The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr
her finances were straightforward: bills, savings, retirement checks every month. I admit I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered Maman left me a generous stipend which I’ll save for a rainy day. Or that vacation I never went on. While my mind is flirting with the idea of tropical breezes and white, sandy beaches, I’m attracted to a square box that’s different from the others. Elegant wrapping and neatly tied string with an elaborate knot. The box is inside a bigger box hidden under out-of-date clothes. A convent uniform. Grey, linen jumper, white blouse with a Peter Pan collar and short sleeves, light blue sweater. The scent of a lovely French perfume wafting from the closed-up box makes me sigh with delight. Rose… then plum, is it? And raspberry… and a spice I can’t identify. A provocative scent in stark contrast to the uniform.
Under the clothes, I find a thin box from Aux Trois Quartiers department store in Paris. Ooh… how very French. The old tape is yellow and crumbles between my fingers as I look inside. There, wrapped in an ivory lace veil woven with the most delicate design, I find a slim, burgundy velvet jewelry box. My hands tremble as I open it – my mother never wore jewelry.
Who does it belong to?
I open the jewelry box and discover a gorgeous, heart-shaped, diamond pin. With an arrow through it. And something else.
A photo of a striking platinum blonde that takes my breath away.
The startling moment makes me queasy. I have a queer feeling I’m looking at something I shouldn’t, but I can’t look away. The woman looks like a star from the era of classic films. An actress or model? The staging, pose, hair and makeup are very theatrical, as opposed to the look of high society. My gut – and experience – tell me this is a publicity still used in a press kit. I stare at the black and white photo. A woman bigger than life, a woman hypnotizing anyone under her spell. Gorgeous, wavy hair falling over a bare shoulder, a low-cut, slinky gown hugging her body, smoldering eyes that burn with a passion that speaks of forbidden nights… and unspoken desires.
I swear the woman is wearing the same diamond heart pin with an arrow through it I hold in my hand.
A coincidence? A funny itch crawls up my spine, making me tingle. Or is it?
I look through the box, but find no other photos. Who is this beautiful woman? I pride myself on my knowledge of stars of classic film, but I don’t recognize her.
Why did Maman save the picture?
The imprint on the lower right corner indicates the photo was taken in Paris, most likely before the war and before my mother was born. Also, written in white ink is a number – most likely the photographer’s index code since it’s too long to be an address.
I turn it over and see an inscription on the back of the photo written in French:
To my sweet daughter, Madeleine. Someday you will know the truth.
I go into complete shock, hand shaking, heart pounding as I stare at the photo.
This gorgeous blonde with the seductive smile is my grandmother?
It can’t be true. Can it?
I look again. Under the inscription she wrote Ville Canfort-Terre, France and the year 1949. After Paris was liberated. After my mother said her parents were killed.
Who is she? I realize I’ve stumbled across a secret I was never meant to find. That I had a glamorous grandmother who survived the war. What happened to her? And even more upsettingly…
Why did my mother lie to me?
3
Sylvie
A star is born
Ville Canfort-Terre, France
1926
A loud, roaring crescendo coming from the old church organ draws me to sneak inside the stuffy movie theater. I’m missing the best part of the film. The heroine is tied to the railroad tracks and is about to get run over by a train… or a rogue sea captain is holding her tight in his arms and proclaiming his undying love.
I slide my fingers over the lever at the backdoor entrance… and giggle. It’s unlocked. I pull down the lever when—
‘Your ticket, madame,’ a man grumbles behind me. Insistent, coughing.
I turn, smile big, showing him my teeth smudged with burnt ash. ‘It’s me, Monsieur Durand… Sylvie.’
‘Ah, but of course, my Sylvie…’ He winks. ‘I didn’t recognize you, mademoiselle.’
He’s lying, but it’s a game we play. ‘Merci, monsieur, what do you think of my disguise?’
‘Wonderful, Sylvie,’ Claude Durand is quick to add. ‘You’re as good as any actor I’ve seen in pictures.’
I strike a dramatic pose with my nose up in the air and wild hand gestures. He laughs. I like him. He’s a good-hearted old soul who turns a blind eye to my escapades.
‘Ah, you’ve got a fine talent for pretending, mamselle.’ He lights up a Gauloise and draws it deep into his lungs. I frown. I wish he’d stop smoking; his cough is getting worse. ‘I saw that in you the first time you snuck into my theater and tried to convince me your little sister was lost and had wandered in. You were… thirteen, non?’
‘I was just a child then, monsieur.’ I stick out my chest. ‘Now, I’m a woman.’
His eyes turn serious. ‘Even an old braggart can see you’ve got a real talent for mimicking those actresses up there on the screen, Sylvie. You’re better than the lot of them. Be careful of those who’d take advantage of you. You’re a beautiful girl and with that angel-white hair of yours hanging down your back in that long braid, you make an old man wish he were young.’
I feel my cheeks tint pink as I push back wisps of unruly hair sticking to my forehead and sling my braid over my left shoulder. ‘You flatter me, Monsieur Durand, but I’m not interested in men of any age… only acting.’
He puffs on his cigarette, thinking. ‘Then follow that road and don’t look back, no matter where it takes you.’ He exhales a perfect ring of smoke, then smiles. ‘Now get on inside the theater before the picture is over. It’s one of your favorites, Mesdames en feu.’ He chuckles and opens the door of his private entrance then bows from the waist, inviting me in. ‘Free of charge,’ he insists, as always. I sometimes think he believes I’m his lost daughter. He’s always warning me to watch out for ‘bad men with pretty bedtime stories’ promising me fame and fortune, but I don’t mind because I know he speaks from his heart.
I can’t get enough of going to the pictures. I cherish these moments sitting in the dark with the magical light coming from the projector behind me, wrapping me up in a spiritual place between dreams and reality. A place where I can be free in my thoughts. And my heart.
The Order of the Sisters of Benevolent Mercy took me in when I was une petite jeune fille of three when my mother had to give me up – a grand drama in itself, or so Sister Vincent tells me. I don’t have any recollection of it and it’s too late to ask my mother since she died in a fire afterward. All the records were destroyed.
I swear Sister Ursula, the Mother Superior, has been there that long.
She makes it her business to order me about; she has me working on my knees scrubbing the stone floors until they bleed, or burning my hands in hot water in the laundry. She’s so crotchety and mean. I don’t know why she hates me so much unless it’s because my mother was an aristocrat.
She’ll send me to my cell for days without food or water if she finds out I sneaked out today (I conned Sister Vincent), but the movie theater is where I come