by Jina Bacarr
I can see she’s embarrassed as she tells me she was stunned to find out from Resistance friends of her father my name is on the list. She never believed I was a Nazi collaborator, then realized I had connections to the Underground when I tried to help her father and arranged for her aunt and her children to escape France.
But others do.
All they see are my photos in the newspaper with an SS officer, dining with Nazis at cafés, not to mention the ‘goodwill’ trip I took to Berlin at Goebbels’ request. These things don’t sit well with the French police.
Word is out.
They’re rounding up known Nazi collaborators, including celebrities. I could mount a defense detailing my work as Fantine to escape what they’re calling épuration légale, purge. But by the time I cut through the red tape and contact the British Foreign Office, it may be too late. They’re out for blood. Meanwhile, with no one left in Paris to corroborate my story, who will believe me?
‘When are they coming?’ I ask, my mind spinning.
‘Tomorrow morning.’
I grip her by the shoulders. ‘Any word of your father?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. The Allies haven’t liberated the camp, but there’s a rumor the Nazi sent several prisoners to Dachau.’
‘Oh, my dearest child…’ My heart breaks for her.
‘Papa would want me to go on… and to help you. We’ll go to the Faubourg apartment.’
‘No, the informing is worse than during the Occupation. I walked the boulevards in disguise yesterday when you were bathing Madeleine and I saw what’s happening. The people want revenge. They’ll recognize me. I’ll be dragged through the streets, stripped, my head shaved, and God knows what they’ll do to Madeleine, an innocent baby.’ I think a moment. ‘I have to leave Paris.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘Back to where I started, ma chère Halette.’
‘The convent?’
I nod. ‘Mais oui.’
‘What if someone there betrays you?’
I shake my head. ‘The sisters will keep their silence, but even a small village like Ville Canfort-Terre is filled with partisans keen on revenge. Still, I have no choice. I have no gas for the Bugatti. I’ll have to walk.’
Halette’s eyes widen. ‘A woman traveling alone. Won’t that be dangerous?
I grin. ‘Not for a nun.’
‘Need a lift, Sister?’
‘Merci, monsieur, I can walk,’ I keep my head low so the American GI can’t see my face. Not that he’d recognize me, but I didn’t have time to apply makeup. Merely the old pair of spectacles I wore with my nurse disguise.
‘Hey, you speak English,’ he says, grinning. ‘Please, let me help you. I’m going to get into a heap of trouble back in Wichita if my mom finds out I didn’t give a nun a ride.’
‘Wichita?’ I repeat.
‘Kansas. Wheat, corn, plenty of corn. I’m full of corn, according to my fellow war correspondents.’
He drives along beside me as I plod along with Madeleine tied to my back, my suitcase in hand. I’m not the friendliest nun the soldier will ever meet. My back is aching and my feet are so swollen they won’t slide into a pair of heels for weeks. But I can’t let anything stop me, even the US Army. Our lives – Madeleine’s and mine – depend on us reaching the convent. I’ve been walking for about three hours, stopping under a shady tree to feed my baby, then drink from the flask of water I brought with me. Thank God for those fancy meals at the Hôtel Ritz. I have plenty of milk, but I have about eight hours more of walking before I reach safe refuge. I’ll have to stop and rest when night falls.
The soldier behind the wheel of the American Jeep won’t give up and continues to drive alongside me.
I panic. Have they found me?
No, I believe the American is a gift from God.
‘I’m a reporter with the Wichita Sun here to cover the liberation of Paris. You come from there, Sister?’
‘Oui, by way of Belgium.’
I tell him how I made my way across the border after being hunted by the Nazis for helping the Resistance, then I came upon a dying woman on a farm who just gave birth. ‘I’m taking the child to the convent at Ville Canfort-Terre, a village about fifty kilometers south from here.’
‘Okay by me, Sister.’ He stops the Jeep. ‘I can drop you off on my way to Rambouillet.’ He smiles. ‘I’m on a mercy mission myself. I was on the road to liberate Paris with the others when I met a kid there about twelve and her little sister. Her mom sent them there to be safe. I promised I’d come back for them. How about you and me do God’s work together?’
I give him a big smile. ‘How can I say no?’
I hand him Madeleine and he makes a cozy spot for her on the backseat, then helps me into the Jeep. I feel such relief at finding help, I nearly collapse and miss a step.
I stumble. Grab my heavy, black woolen skirts.
And my glasses fall off.
The American catches me in his arms, then looks into my eyes and lets out a low whistle.
‘Holy mackerel, Sister, you’re beautiful.’ He grins wide. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you oughta be in pictures?’
37
Sylvie
The long road home
Ville Canfort-Terre, France
Summer 1950
My GI knight-in-shining armor never figured out who I was.
Of if he did, he didn’t believe it.
A soft, cleansing rain pitter patters around me as I sit under the overhang in the garden and I reminisce about those days after the liberation of Paris. For me, the war ended the day I left the city. As far as the world knows, I escaped to Switzerland in August 1944. Instead I returned here to the convent where I raised my daughter in a role that’s been my most challenging – disguised as a Belgian nun.
I shall be forever grateful to the Mother Superior – though she’ll always be Sister Vincent to me – for taking me in. She’s the only one who knows who I am.
And a young girl named Jeanne.
She came here not too long ago, but Madeleine took to her immediately and the thirteen-year-old adores her. I found her to be a great companion for my six-year-old daughter. Jeanne believes that it’s God’s will she’s here to take care of Madeleine. I often watch the two of them playing in the convent garden, how Jeanne never lets her out of her sight even when they play hide and seek, peeking through her fingers so she won’t lose her. How they laugh making mud pies, but she always makes sure Madeleine is cleaned up and sparkling for prayers. She reads books to her, teaches her how to count. She was born to take the veil, according to Sister Vincent who confided to me the girl’s mother told her how, toward the end of the war, Jeanne would drop to her knees and pray on her rosary every time she heard an air raid siren, trying to calm others. She was seven. So I wasn’t surprised when she protected Madeleine from a nosy visitor to the convent asking about her. Jeanne swore on her rosary she was her baby sister.
I felt certain I could trust her, so I shared my secret with her.
I’ve never regretted my decision.
She’s been a great help to me.
So much so, I showed her the photo of me from 1940 along with the heart-shaped diamond faux pin and the lace veil I intend to give to my daughter when she’s older.
Dressed in my nun robes, I watch the two girls coloring in books with crayons while the Dutch doll I gave my daughter so long ago observes with her doll-sized cup of tea. Meanwhile, I finish assembling my notes, what I want to say when I make my phone call and tell the press about Fantine and the tape recordings, as well as the script for Angeline, the photos, newspaper clippings, and home movies I shot in Paris in 1943… I can’t look at them and not shudder.
Every item is key to telling my story.
Jeanne and I placed them in the chateau dungeon where no one ever ventures these days, except for a noble lady ghost. It will give her something to guard, though I shall leave clues for Madeleine if I’m not successful in my ques
t and anything happens to me.
I finish my sweet lily flower tea… yes, I’ve remained sober, though my head aches from the pressure, the weeks it’s taken me to put all this material together. But it’s done. I intend to take my story to the France-Soir and have them publish it to gain the ear of the British government to listen to my plea.
God knows I’ve tried everything else.
After the war, I attempted to clear my name through the proper channels, but my letters to the SOE F (French) Section in England come back unopened. I’m reluctant to keep writing to them and reveal the service number assigned to me until I make legitimate contact with someone I can trust.
The Mr Peeps Jock told me about.
As a precaution, I wrote the service number down for Madeleine in a place where she’ll see it.
Till then, I’m of the mind there are forces at work in London still unraveling the mounds of paperwork and classified documents from the war. I thought about going to England in person, but that would create an international incident since I’m officially wanted by the French police.
I tried to contact Jock’s sister Winnie, but according to the society pages, she died in childbirth soon after the war ended. I brushed away tears when I read that, remembering the winsome young girl so full of life in Monte Carlo. And from what I understand, Jock’s title has since been inherited by a male relative whose direct lineage traces back two generations.
Before I go into the village to make my long-distance phone call to the Paris newspaper (I want to tell my story without anyone at the convent overhearing me), I make one final recording.
About the film I shot that day on the train back from Berlin. About my shoes and why I never scraped off the mud. I pray in a small way, it brings peace to those who lost someone.
It’s still raining when I change into a blouse, skirt, headscarf, and sunglasses so as not to attract attention dressed as a nun.
My fan club is a different story.
‘You look pretty, Maman.’
Madeleine races up to me and shows me the pages she’s colored with Jeanne behind her.
‘Merci, mon enfant. Never forget, ta maman loves you.’
‘I love you, too.’
She wraps her arms around me and the warmth of her fills me with courage.
‘Now be a good girl and stay with Jeanne till I get back.’
Jeanne smiles at me, her soft brown hair blowing in her face. She confided to me she’ll enter the religious life as a postulant when she’s fifteen. She’s praying to God the name she picked will be granted by the Mother Superior. When she takes the veil, Jeanne wants to be called Sister Rose-Celine. Knowing Sister Vincent, I’m sure it will.
I pray I have good news for them when I return.
I take one last look at my little girl waving at me, and then open the door to the world outside the convent to what I hope will be a new life.
Where I can once again walk the streets… tall and proud.
And tell everyone I’m Sylvie Martone.
Actress.
38
Juliana
Searching for buried treasure… and intelligence
Ville Canfort-Terre, France
Present Day
I can’t stop the flow of tears, the heartbreak and all-encompassing grief that overtakes me when I hear Sylvie mention she’s going into town to make a phone call to the press and tell her story.
Then I hear her take a deep breath and say she has one final message.
I turn off the tape recorder, unable to listen to any more. Not now… later. I go through the despair of not only losing my mom again, but my grandmother, too.
I try to wrap my head around this moment, tamp down my emotions before I go on a crying jag because it’s up to me to finish the journey Sylvie began.
I try texting Ridge, but he’s not answering me or picking up his phone.
I want to tell him everything, ask his advice. I know he’s worried about me. I sounded awful the last time I called, telling him about how Jock died and pouring my heart out to him like a reality show contestant. I’ve never done that before. I hope nothing’s wrong. I check the time. It’s too early to call his office.
I’ll try again later.
I’m sure he has a good reason for not picking up my calls.
With a heavy heart, I start sketching on a notepad to calm my nerves. I draw Sylvie in costume as Fantine, then as the glamorous film star in the photo. Sketching is good for my soul and my mental coping, though it would be better if Ridge were here, my anchor.
I sigh. God, I miss him.
Feeling lonely, I make myself a cup of tea, then look at the two sketches side by side.
The two sides of Sylvie Martone. Only I know the truth.
I can surmise what happened the day Sylvie was killed – though no one will ever know for sure. On a hunch, I go into the village and make a visit to the newspaper now digital. They’re kind enough to allow me to go through their archives around the time Sylvie died.
I take a step back in my mind, keeping my emotions at bay when I find a small ‘item’ placed in the ‘people about town’ section that mentions how a die-hard movie fan swore she saw the infamous Sylvie Martone walking through the village like she was a tourist, and how dare she.
No one believed the woman, though she insisted she was an extra in a film Sylvie shot in Versailles and she recognized the actress wearing a headscarf and sunglasses.
I feel the panic Sylvie must have felt when the woman confronted her. The sudden fear everything she’d taken great care to conceal could be lost in a second along with her plan to clear herself. I can’t forget this was 1950 and scars from the war were still fresh in people’s hearts.
Driving back to the convent, I conjure up quick, animated pencil sketches in my mind, sketches showing Sylvie frightened for the safety of her child… knowing she’d lose her if they found the actress… racing back to the convent in the old motorcar the nuns used, rain pounding on the windshield. She’s maddeningly fearful, upset, her hands sweaty on the wheel, vision blurring through her tears as she swerves to avoid hitting something on the wet road… then her car skids out of control and a sickening, awful smashing sound fills her ears when she crashes into the old chestnut tree, killing her instantly.
I slam on the brakes.
My heart pounds so fast, I feel faint.
Then I cry my eyes out.
‘You have a visitor, Mademoiselle Juliana.’
Sister Rose-Celine speeds into the garden on her motorized scooter like she’s fueled by rockets. She’s beaming with the biggest smile on her face. I put down my notebook, curious. I’ve been sitting here for what seems like hours, staring at my notes, trying to get my head on.
‘A visitor? Who—’
‘Hey… Juliana.’
I jump up, my heart pounding when I see Ridge come out of the shadowy alcove. I’ve never been so happy to see him, aching to grab him and, in a moment of whimsy that surprises me, wanting him to hold me in his strong arms.
I hold back… barely. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you.’
‘My phone was on airplane mode, then when I landed in Paris, your phone was off.’
‘And you couldn’t use your cell while you were driving here.’ I grin, then tell him I was in the village looking up info on Sylvie at the newspaper office. ‘The reception was spotty so I turned it off.’
‘I didn’t leave you a message because I wanted to surprise you… and know you’re okay.’ He heaves out a heavy breath. ‘After the last time we talked… well, I knew you needed me, so I booked a flight and got here as fast as I could.’ Ridge looks over at Sister Rose-Celine, who is nodding her head and making the sign of a ‘heart’ with gnarled fingers. I try to shush her, waving my hands around. She just smiles. Does she know something I don’t? ‘The sister explained to me what you two have been up to. How can I help?’
‘Sit down, Ridge, and have a cup of the sisters’ lily flower tea while I tell yo
u the most extraordinary story about a true daughter of France.’
Over the next two days, the three of us huddle together over Sylvie’s diary, notes, photos, and recordings, like generals planning an invasion. We take pictures of everything we lay out in the convent library on two card tables and add sticky notes showing the timeline of what Sylvie did during the war.
Working with Jock and Bertrand and helping the evaders as Fantine.
* * *
Her films to boost the morale of the French people.
* * *
Saving Raoul’s family and Halette.
I tell Ridge that Bertrand was her handler, how he was killed before the liberation of Paris but according to Jock, Sylvie’s work in the SOE F Section was reported to a British officer known as Mr. Peeps.
A play on the name of the famous seventeenth-century diarist? I wonder.
Then Ridge goes into work mode and we unravel the red tape, enlisting the help of a London solicitor who contacts the British Foreign Office. The official tells us what Sylvie didn’t know when she made the recordings was that many files in London SOE headquarters were being deleted. And what wasn’t destroyed was highly confidential because of the extremely sensitive nature of the operations and was archived.
He asks for details of everything we know about Sylvie and then we send him the pictures of what we uncovered about her activities during the war.
Then we wait…
The Mother Superior is wonderful and so understanding, allowing Ridge to stay here at the convent with me (he charms her and every sister he sees). I show Ridge around the chateau (he loves the dungeon) with Sister Rose-Celine adding her memories of Sylvie and Maman. Then we share a special moment when we visit Sylvie’s grave here on the grounds with Sister Rose-Celine. The headstone is blank, but decorated with a beautiful marble carving showing an angel pinching a little girl’s cheek. Just like Sister Vincent said to a young Sylvie a century ago. The plot is a living garden with gorgeous flowers tended to by the nuns, including the Canfort Lily the sisters grow to make their lily flower tea. A tribute to the beautiful actress and her memory. We bow our heads, the three of us holding hands as we say a prayer.