by Jina Bacarr
Then we get the news we’re waiting for.
Ridge and I listen to the head of the Foreign Office in London telling us on Skype how he unraveled years of red tape and found information in the file of Bertrand D’Artois verifying he recruited an agent known as ‘Fantine’. A Frenchwoman who worked for the SOE F Section and together they were part of a Resistance group active in Paris from 1942 to 1944.
There’s no record of Fantine’s real identity.
Her personal file was lost.
I’m crushed. So is Ridge. And Sister Rose-Celine. We got so close…
‘Back to the drawing board,’ Ridge says, squeezing my hand. The fierce look in his eye tells me he won’t give up the quest.
‘Fantine has to be Sylvie Martone,’ I plead to the British official, who looks as disappointed as we are. ‘She detailed everything Fantine did, the meetings at the closed cinema, her missions, how she saved the RAF flier she names as ‘Jock’ from the hands of the SS.’
‘I agree, Miss Chastain, but without verifiable proof, I can’t sanction an official announcement Miss Martone was one of our agents.’ A beat, then: ‘By the way, I don’t recall seeing a service number for Fantine on the records you sent. That could help locate her file since several high-profile agents were listed only by their service number.’
Service number.
The pinging that goes off in my brain is unreal. I get chills all over.
I’m merely a service number among thousands to the British Foreign Office, Sylvie said on the tape, known to a Mr Peeps by a number I memorized.
‘Sylvie mentioned a service number on one of her tape recordings,’ I manage to get the words out, ‘but she never said what it was.’
‘Did she say anything else?’ Ridge says, his voice calm, but I can tell he’s as nervous as I am.
I wrote the service number down for Madeleine in a place where she’ll see it.
‘Yes, she wrote it down where my mother would see it…’ I close my eyes, straining my brain to work overtime. ‘But my mother had nothing that belonged to Sylvie except…’
‘Except what, Juliana?’ Ridge asks. ‘Take your time… think.’
Then it hits me.
‘The black and white photo. I remember seeing numbers written on it… it can’t be that simple, can it?’
It is. I grab the photo from the items we categorized and there written in white ink is her service number. The truth was there all the time, but I couldn’t see it until I took the journey with Sylvie to the end.
I read the number slowly to the British official, then we wait… again.
After consuming two pots of lily flower tea to soothe our frazzled nerves, we watch the entire thing unfold over Skype when the British official opens the numbered file and shows Ridge, Sister Rose-Celine, and me the contents.
Documents, notes revealing information with the numerous missions Sylvie carried out against the Nazis and the names of the evaders (Allied pilots) she saved from capture, photos, identity cards, along with dates and places.
And a clear, typed notation stating Fantine was the code name for Sylvie Martone, French actress.
The information revealing her real identity lay buried in a file unopened since the war. Mr Peeps was more than one person, the official tells us, and when the war ended, the man in that position at the time shoved the file into a square box marked Closed because Bertrand died in Paris at the hands of the Nazis. Many of his agents, including Fantine, were thought to have met the same fate.
I can’t contain myself. I jump up and down, kiss Ridge and he kisses me back, which stuns me for a moment. The look in his eyes says he’s been wanting to do that for a long time. I kiss him again and he picks me up and swings me around, much to the delight of Sister Rose-Celine. She claps her hands with glee, the three of us thrilled with this new information that proves Sylvie was working for the Resistance. Disguised as the inimitable Fantine with her derring-do, courage, and perseverance, she was a brave fighter and helped free France from the Nazis.
The British official assures us his London department will document everything in the file and send me a copy. Along with the tapes and the diary I uncovered, the world will soon know the truth.
Sylvie Martone did not collaborate with the Nazis.
Any association she had with them was part of her work as an SOE agent.
‘I can’t believe it’s over,’ I tell Ridge, holding his hand in mine. ‘Time for us to go home and…’
And what?
I leave the rest unsaid. I’ve changed since I came here to learn more about Sylvie, who she was, who she loved… I see my life differently.
I also see Ridge differently.
I spy him checking me out, a confident grin curving over his lips, his eyes deepening into a smoldering black with a twist of fire sparking in his pupils. His glance is penetrating, sensual, and he makes no attempt to hide it. Not anymore.
What’s taken me so long to realize I’m in love with this man?
Because I’m like ma grand-mère, proud and stubborn and so set on doing things my way, I almost lost him. I spent my whole life building a career, not opening up my heart, afraid if I did so, I’d get hurt like Maman. Sylvie showed me that with the sacrifices she made, and though she lost Jock under the most horrible of circumstances, she never stopped loving him. What tears me apart is they died so young… Sylvie wasn’t much older than I am.
My heart wrenches at the thought… then my brain puts out an alert not to waste one more moment without letting Ridge know I feel.
‘Don’t forget,’ I tell him, testing the waters, ‘we have a date.’
‘There’s nothing I want more, Juliana.’ When did his voice get so sexy? Or have I been ignoring that because his low, gravelly tones do wonders for my lonely heart.
Then everything falls into place when his eyes hold mine with an intimacy that opens doors to a place I never would have imagined. I know what I have to do.
I swallow, then drag in a whopping breath before I change my mind.
‘Okay, you big hunk of man…’ I exhale, pulling up my courage. ‘I’ve got something to say and you’d better prepare yourself.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘I love you… oh, not just best-friends-love, but throw-caution-to-the-wind, passionate, forever love.’ I exhale, a shudder going through me. ‘There. I said it.’
‘And I love you, Juliana.’ He pulls me into his arms. He’s smiling big. ‘If you didn’t say it soon, I was about to carry you off to that dungeon and lock you up until you did.’
My eyes widen. ‘Seriously?’
He grins. ‘Seriously.’
Laughing and hugging, we kiss again (not too passionate – Sister Rose-Celine is watching and loving every minute) before we settle into a comfortable rhythm making notes on what we’re going to do to honor Sylvie. Together. I couldn’t be happier. No one except Ridge has ever been here for me in so many ways I can’t count them all, except the one that counts the most. He never gave up on me, believing in his heart someday this independent, perfection-driven artist would open her eyes and see what was there all along.
His love shining right at me.
Merci, Sylvie, for giving me the courage to find love. I think somehow you know… that this journey spans both the past and present with your words and recordings as a bridge for us to help each other.
To find redemption for you.
And love for me.
With Maman in the middle, holding onto both of us.
I hold his hand tight as Ridge hears Sylvie’s lovely voice while we listen to my grandmother’s last recorded words, his smile warm and caring as she talks about the home movie film she shot that day coming back from Berlin… how she never had it developed because she was fearful she’d put her entire operation at risk if it was discovered. Men and women would die if her cover was blown.
You may wonder why, ma petite, I never removed the mud from my black suede pumps.
I couldn�
�t bear to tear away the human trace of survival that attached itself to me.
I found several scraps of paper that day near the boxcar. I picked them up, curious, and put them in my pocket. Later, I saw they each contained an address, a railcar number.
Pieces of hope that someone would find them and tell their loved ones where they’d gone. If you look in my black jacket pocket, you’ll find the papers.
I pray I shall have the chance to clear my name and do what is right. If not, I leave it to you to deliver these messages of hope.
The world must never forget.
I hold back a tear, vowing to do as ma grand-mère wished, then let myself go as Ridge wraps his arms around me and I sob into his chest.
Sylvie died the day she recorded that message.
39
Juliana
To Sylvie with love
Paris, France
Present Day
After a whirlwind year of working to clear Sylvie’s name and restore her reputation and planning our future together, it’s good to be back in Paris.
The sun is shining down on the Champs-Élysées making it shimmer like a golden trail, welcoming Ridge and me. The chestnut trees are in bloom, the eternal perfume unique to the city on the Seine acting as a bridge from the past to the present. I close my eyes and when I breathe in the scent, I see the dark days of 1940 and the German soldiers goose-stepping… then August 1944… and Sylvie and her baby watching the liberation of the city with the Allied troops parading down the boulevard with free French citizens cheering them.
I swear I see my grandmother with red, white, and blue flowers in her hair waving to me.
Today is your day, Sylvie.
Ridge and I have returned here for a film festival showcasing Sylvie’s films at the old Rex Theater, featuring her silent Ninette films along with Angeline and Le Masque de Velours de Versailles.
And the home movie film she shot that day in 1943 returning to Paris from Berlin.
I’m amazed at the reception this short film has received. The outpouring of support from the families of Holocaust survivors after the story went viral on social media when we published the messages on the scraps of paper online. So many people swear they knew someone in that boxcar filled with prisoners, a testament to the world never to forget, and a silent tribute to the friends Sylvie couldn’t save… Raoul and Bertrand.
And the love of her life, Jock.
Although I found no letters between Sylvie and Jock (I assume she destroyed them during the war to protect him from scandal), we unmasked his identity through an unusual source and later confirmed it through his SOE file.
I’m related to the current Duke of Greychurch.
Me, the girl so desperate to find her roots.
Sylvie and Jock never legally married, but we unearthed his identity when we got permission to examine the personal journal Father Armand kept during the war archived with other documents in a chateau outside Paris. He was quite a prolific writer and his journal is considered an important source documenting religious life during the Occupation. We discovered a written notation about a marriage he performed in 1944 between the actress Sylvie Martone and British flier, John Lawrence Revell. I imagine the priest had a soft spot for Sylvie and wanted to keep a record for her to claim as proof after the war. Unfortunately, he died from a sniper’s bullet giving last rites to a fallen Resistance fighter during the skirmishes that blasted through the city in August 1944.
Still, the handwritten record is proof enough for the duke’s solicitor to arrange for an upcoming visit for Ridge and me to meet His Grace and tour Kyretree Castle.
I can’t wait.
In the months following, we work with organizers in France to set up the film festival here in Paris and arrange to have special guests from British secret intelligence and the French government along with film executives to talk about what Sylvie did during the war.
The response is unbelievable.
The film festival sells out online in less than three hours.
I vow the sacrifice of my grandmother and all the brave men and women who fought against the Nazi regime will be remembered. Ridge and I start a nonprofit foundation in Sylvie’s name to honor them.
Sister Rose-Celine is unable to make the trip to Paris, but she sends me a beautiful message along with a photo of her with my grandmother and Maman. And the Dutch doll. Maman had kept it for years and gave it to the sister as a parting gift. Hearing Sylvie speak about the doll jogged her memory.
I shall treasure them always.
I wish Maman could be here with us as we watch the beautiful Sylvie Martone bring Ninette to life on the silver screen. Her youthful joy and mischievous glint in her eye make us smile when she rescues the orphans from the devil, like she did years later when she saved Jock, Raoul’s family, and Halette, and so many downed fliers from capture by the Nazis.
I feel their spirits here with us as we sit in the dark holding hands, our work done.
Then it’s time for us to go back to our lives. I’m busy working on the costume designs for the second season of the flight attendant series and Ridge continues with his archival work. And driving me around the backlot on his motorcycle.
We’ll always have Paris… and each other.
Ridge and I can’t wait to tie the knot. I insist on wearing Sylvie’s lace veil and design my white wedding dress to match the one in her photo.
And for something old, I wear the heart-shaped diamond pin fastened to my gown.
Soon after, I have to give up riding on Ridge’s motorcycle when I find out I’m pregnant. We’re blessed several months later with a daughter.
We name her Sylvie.
A joyous new beginning and a fitting tribute to the fabulous woman who was once a spy named Fantine. My grandmother.
Sylvie Martone, actress.
You will never be forgotten.
Acknowledgments
I find writing about love and war requires not only a tugging at the heart, but a clear understanding of the events of the time. And in the case of The Resistance Girl, the movies.
Ever since I was a kid, the films of the Second World War held a special fascination for me. I sat mesmerized by Bogie and Ingrid in Paris, stories on the American home front, and the bravery of the women who dared to rise up against the Nazi war machine from France to Norway. Many films mirrored the events taking place. (Casablanca premiered in New York City soon after the Allies invaded North Africa in November 1942.)
But what was going on behind the scenes when these films were made? Especially in France when it was occupied by the Germans. Were the actors paid by the Nazis to make films? If so, why did they do it?
I’ve always wanted to write about a Parisian actress caught up in the chaos and the choices she made that put her in jeopardy when the Germans came to Paris in June 1940. Sylvie Martone, French cinema star, has been simmering in my brain for a long time, but to understand why she made those choices, I had to go back to her roots… how she started out in silent films, what sacrifices she made to get where she was in her career. So when the French film industry started up again in 1941, she had a choice to make: go along with the Nazis or fight them. Which would she choose? That’s the dilemma faced by Sylvie. How she handles it is the crux of my story. I also needed a modern point of view… a young American woman who stumbles upon Sylvie’s past and discovers it’s linked to her own roots.
Aligning the lives of these two women was an undertaking I never could have accomplished without the excellent guidance of my editor, Nia Beynon. Her patience and enthusiasm to help me bring alive this part of history was amazing, her suggestions invaluable, and her encouragement heartfelt.
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I also want to thank Dushi Horti, my hardworking copy editor who asks me the difficult questions, and Candida Bradford, my fabulous proofreader, who goes over my manuscripts with a loving hand and a sharp eye, along with the outstanding work of Becky Glibbery, my cover designer, who brought Paris durin
g the Occupation to life with her lovely cover. And to Amanda Ridout and everyone at Team Boldwood, who make my dreams of telling my stories a reality.
To write this story, I also drew upon my experiences working in the film industry writing scripts and as a foreign tour guide for a major movie studio. And my childhood memory of a mysterious woman with dark hair and wearing a pearl necklace who gave me my first pair of tap shoes. A special thank you to my grandmother, whose glamorous life traveling the theatrical circuit as a ballroom and cabaret dancer inspired Sylvie’s story.
More from Jina Bacarr
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Chapter 1
Posey Creek, Pennsylvania
December 12, 1943
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