by Jina Bacarr
‘What is it, Reverend Mother?’ I ask, curious.
‘We located the old movie projector in the chapel storage room.’ She looks puzzled. ‘Who put it there, I have no idea. I asked the gardener if he knew anyone who could operate it and he knew someone…’ She waves her arms about, too excited to finish the story. ‘Alors, we got it up and running and the first reel shows Mademoiselle Martone at a café…’ She pauses, blesses herself.
‘Yes, Mother?’ I ask, waiting.
‘Drinking with Nazi officers.’
Oh, dear.
Again my mouth is moving as fast as it can to explain to the Mother Superior what I think, what I hope, is going on in those films as we gather around to watch the world as it was back then in 1942 and 1943 unfold in extraordinary brilliant color.
Red and black and white Nazi flags hanging from the Hôtel Meurice. Parisians decked out in fancy pink and peach hats in the Tuileries Gardens. Green, green trees and glistening white boulevards. And those dreaded awful olive uniforms of the German soldiers everywhere. Beetles, Sylvie called them, and she was right. It’s with a strange fascination the film rolls before our eyes.
I’m not convinced Sylvie isn’t a willing participant.
I study Sylvie’s home movies with her showing off the SS officer I presume to be the Captain Karl Lunzer she mentions on the tape. Handsome in an alarming Aryan way that doesn’t translate well in our times as appealing, more like terrifying. Escorting him around Paris, laughing, smoking, drinking champagne. No, I shake my head. I never see her drink the champagne. Toast with the officers, yes, but never drink it. A ray of hope. She kept to her sobriety… that’s true. Does that mean the rest of her story is also true?
Flickering images of Sylvie Martone going to the Moulin Rouge, posing with the SS officer in front of the Eiffel Tower (a chilling image since it’s reminiscent of Hitler doing the same thing), sitting with the captain at Aux Deux Magots frequented by known collaborators.
I’ve seen her pictures, her Ninette films, heard her voice, but this is Sylvie Martone unmasked. It’s no path to redemption I see unfolding, but further proof of her collaboration with the enemy. Sylvie is dressed in the height of haute couture in a red fall suit with what they called a peplum back then – a short, flared skirt attached at the waist, black gloves and black Fedora cocked at a fetching angle. She looks so pretty, her face shiny though her cheeks are fuller than in her glam photos – her dimple nearly disappears – her figure a bit thicker… no, wait, I check the date on the small square box holding the reel of film. It was shot in late 1943. Was Sylvie pregnant with my mother here? Is that why she went to all this trouble to write the diary, make the recordings, because she can’t admit the SS officer she’s cavorting with is my grandfather as I first suspected?
The idea sickens me, but I keep it to myself.
Another thought rings a bell in my head. What if the famous actress was trying to fool Maman into believing she wasn’t guilty of cozying up to the Nazis during the war?
What proof do I have Sylvie wasn’t pulling off an elaborate hoax?
I sit by myself in the kitchen, nursing a cup of lily flower tea as I wrestle with my emotions. After a quiet discussion among ourselves after the film, no one questioned why I wanted to be alone. I have to make a decision. Either I’m going ahead with believing this was not a hoax by Sylvie to sugarcoat her gallivanting about with the Nazis… or she was a bona fide spy.
Just saying that to myself gives me a sense of power I’m not sure I have the right to, but I owe it to her, to Maman, Sister Rose-Celine, Reverend Mother, and every dear nun or nun-in-training who sat through these upsetting home movies tonight, to pick a path and stick with it.
It’s when I remember a certain little boy I saw in the film I make my decision.
Besides the Paris romps of Sylvie, we also watched movies of Versailles when the film crew went there on location. We saw Sylvie hamming it up for the camera with extras, including several children dressed up in Louis XIV wigs and costumes. My favorite was a boy about four or five in a lopsided, white powdered wig and satin breeches who makes me forget why I’m watching the film. He was smiling and waving until a brooding Nazi general stepped into the frame and mouthed a ‘Sieg Heil’ and then gave the Nazi salute which sent Sylvie back into the frame. She picked up the little boy and handed him over to the general who had no choice but to hold him. I chuckled as the boy took off his powdered wig and plopped it onto the general’s bare head.
Then the boy waved again into the camera.
Everyone was laughing so hard, I told the projectionist to turn it off.
We’d seen enough.
The funny scene with the little boy and the Nazi general showed a lighter side of Sylvie’s involvement during the war that no one ever saw. She had nothing to gain by pulling a joke on the general and everything to lose. I believe she was making a statement about what she thought of the Third Reich.
It doesn’t change anything.
To the outside world, my grandmother collaborated with the Nazis.
And I don’t have enough evidence or information to disprove that.
I can’t sleep. I text Ridge to tell him we’re making progress on clearing Sylvie’s name, but my enthusiasm from earlier has dissipated and when he calls me to talk, I don’t say much. He doesn’t mention it, but I know he’s detected something in my voice he can’t figure out. Neither can I.
After I click off, I listen to another tape. Alone.
I need to feel at one with my grandmother, catch the nuances in her speech – anything I don’t understand I can ask Sister Rose-Celine later. For now, I turn on the recorder and listen to a tape marked late fall 1941.
I’m on a train going back to Paris, Madeleine, returning from the convent in Ville Canfort-Terre to obtain food from Sister Vincent for Raoul’s children when I hear about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. It’s been several months since the Germans attacked Russia and with both America and the Russian Bear in the war, there’s hope they will defeat the Nazis.
Nothing stops the intense hunger invading the daily lives of Parisians. I discover my new ‘job’ as pretend collaborator has its advantages. I’m less hungry, often dining at restaurants and, with a careful placing of a note on the waiter’s tray, securing extra food wrapped in a red and white checkered cloth to take home. Karl ignores my game, trying to charm me with his exploits in Berlin or unraveling the black market here in Paris. What pains me is whatever extra food I secure from restaurants is not enough to nourish the five children of Raoul’s sister. I’m worried about them. Like so many children in Paris, they face the real possibility of contacting rickets from lack of good nutrition. So I make several trips by train to the convent and fill my suitcase with meat, milk, canned vegetables, eggs, dried fruits, and preserves. I always go in disguise, veil covering my face, no makeup, hair pulled back.
I should have known Sister Vincent would see through me.
On one of these trips, giving me a wink, the nun remarks how God works in strange ways, how He once sent her a girl with a deep dimple on her left cheek for her to save, a girl pinched by an angel when she was born. I will always remember that moment when the nun recognized me as the wayward girl who ran away to become a movie star.
It’s on such a trip I hear the news America has also declared war on Germany.
With America in the war, will there once again be a free France?
I keep listening, grateful for the quieting of my pulse, though my head pounds with information overload as Sylvie runs through what she considers important moments in her life to explain her choices to her daughter. Her hope for a quick sweeping of Nazis from France is dashed as America builds up her army and navy and concentrates on the war in the Pacific.
Life in Paris continues on as before under the Nazis with more hunger, more fear, more desperation.
Sylvie gives a quick run-through of the next few months, talking about making personal appearances at movie theaters, and getting Raoul’
s Versailles script approved, casting completed, and additional crew lined up.
I hate making personal appearances, but I find it’s a way of using my platform to make clever innuendos about the lack of German fashion savvy. When I see the rich wives of German officers shopping on the Rue de Rivoli. I call it ‘puff pastry’ fashion, my way of spitting in Goebbels’ eye.
I hope I make you smile, mon enfant, but I don’t always get away with my stunts. I was called to another meeting with Herr Geller, the Gestapo man telling me I’d best be a good girl if I want my film project made and anyone I care about not questioned at the secret police headquarters at 84 Avenue Foch. I shivered. It is a place I will speak about later… What’s important is the cold fear that went through me when he waved a page in his notebook in my face listing the names of crew members I’ve worked with, their movements detailed in his large handwriting.
A sobering moment… a threat I can’t ignore. It’s a painful lesson for your maman. Just when I thought I was ahead of the game by pretending to go along with these Nazis, I realized with a painful stab to my heart even a movie star loved by the people of France isn’t immune to the whims and dictates of the Nazi war machine. Alors, I’ve heard rumors about death warrants issued by the Gestapo against another actress who broadcast anti-German sentiments on French radio right up to the Occupation. I continue to acquiesce. I don’t want to be tortured like anyone who gets in their way.
So, enough of that.
I must not let up in my story, for I have so much more to tell you…
Then the tape goes silent. I check the recorder… there’s plenty of tape left. I wonder, have I come to the end of the recording?
My tea is cold and the first light of dawn peeps through the window shade, making me yawn. I wait another minute, then two, and heave out a big sigh, ready to catch some shuteye when the tape begins again.
I beg your patience, Madeleine, I thought I was recording but I wasn’t. I got so emotional when I started speaking about the events of spring 1942, I couldn’t stop the tears…
Satisfied I shall get no sleep tonight, I put on the kettle for more hot water and prepare to greet the dawn head on. Then I sit down and listen to Sylvie speak in a quiet voice filled with emotion that tugs at my heart.
I shall speak about a time so filled with horror I shiver still when I think about the dark days beginning in late May. A time when every Jew over the age of six was told to wear a yellow Star of David on the left side of their coat… including Raoul’s sister’s children.
All except four-year-old Gavriel.
Random conversations I picked up disturbed me. Whether I was dining with Karl at the Hôtel Ritz, or riding with him and members of his staff in that Mercedes open touring car, I became convinced I must get them out of Paris. Not easy. Bertrand ran into a problem getting them new identity cards when the shop was raided by German soldiers and they barely had time to destroy what forged cards they had. They moved locations, leaving me waiting for news.
Raoul remained in hiding after finishing the script rewrites (he joined the Resistance). Halette was helping take care of the children, so she was forced to wear a yellow star, too. I saw myself in the young girl, now sixteen. Unlike me, she lived in fear of that loud knock on the door, the Gestapo wagon pulling up and dragging her away. I wanted to hold her tight in my arms, brush her soft hair as her mother would, knowing what a hollow place it is in a girl’s heart without her maman.
I lose it then, all the grief I’ve shoved aside as I work so hard on clearing Sylvie’s name comes gushing out of me in buckets. I let go with a torrent of tears I didn’t know I had left in me. I feel such pain in my soul… for Halette… my own mother… and Sylvie. All of us reaching across time like a daisy chain… connected to each other through the loss of the dearest woman in our lives. Our mother.
When I calm down and dry my tears, I take note of everything I’ve heard and I swear this doesn’t sound like a woman caught up in her game working for the Nazis.
The tape continues.
Should you become too sad, sweet Madeleine, I shall digress and tell you a story I know will cheer you up.
About how I made a fool out of a Nazi general.
I can hardly wait.
After months of going through red tape and script rewrites by the reclusive M du Pons, the nom de plume of my amazing writer, Raoul, filming begins on location on Le Masque de Velours de Versailles in the nearby town in June 1942.
But alas, production is anything but smooth. Emotions run wild. The weather won’t cooperate, raining down on the outdoor locations in the gardens, making the grounds muddy in places, ruining costumes, not to mention a snoopy Nazi general and his ‘lady friends’ getting in the way. We have no choice but to treat them as guests since the general was staying at the palace and gave us permission to film here if he could remain and watch the filming.
Making matters worse, for the first time I feel the sting of the consequences of my game with the New Order when several crew members hired for the film give me the cold shoulder because I’ve been seen dating an SS officer. I wouldn’t call it dating, but Karl insists he’s madly in love with me. So far, I’ve been able to keep him at bay, making his slow seduction of me a game he enjoys playing. I was reluctant to take advantage of his vulnerable state to gather valuable intelligence. My mind regroups and I realize I can save lives when he starts rambling about how he must return to headquarters, that someone leaked information to the French police about a roundup of Jews coming soon…
I pass on the information to Bertrand, knowing he was ‘cozy’ with a blonde grey mouse, a female German auxiliary worker. ‘Find out if she knows anything,’ I beg Bertrand. I have no doubt my lovable friend will charm the woman into giving him the information he needs…
Now for a story, ma petite, that will make you smile, about how we get Hela and the children out of Paris…
‘Mademoiselle Juliana, you’ve not gone to bed?’
Sister Rose-Celine zips into the kitchen on her motorized scooter, eager to hear what I’ve found out. I fill her in, telling her Sylvie had intel on the Vel' d'Hiv Roundup, and together we listen to the story detailing how Sylvie got Raoul’s family out of Paris.
‘I was a little girl… five years old, mademoiselle, but I learned about this terrible event in school,’ says the sister as I grab onto her hand. ‘In July 1942, the Nazis orchestrated the infamous roundup of more than thirteen thousand Jews, including innocent children torn from their mothers’ arms who never returned to their homes, but were sent to concentration camps in Germany.’
‘How horrible and inhumane, Sister.’ I have no other words, and we both bow our heads for a moment in remembrance before I turn the tape recorder back on.
Sylvie’s next words are about Halette. I’m both afraid and curious to hear what happened to her.
One thing I regret is I didn’t keep a more watchful eye on Halette. When I shared with her what I knew about the coming roundup of Jews, the young girl ran away to warn her father. I had no idea he was hiding in a farmhouse used by the partisans on the outskirts of the city. How she got there I’ll never know. I have to admire her spunk and loyalty to her father. As for me, I was trying so hard to get the children out of Paris, I felt like I let the girl down. For days I was beside myself with worry while we shot the interiors in the palace because of the rain. Then Raoul got word to me, sending phony ‘revised script pages’ via a charming old farmhand only too happy to deliver them for a pack of Gauloises.
Raoul and his daughter were safe… but what was to become of his family?
Thanks to Bertrand who secured new cartes d’identités for them and the elaborate network of résistants who helped refugees escape across the border to Spain, we executed the plan without a hitch.
And here, ma chère Madeleine, is where ta maman had her shining moment. With Bertrand’s help and one of his résistants, we hid Hela and the children in a truck transporting seventeenth-century costumes and pai
nted backdrops needed for filming in Versailles. Oh, the fun we had with the five children and their mother, dressing them up in satin costumes and white powdered wigs so they could work as ‘extras’ on the set along with local townspeople.
And Gavriel looked the cutest of all.
I turn off the tape, bawling my eyes out. Oh… my… God. The children I saw on the home movie in Versailles dressed up in white powdered wigs, silk hoopskirts, and breeches were Raoul’s nieces and nephew hiding in plain sight before Bertrand got them out of France.
And there was Sylvie, rubbing the general’s nose in merde by posing him with the children. He had no idea the little boy he held in his arms, the daring, wonderful child who plopped a white powdered wig on the Nazi’s head was Jewish and, with his sisters and mother, would soon be on their way to Spain and out of his clutches. Forever.
Bravo, Sylvie!
Another tear falls onto my cheek. I wonder if Sylvie used the home movie film as a way for Raoul to see the children in case anything happened to her.
I turn the tape back on, not daring to imagine what to expect next, and the first words I hear send me off to a place I never dreamed… and give me new hope for my grand-mère’s happiness.
I never dreamed, my dearest Madeleine, in late summer 1942, I’d find a man waiting for me, hiding in the shadows outside my Trocadéro apartment. In my garden where he wouldn’t be seen by passers-by. A tall, handsome, wonderful man with a British accent, wounded, exhausted, and ready to collapse.
And my world is forever changed.
I turn off the recorder.
I dare not breathe… can it be…?
27
Sylvie
I’ll be seeing you… my beautiful angel
Paris
1942–1943
I awake late this morning after a routine appearance at a theater last night signing autographs for German soldiers when I hear the incessant fluttering of birds outside my window, their nesting disturbed. Wary, I tiptoe out onto the veranda, praying the Gestapo hasn’t resorted to hiding in my garden and peeping through my window, when big, strong hands grab me and a man kisses me.
