The Resistance Girl Page 9

  From what I know about her, Sylvie made choices during the war I find unforgiveable. Deeds forged and executed like scenes in a film she starred in. I don’t turn away. And that’s what puzzles me, why I can’t let it go, how it draws me to her to try to understand why she did what she did.

  I catch my breath and hold my chest every time I think about it.

  I blink several times. The silent film has scratches on the image along with numerous dirt particles. It doesn’t dull the brilliance of the platinum-haired, sixteen-year-old girl filling the screen. According to Ridge, Ninette and her adventures was one of the most popular French serials of the silent film era. Each story featured a seamstress named Ninette, an angel with curly platinum hair framing her face sent to earth to do good deeds, chased and thwarted by the devil in different disguises trying to undo her good deeds and get rid of her.

  The devil eventually caught up with her.

  Wearing a Nazi swastika.

  I tap my fingers on the deep-red, velvet armrest, wishing Sylvie had remained Ninette. A sweet child giving so much of her heart to the audience… the lost chord on a summer song that turned into a deep and heavy requiem as the years went by.

  Not in this film. This was a time of innocence and a young girl’s sweet laughter. I’m amazed at the depth of her performance, focusing on the intensity of her eyes to convey her emotions while the brilliant sunlight gilded her hair a striking platinum. She was ‘in the moment’ even when she stood still, her body language, whether it was a hand gesture or the sway of her shoulders, telling a story.

  A story shot in Paris on a spring day.

  When no one could guess the storm clouds that would rain down on the City of Light for four years when unspeakable horror befell the city when the Germans came to Paris in June 1940.

  Before the actress playing Ninette went over to the dark side.

  Before someone snapped a photo of her linked arm in arm with the handsome SS Officer.

  I let a tear fall and it stings my heart like a slender, silver arrow. A small trinket you pin onto a coat lapel or a navy-blue French beret.

  The diamond heart pin with the arrow must be a gift Sylvie gave to her daughter to remember her by along with the photo. I wonder where her name, Madeleine Chastain, came from. During the war, records were shoddy at best, and it would be easy for her to keep her child’s father’s name secret.

  I take a minute to compose myself. What I’ve seen today changes everything. My body tingles, my ears ring, and I have a difficult time focusing on the rest of the film. What I’ve discovered about my roots unnerves me.

  How can I go about my normal life knowing my grandmother was a Nazi?

  Faster and faster we go, Ridge’s motorcycle kicking up dirt on the backlot, me on the back with him pulling out all stops. Flying over dirt, brush… squealing around corners on the New York set… whizzing down Main Street in the Old West town with me hanging on to him for dear life.

  Heart-pounding stunts that cleanse my mind of anything except surviving the next hare-brained turn.

  Ridge insisted what I needed was a fast, crazy spin around the backlot to blow off steam. A way of pushing down the shock, fear, despair… and shame that hit me when I discovered my grandmother hung out with Nazis.

  ‘Ready to jump over the swamp lake, Juliana?’ he shouts back at me. In spite of the wind noise, I can hear him since we’re wearing open-face helmets.

  ‘Why not?’ I play cavalier. ‘You’re the best in the business.’

  His laughter flies back at me. I hold on tighter when he zooms around the lake, gravel flying up and splattering us in a spray.

  I grab him tighter as he navigates another curve then picks up speed as we fly over a clickety, old wooden bridge, my breasts pressed against his strong back, my butt sliding left then right on the leather seat. I don’t want to let go… or is it more than that?

  Being so damn close to this man stirs up more than friendship in me. His skin burning hot, his arm muscles tense as he steers the bike around corners, up a hill. I’m uncomfortable with my physical reaction to him. I can’t ignore his hard body pressed against mine. His warmth, his strength, they make me feel protected. I try not to think about how it good it feels to hug this man. Any girl would find him sexy as heck, but what he did for me today makes me even more determined to keep our relationship as trusted friends. Anything else is too dangerous.

  A twinge of guilt hits me when I remember Harper’s long, lingering looks at him. I don’t want to mess up anything between them.

  Then we race down a long straightaway at top speed, the onshore winds blowing the dust away, my heart pumping, before he slows down and slides the bike around the corner then slams to a halt, the motorcycle idling.

  ‘You ready to talk about it, Juliana?’

  I attempt a smile. ‘I’m good.’

  He turns off the engine and gets off his bike, removes his helmet. ‘Are you?’ His stare is direct, a shock of hair falling into his eyes that look at me different than before. Or am I imagining it?

  I hand him the extra helmet he got from the property department.

  ‘You got me. I’m far from being okay,’ I admit and together we sit down on the porch steps of an old façade once used as the house where a popular TV family lived. Shuttered, the dirty yellow paint was cracked and peeling. A remnant from the past hiding its secrets.

  Like Sylvie Martone.

  ‘This is the worst day in my life since my mother took her last breath.’ I sigh. A nagging and growing guilt comes over me, but I let go of my feelings. I need her strength. How she kept her secret all these years baffles me. I feel deep in my heart she’d understand why I have to share it with the only person who will understand.

  Ridge grabs my hand, his dark hair falling in his eyes like an avenging superhero. ‘I want to hear everything.’

  I clear my throat. ‘I need to figure out how I’m going to cope with what you showed me about my grandmother. The French newsreels with her smiling and waving to the camera and surrounded by SS officers. And the press photos showing her hanging out in Paris cafés with Nazis and riding around in a big Mercedes with tiny swastika flags blowing in the wind. It was heartbreaking to see my own flesh and blood cavorting with the enemy while Parisians were dying of hunger and beaten on the streets. Drinking and eating with them, and God knows what else.’ I take a breath. ‘Not to mention the rumor she had an affair with an SS officer, which means my grandfather—’

  He cuts me off. ‘Hold on, don’t jump to conclusions. In spite of what we dug up, we need hard evidence, documented facts, not hearsay. I’ve been in the film business long enough to know photos don’t tell the whole story. We need to research whatever archives and official records of the German High Command in France that survived and weren’t burnt. I know a few suits in the legal department. We can get them started digging up records from the war so we can get to the bottom of this—’

  I shake my head. ‘No, this is something I have to do myself. I can’t sit here and wait for bored government officials to plod through records that may or may not exist. You said yourself many records were destroyed. And what you said about photos makes me wonder if I’m looking at this in the wrong light.’ I pull up the glamor shot of the beautiful blonde on my phone and give it another long, hard look. The photo signed by Sylvie Martone to her daughter Madeleine, my mother. ‘I speculate Maman never opened that box… it remained sealed all these years holding the secret she couldn’t face… so the question remains, why did she bring it with her only to keep it buried?’

  ‘Sylvie Martone was a gorgeous woman,’ Ridge says, looking at my phone. ‘I see that same spark in her eye you have. And that adorable dimple, too.’ He smiles at me, trying to make me feel better. ‘Like her granddaughter, she doesn’t give up. Give her a chance, Juliana. I have the feeling there’s more to your grandmother than old newsreels.’

  ‘Ridge McCall, you may be the most insane stunt driver, but you’re the best friend
ever.’

  He kisses me lightly on the nose. I let go with a dreamy sigh, then catch myself. I can’t even think about letting him kiss me. I’ve come to rely on his friendship and would die if I did something stupid to lose that.

  ‘You’re not alone in this. I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Where are you going to start?’

  ‘You said after the war the French government believed Sylvie Martone fled to Switzerland in 1944 or early 1945… but the date on the photo is 1949.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘My mother told me she came to the convent as a baby. I think Sylvie may have hidden out there… God knows for how long. She’d be over a hundred if she were alive. We have no idea when she died. It must have been when my mother was a child. Maman was adamant she grew up an orphan, but someone at the convent may still remember Sylvie. It’s worth a shot.’ I catch myself staring at him. He’s a hunk of manliness worth staring at. I push those thoughts out of my head. ‘At least I can pay homage to my mother and bring peace to her spirit.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sylvie Martone wrote on the back of the photo, Someday you’ll find out the truth. I’m going to France, Ridge, to find that truth.’

  I don’t know when I made up my mind to go to France, when that crazy scheme settled in my brain. Maybe it was when I saw Sylvie Martone riding around in that Nazi staff car… or smiling at the camera squeezed between two Nazi officers. Something struck me as off. I know how actresses think, how they pose for the camera with their best side showing, their bosoms lifted, their lips moist from wetting them with their tongue. They love the camera. Sylvie’s smile was forced, her brow wrinkled, her shoulders slumped. She wasn’t a happy camper taking those pictures with the Nazi officers and that gives me hope.

  I want to believe I’m not going on a fool’s errand, but logic tells me I have to dig deeper into Sylvie’s past, try to understand the woman before I pass judgment on her and pray there’s more to her than old newsreels and flashy photos. I owe it to my mom. And to Sylvie.

  Ma grand-mère.

  I hustle together the ‘go-bag’ I keep packed for last-minute location shoots, grab my passport, and make online flight reservations. I’ll fly into Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, then drive out to the small town where Maman spent her life. Ville Canfort-Terre. I found a small inn there and made a reservation. I checked to make sure the convent is up and running… the nuns are known for their lacemaking (is that where the lace veil came from?) and it’s very profitable for them. I’m not telling anyone I’m coming. I’ll play tourist slash designer looking for ideas for costumes for a show I’m doing. Partially true. That way, I can poke around without anyone knowing the real reason I’m there.

  I work around the clock for the next ten days finishing up the prelim sketches for Wings over Manhattan and tell the producer I’ll be back in time to meet with him and the actors before production starts.

  There’s no turning back.

  My own personal D-Day looms before me. Amazing how over a week ago I didn’t know I had a famous actress grandmother, now I’m off to learn everything I can about her.

  Now I understand why my mother didn’t want me to go into show business, why even though she loved visiting me on the set and seeing the actors wearing my costumes, she never seemed comfortable being around the movies. Like she found it disheartening. Sad, somehow. It reminded her of the life her own mother lived. The need to know more about this woman who had such an impact on both our lives pulls at me.

  I wish my mother were going with me, but that never would have happened. When I’d ask her if she wanted to go back to France, she’d shake her head, her eyes fierce then teary. I chalked it up to her sad love affair and went out of my way to treat my mother to whatever I could. She never wanted anything but to see me. She’d sigh with pleasure whenever I brought her pink peonies like the ones that grew near her weeping willow and her favorite chocolate nonpareils. A treat the nuns gave her at the French convent where she grew up.

  That’s where I have to start. Sylvie disappeared after the war, but according to the photo, she was alive in 1949. Was she in hiding at the convent all that time with her little daughter? I feel in my gut I’ll find the answers there. It’s up to me to do what Maman couldn’t. Find out the truth about Sylvie Martone.

  I spend a long goodbye with Ridge on the way to the airport, my cell never out of my hand, a different emotion running through me as we talk, a new closeness between us that frightens the heck out of me. Yet also gives me courage.

  Then I’m off to France. I thank Maman for her generous gift to me, which is paying for my trip. I believe in my heart she approves of spending my inheritance to clear ma grand-mère’s name.

  10

  Sylvie

  The road back from Montmartre

  Montmartre

  1935

  Bastien dumps me on the steps of Sacré-Coeur to dry out, a fitting place since it was once a pagan site before the great basilica was built in the last century. I’m as godless as any druid, every bone in my body protesting when cold stones make hard contact with my flesh. My skin crawls from imaginary creatures digging into me, the putrid smell of vomit emitting from the jazzy-blue, velvet gown wrapped around my legs stings my nostrils. The taste left in my mouth makes me gag. Worse is the quiet before dawn taunting me with the idea of giving up and letting go…

  I can’t. Not yet.

  ‘I need another drink,’ I mutter, clinging to his warm, strong body so dangerously close to me I can smell his ripe odor. ‘Please, just one… then I’ll be fine. I swear.’

  I pull him closer, straining to hear the low whispering of his voice urging me to forgive him, that he has no choice, but I’ll be safe here.

  ‘Bastien, please…’ my voice croaks as I scratch at my bare legs, try to make out his face as he leans over me but he’s covered in shadows. I marvel at the strength in his arms having carried me halfway up the steep stairs before his breathing became labored, his chest heaving, his mission of abandonment completed. I have a vague recollection of him laying me down, kissing my dry lips, and then nuzzling his face in my hair smelling of perfume and brandy. ‘I shall never forget you, ma chérie. I would give you my heart for always… if I were free.’

  ‘Merde.’

  I know a goodbye line when I hear it, even if I’m floating somewhere between heaven and hell in a drug-addicted high. I’m chilled and forgotten, my body heavy like sand on a beach crushed by a roaring wave pounding into me, making me dizzy, piercing my skull with the craving for more… more… till I’ll do anything to get that high.

  I hear Bastien breathing heavily. Alors, he’s still here, waiting to see if I’ll swear my undying love for him. Beg him to let me be his patron and in a make-believe world we live happily ever after in a garret with a view of the Seine and have six enfants.

  The plot I have in mind is quite different.

  I intend to drag myself to the closest café and drink a bottle of cognac and forget the reason I’m here. Forget my mother was a prostitute and then drink another bottle and forget I’m Sylvie Martone. The bone-chilling admission by Sister Vincent about my past only intensifies my need to be loved for me.

  Even a horrible me reeking of booze.

  ‘Go away, Bastien,’ I moan. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Adieu, mon amour,’ he whispers, ‘I wish it didn’t have to end like this.’

  A soft breeze carrying his male scent whizzes by my nose and even in my confused state, I can’t help but inhale him, wish he’d hold me, knowing he won’t. I tell myself I don’t need him. I’m a big movie star. I’ll find a new lover and then we’ll…

  Do what? Repeat the scene like another retake in my life? I’m too miserable to contemplate it, my head hurts too much and my belly is bloated. My hands are puffy. And my mouth is so dry… like it’s stuffed with cotton. I climb a step, then two… it’s too much for me. I lie down on the cold stone and cradle my head in my arms. I’ll sleep it
off like I always do, then I’ll be fine. No one will notice me huddled on the steps. There are plenty of les exclus, homeless, in Paris. Besides, I don’t need help. I can stop drinking any time I want to… of course I can.

  I know that alcoholic’s prayer by heart.

  The cathedral bells ring in my ears, killing my eardrums.

  Head pounding, I untangle my legs, numb from being twisted underneath me for hours, stagger to my feet on an early morning and wrap my long gown around my waist like a laundress doing her business. My feet are bare since Bastien tied my shoes around my waist with the long straps. I raise my left arm and my small beaded purse dangles by its chain from my wrist.

  Francs, centimes. Identity card. Lipstick in gold case. Keys. The only thing Bastien stole was my pride.

  I stagger back and forth, unsteady. Bien, I’m a drunk but I don’t deserve this. Left out here with the cold west wind in my face to sober me up. The bells won’t stop ringing, reminding me God is not impressed with my performance tonight or yesterday or a million yesterdays.

  Bon. I don’t need Him either.

  I drag myself up a few steps, banging my bare toes on the stone, yelping from the sharp pain then, exhausted, I slump down. A sudden crying jag hits me hard and I can’t stop—

  ‘May I help you, mademoiselle?’ I hear a man ask me with rich, melted tones, not sultry but arresting, making me shiver.

  I wet my lips. My prayers are answered. I’ll convince him to buy me a drink.

  I squint at the persimmon-yellow sun trying to come out from behind the fog, wipe the tears away, and put on my public face. At least I try to. It’s not easy when you’ve already spilled the contents of your stomach onto your lovely, blue velvet gown.