someone I never thought I’d see again until he was shot down…’
She smiles wide. ‘You have my word I will keep your secret.’
Strange, how female bonds are born from shared sacrifice.
Tonight, here in my apartment we share both the guilt for what we’ve done, albeit in self-defense, as well as the pain of what happened earlier at Avenue Foch, and the joy of my impending motherhood.
A bond forged in war. I pray it endures when we find peace again.
I call Bertrand and tell him I have a package that needs delivering. His sharp intake of breath tells me he’s been fearful for my safety. When he arrives and sees Karl lying on the floor and my ripped kimono, he’s livid with anger. I assure him the SS officer had an ‘accident’ before anything happened. I make no mention of Halette’s courageous act. Better for her safety if no one knows but me.
Dousing Karl with more alcohol, Bertrand loads him onto his shoulders while I make sure no one is about outside. Somehow, he has commandeered a German uniform and a military motorcycle with a sidecar. No one will question a tipsy SS officer being driven about the streets with his aide.
‘What will you do with him, Bertrand?’
Whatever happens to him because of me, I will have to live with that.
‘He’s so drunk, he won’t remember anything when he wakes up in a brothel in the Pigalle.’ Bertrand smiles wide. ‘Without his uniform and his identity papers. He’ll have a hard time explaining that to his superiors.’
32
Juliana
Films, photos, and Nazis, oh my
Ville Canfort-Terre, France
Present Day
What if I can’t clear the name of my fabulous grandmother Sylvie Martone? Show the world she was working in disguise as ‘Fantine’ for the Resistance? The evidence is all circumstantial. I need official proof of her involvement with the SOE, Special Operations Executive, the group organized to conduct espionage operations during the war Jock mentions, how impressed the hush hush organization was with their work helping what Sylvie calls ‘evaders’ along the escape line to the Spanish border and then on to Gibraltar. Someone in the Foreign Office must have known about Fantine, but Sylvie makes no mention of anything official that left a paper trail.