by Jina Bacarr
‘Unless you’re in need of medical assistance, monsieur, I won’t waste any more of your time.’
I turn sharply away from him. Wrong move.
A loud growl, but he’s quicker than a hungry fox, surprising me when he grabs me by the shoulder and spins me around.
‘I’ve not dismissed you… yet.’
I glance up, catch his penetrating gaze. His eyes are searching as if he’s trying to see something, but he’s not sure what. I didn’t put on face makeup, just a black wig and glasses. Now I chide myself for my haste. Who would see me? I never expected to come face to face with the man I despise.
‘Are you new at the hospital? You look familiar. And your voice…’ He thinks a moment. ‘Have we met, mademoiselle?’
‘I’m certain we haven’t, monsieur. I – I’ve only been in Paris a short while.’
‘Yet you know the boulevards well enough to wander around on your own.’ It wasn’t a question, but a piece of the puzzle forming in his brain. ‘I swear we’ve met before.’
Herr Geller is cleverer than most Gestapo. I think those crossword puzzles he’s obsessed with fuel his brain to come up with schemes of torment that go beyond the physical, a mental torture to rob his target of the one thing we cling to under the worst physical torture: our souls.
Like now. Waiting outside in his motorcar for an unwary mouse to get close enough to spring his trap and then bam! Another victim he can jibe with his sharp tongue.
I wince then force back a groan when a big contraction hits, using all my strength not to faint. My body doesn’t know I’m in fear for my life. I double over. I can’t help it.
His brows shoot up in surprise. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No.’ I shake my head vigorously. ‘It’s something I ate… you don’t know what you’re getting these days.’ I force a smile, but my ridiculous attempt at humor comes out flat. I wipe my face, sweating profusely as I sway back and forth, realizing my wig is loose, hair – is it blonde hair? – sticking to my forehead.
Then before I can turn and run…
My water breaks.
I freeze, bracing for whatever comes next, closing my hands into fists, shielding my belly. The Gestapo curses at me in German, his nostrils flaring. I’ve ruined his game and he intends to make me pay. He rips open my cloak, looks me up and down, but he doesn’t touch me. Then as if he’s working a puzzle and the answer pinged his brain, an almost tender look plays over his face.
‘Herr Doktor was your physician.’
I nod. I can’t speak till the pain passes.
Then he laughs. A big guffaw that shakes his rotund body so hard, the black leather of his trench coat stretches at the seams. ‘You nearly had me fooled, Mademoiselle Martone. A clever disguise on your part to escape publicity,’ he says, ripping off my wig and nurse’s cap. ‘A glamorous film star can’t afford to have a child out of wedlock. It will tarnish your image, n’est-ce pas?’
So he did recognize me.
‘I admit nothing, Herr Geller.’
‘No? You came to SD headquarters that day to plead for the Jew to throw me off track, mademoiselle, making me question if he was your lover.’
Where’s he going with this?
‘I’ve had my suspicions for weeks you were hiding something… of course, SS Captain Lunzer is the father of your child. When I picked him for you, I wondered how long it would take for him to seduce you. Karl never was discreet. Before he was called to the Eastern Front, he bragged about his passion for you and how beautiful you are in the moonlight without…’ He smiles. ‘I shall leave the rest to your imagination.’
I must be having a moment of sheer insanity. That lying SS bastard.
But a force bigger than me, the need for survival overtakes me and I keep silent. Let him think what he wants. My baby will be born on the pavements if I don’t get help.
I make a stand. ‘Now am I dismissed?’
He smiles. ‘Get into the car, mademoiselle. I shall drive you to the hospital myself.’
34
Juliana
And the cradle will fall
Ville Canfort-Terre, France
Present Day
I can’t stop shaking, my heart in my throat listening to the tape.
Sylvie and that horrible Gestapo man unmasking her and then driving her to the hospital.
Sylvie talking about how she saved downed pilots.
Sylvie and Jock getting married in Sacré-Coeur.
The French actress speaks in a clear, lovely voice, telling Madeleine she wants her to know everything as it happened, her work for the SOE, how she nearly lost Jock, what happened the night she was born. The emotion, the feelings, the wonder of it all when, in the midst of utter chaos and heartbreak, betrayal and then victory, she gave birth to a baby girl.
I know deep in my heart, Sylvie wanted Madeleine to know her mother was no mythical creature with wings like in her Ninette films, but a woman. Strong yet vulnerable, determined and faithful under the most horrible circumstances. She made mistakes, some small, others that made her heart break, but she did it for her child… and for France.
I’m still shaking when I turn the recorder back on and listen to what happens next.
I delivered my beautiful baby girl at the American Hospital in Paris four hours later. Never in my life have I been more filled with joy than when I pressed my skin against hers and she began to feed. Soft, pink with all her fingers and toes. A gift from a benevolent God not even the Nazis could take from me.
I cherish that time with you, ma petite.
Then Allied Forces landed at Normandy and the end to the Occupation of Paris began.
Not everyone believed the invasion was real. Hitler slept late that morning, surmising the news of troops landing at Normandy was a decoy and the invasion would come at Calais.
And what I thought was a generous move by Herr Geller to help me was another ploy to use me.
The summer days turned hotter… July then August. Jock made daring visits to me in the Trocadéro… I hesitate to speak of our passion, ma petite, but I want you to know you were born of that passion and it never cooled.
Not even in those dangerous times.
I’m still stunned by the missions we pulled off, the men we saved, but the Resistance made mistakes. The fighters needed weapons and the Germans lived up to their reputation of efficiency experts, keeping destructive arms other than guns and grenades out of our hands. So when Halette brought me a message from Bertrand saying they’d located a cache of weapons in an underground cave used by the Germans, I volunteered to get the word to Jock.
On our last meeting he told me he was staying at a safe house on the Left Bank belonging to a philosophy professor at the Sorbonne.
I gave you a kiss on the forehead, Madelaine, praying I’d hold you in my arms again soon, then I set off into the moonlit night in my nurse disguise. No one would challenge me on a mission of mercy.
Big mistake.
Herr Geller was watching my apartment.
He followed me across the city like a mythical creature with heavy, flapping wings and when I got to the Pont Saint-Michel, Jock saw me and I rushed into his arms, not knowing I’d led the Gestapo man here. Then out of the shadows like a medieval gargoyle, his eyes flashing with a satisfied amusement, Herr Geller ordered me to step away.
I didn’t move.
The Gestapo man was an evil man I never wanted to look too closely at.
That night, I did.
I locked my gaze on him, studying his face, from his straight black eyebrows to his nose off center, to that cruel mouth. His stodgy body so alive with anticipation, I could smell the sweat sticking to his leather trench coat.
With his revolver aimed at Jock, he ordered him to surrender.
Jock folded his arms across his chest. ‘Go to hell,’ he said in English, ‘you Nazi bastard.’
His defiance infuriated the Gestapo man.
‘You British think you rule the world. That’s over. Long l
ive the Reich!’ yelled Herr Geller.
He stared at Jock with eyes gone black with fury, his delayed reaction frightening me more than if he’d shot his weapon.
When I least expected it, he moved as quickly as a rat with his tail cut off and grabbed me by the collar of my cloak, nearly choking me, ‘Come any closer and France will be mourning the death of its most famous cinema star.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Jock! He wouldn’t dare.’
The Gestapo man held me tight. ‘Wouldn’t I?’
Jock started to rush forward, then stopped. The rage on his face was replaced by fear, his words of contempt shouted at the Gestapo man coming hot and fast. Trying to talk him down, offering to give himself up, but let me go first.
No, I pleaded. He’d kill Jock. Shoot him before I could catch a breath. Then I remembered the handcuffs Herr Geller kept in his pocket. The left one. I slipped my hand inside and grabbed the cuffs, then slung the heavy metal upward and hit him in the eye.
‘You French bitch!’ he cursed and cursed. He let go of me and dropped the revolver. Jock grabbed the gun, but Herr Geller rushed him before he could get off a shot. They fought and the gun went off.
My heart stopped.
I looked up to see Jock toss the dead Gestapo man over the bridge. A loud splash.
Then silence.
We never spoke of what happened, never questioned our actions. A man who tortured, maimed, and killed innocent partisans had met his fate.
We went home.
We didn’t make love, we held other tight with you, ma petite, lying on the bed between us until it was time for Jock to go. His mission couldn’t wait. He had orders to keep the Nazis from getting supplies as the Allies pushed through France toward Paris, blowing up as many rail lines as possible to help weaken the German defenses.
With sweet kisses and a loving look at his baby daughter, Jock disappeared into the darkness.
We were a family that night…
For the last time.
I turn off the recording.
Shaking so hard, I suffer such severe chills it scares me. Then a fever in me rises up from the horror of what Sylvie want through that night. Knowing they had no choice. I’ve been on the set and felt my heart skip during wild dramatic scenes like this one. Then I go home. Forget about it.
Sylvie lived it.
How did she cope with her feelings, her emotions afterward? Did the horror of everything she’d seen slowly lose its fever, like hot tea turning cold? When she made this recording in 1950, she sounded calm, resolved, as if she’d accepted these events as the price of war, knowing in her heart she was about to pay the ultimate price.
Losing Jock.
No last name. No title. I still have no idea who my grandfather was.
Waiting to hear Sylvie tell me how, when, is killing me. My nerves fraying, my distress so acute, I don’t thread the empty spool on the recorder right and ribbons of tape unwind before I can stop it. What else can I think? No other answer makes sense as I wind up the tape in painful slow motion. If my grandfather had survived, I wouldn’t be here listening to their story.
I wouldn’t be here at all.
There’s little comfort in knowing that, but I’m so proud of them both, that my grandfather was a brave RAF pilot (I still can’t grasp he was a duke) and a member of the Resistance, and because of his sacrifice, he also gave me life. Maman would never have met my father.
More than ever, I’m grateful for the life I have. And for the man who helped me uncover the truth about Sylvie Martone.
Before I turn the recording back on, I call Ridge.
My voice shakes as I ramble on about God knows what, hardly letting him get a word in, making no sense as I try to explain how Sylvie and Jock took down the Gestapo, that I can’t bear to listen to anymore, and I wish he were here because I can’t face Sylvie losing the man she loves.
Like I could never face losing him. His awful jokes… his wild streak… his friendship.
Then, before I break down completely, I click off.
Knowing that after my crazy, insane rambling and wearing my heart on my sleeve, our relationship will never be the same.
35
Sylvie
Farewell, my love… I shall never forget you
Paris
Summer 1944
With Herr Geller dead, I assume my life will no longer be a living hell.
I’m wrong.
The veracity of the German High Command to show the people of Paris they’re still in control reaches a point of insanity in the weeks that follow.
Especially the Gestapo.
The stodgy man in the bowler hat who loved to taunt me was merely one of the ubiquitous men (including French) in black or brown leather trench coats. They push their power to the limit with a fierce intensity, continuing to round up Jews, arrest anyone on the word of an informant, and execute hostages.
When Jock returns to Paris, we decide it’s best if we don’t meet as often at my apartment. Yes, we’ve gotten away with our clandestine meetings under the cloak of darkness, but those threads are becoming worn and thin as the Nazis become more desperate. I don’t go anywhere near Avenue Foch or my place in the Faubourg. Paris is like a pot of chicken stew boiling over with too many bones and not enough meat. The Abwehr or German counterintelligence has slim pickings to interrogate with everyone hiding under their bed. Waiting.
For the Allies to come. And the Germans to go.
Anyone can be picked up at any time.
Especially when Herr Geller’s body is fished from the Seine.
I receive the news from an unlikely source. Emil. He’s upset because the Gestapo man looked the other way on his black market deals in exchange for information. He twisted more than one arm to allow Emil freedom to get good distribution deals for his films. He’s nervous about our latest film getting into the theaters. I think he’s more nervous about American films invading France when this is over. He’s been sitting on top of a candy mountain since we returned to Paris. Like so many sweet things made of spun sugar, they don’t last. I find it humorous when Emil reminds me Goebbels once decreed he wanted French filmmakers to make ‘light, frothy films’.
I’m proud of the films we made. We gave the French people hope and helped them deal with acute hunger and fear.
I refuse to let that fear resurface.
I remind myself Herr Geller was shot with his own revolver. The Gestapo have no one to arrest.
I’m not naïve. That hasn’t stopped them from executing innocent people in retaliation for the killings of German soldiers. We don’t know what they’re planning, but as the Allied forces make their way across France, the Resistance is becoming more active and the Germans more insane in their attempts at keeping order.
Meanwhile, I walk through a dream of motherhood and listless nights… naming my child Madeleine after Sister Vincent’s given name which she shared with me years ago. I shall never forget holding my daughter for the first time… kissing her little fingers and toes, hugging her close to me and feeling her small body tremble when I cried from the joy of holding her. I sang to her to calm us both and we fell asleep on the third… or was it the fourth chorus of Frère Jacques?
Even in my joy, I can’t forget the horrors of this war, not knowing if Jock is dead or alive. I make a trip to the closed cinema as Fantine to find out from the leader Yves if there’s word about Jock. Nothing. (Did he pick up the SOE agents near Angers? I wonder.) Instead I hear about barricades near Notre Dame, the Resistance fighters preparing to take over French police headquarters, and talk of the Allied forces entering Paris from the south.
How every grenade is checked, how every bullet counts.
It sends chills through me.
I go back to my apartment, trying to wait it out. In a moment of vanity, I look into the mirror. My figure is still a bit thick around the middle and my face is more angular, cheekbones higher. My dimple is more pronounced when I smile. Which I do a lot when I pick
up my baby and sing to her. Madeleine is two months old and getting bigger every day. I continue to breastfeed when my body’s rhythms are in tune, and when I can’t, I secure milk and food from the staff of the Hôtel Ritz. Like many long-term guests, Emil paid for a room I can use for a year… a room on the Rue Cambon side away from the Nazi officers who commandeered the rooms with the best views on the Vendôme side. When I keep asking for milk, it doesn’t take my favorite waiter long to figure out I had a child. Whether he believes the father is Captain Lunzer and he wants to save his own skin, or he genuinely likes me, I don’t know.
Paris is starving and you have to do what you can to survive.
I also have to think about Madeleine’s future. And her identity card.
The American Hospital of Paris doesn’t register the birth of a child, the mairie does. With Bertrand’s help, we forge a registration from the Neuilly-sur-Seine mairie, city hall, with my name as the mother and the name of the baby’s father left blank. I can fill it in after the war is over.
But what if something happens to me?
Madeleine will be branded as the daughter of a Nazi sympathizer. I can’t let that happen. Halette volunteers to go the mairie and say she had a baby with a German soldier and wants an anonymous birth registration. Both parents unknown.
A common occurrence. No questions asked.
I give thanks, even when I have to bend a few rules. Like rifling through the studio wardrobe department for baby clothes and blankets. Scarfs for diapers. Yes, I can buy what I need from the black market, but I’m careful not to purchase anything that would make someone suspicious. The fewer the number of people who know I have a child, the better. Luckily for me, the wardrobe girl is used to my visits and turns a blind eye, which makes me believe she’s taking leftover wardrobe for her own children.