The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr
Sylvie Martone.’
‘It has an elegant ring to it and perfect for a theater marquee. I like it.’
I grin big. ‘Merci, monsieur. My mother was a grand aristocrat who fell in love with a stable hand, a dark, handsome stranger who wooed her then mysteriously disappeared before I was born… it’s his name I bear.’
‘An amazing story, Sylvie.’ He looks over at me like I’m making it up. I’m not. I sit quietly, my jaw clamped, determined not to budge with my story. Sister Vincent told me where I came from, though I admit her black rosary beads were tightly wound around her fingers, her lips moving in silent words afterward, but I’m sticking to it.
The big, clunky motorcar rambles over the cobblestone driveway behind the theater as I settle back in the plush white seat. I let go of my final bout of butterflies and settle in. ‘Why did you pick me, monsieur?’
‘I meet a lot of girls who want to be in pictures, but I see something different in you, Sylvie. An exquisite, platinum-blonde with fire and tenacity, as well as raw acting talent. What you need is my tutelage. I have connections in the film business everywhere and the savoir-faire to know what the public wants, and they want you.’
‘What about my life here… the convent, the nuns who raised me… Sister Vincent might understand, but she reports to the Mother Superior…’ I make an anguished sound, ‘Sister Ursula will forbid it.’
He winks at me. ‘Then we won’t tell her. I’ll drop you off near the convent, then you get your things and I’ll come back for you for after I complete my business in town. I booked a call to Paris to check on the times of my film showings in another town. An hour, tops. If you don’t show up, then I’ll know you’re not interested in being a star.’
‘Oh, but I am, monsieur.’ I roll down my window to get some air. I stopped breathing a while back and I feel lightheaded. ‘Being in the films is all I ever wanted—’
I bolt up in my seat, panicked.
I see Sister Vincent waiting for me outside the theater near the box office ticket window as we round the corner. She sees me in the motorcar and drops her basket filled with wrapped packages then wipes her face shiny with sweat with her full black sleeve. The shocked look on her face will stay with me always. I’ve never seen her soft, kind face so taut, her pale skin pulled so tight with fear, her eyes big and wide.
She’s afraid for me, but that won’t stop her from throwing her rotund body in front of the car to stop it. My fear of seeing her body mangled over the front fender is real to me. I turn to Monsieur de Ville, the fear of the heavens opening and raining down on my plans draining my courage.
‘Stop the car, please. I must talk to Sister Vincent… explain to her why I’m leaving with you.’
‘We can’t stop, Sylvie. Make your choice. Do you wish to stay here and spend your life praying, your heart torn, your soul in chains? Or do you want to go to Paris with me and get into pictures?’
4
Sylvie
When you wish upon a star… then it crashes
Ville Canfort-Terre, France
1926
I clutch the door handle, my eyes filled with hot tears. Gut twisting, I hold my breath. Yes, I want to be in pictures, yes, I may never have another chance, but I’d never do anything to hurt Sister Vincent. Oh, no, she’s approaching the car as we slow down to let children cross the road… she waits for the children to pass, then she darts out—
‘What is that nun doing?’ Monsieur de Ville yells, waving his arm out the window to get her to move out of the way. She stops, thank God, he floors the gas pedal, a loud squeal of rubber, then a wild skidding off to the side to avoid hitting her. She blesses herself as he straightens the large, bulky motorcar back onto the road and we race off away from the theater. I turn around in my seat, stretching my neck, see her head down, her shoulders slumped. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her because of me.
This is all wrong.
I don’t know what to do. So many questions, so many emotions hitting me in the gut. I can’t go. I owe her an apology… I want to see her smile again… hold my hand.
All the while these thoughts tear me apart, Monsieur de Ville never stops talking.
‘I’ve never seen such a crazy sister. No wonder you want to leave that place.’
‘Sister Vincent is trying to protect me… I have no family, monsieur.’
‘I’ll protect you, Sylvie. I’ll be like a father to you, guiding you. Remember, I have your best interests at heart.’
I listen. A father… the family I never had. Oh, God, yes! A chance not to be laughed at, ridiculed, not stuck in a stuffy convent and forced to wear ugly hand-me-downs, never able to look in a mirror because it’s considered a sin or have sweets on Sunday. I always believed I had no choice but to become a novice and take the veil – but not now… no!
I huddle in my seat and think. Then there’s the matter of Sister Vincent.
I go over in my poor, turned-inside-out brain what to do about the one thing that would keep me here.
Monsieur de Ville drops me off at the chateau gate and I slip inside the convent grounds under a veil of twilight granting me sanctuary. I slink past the tall chestnut tree that has stood here for hundreds of years, then down the cloistered passageway toward what used to be the servants quarters back in the seventeenth century but is now the cells for the postulants and novices. My door is unlocked (only the sisters have keys) and no one is about as I light a candle with a matchstick. It burns with indecision in the tin candle holder, swaying back and forth on a nocturnal breeze, then nearly blowing out before flaring up again.
Warning me?
I pay it no attention as I pack the cloth bag I use for laundry. Sunday Missal, knickers and clean chemise, stockings, a comb. I grab a sweater then wrap my lace veil around my head, concealing my face. I have an hour. If I know Sister Vincent, she’ll hightail it back here for help so I have to find her first. Then I’ll beg her forgiveness… tell her what happened at the theater… tell her Monsieur de Ville is a famous director and then she’ll see things my way. I know she will—
‘Where do you think you’re going, mademoiselle?’
I spin around and a deep cold engulfs me. Sister Ursula stands in the doorway. The reality of her stark presence unnerves me, along with her rigid posture and that dreadful stare. I can’t let her stop me.
I pick up my bag, sling it over my shoulder. ‘I’m leaving for Paris, Reverend Mother,’ I say with confidence, chin up. ‘I’m going to be in pictures.’
‘You?’ She laughs. A deep, penetrating laugh that speaks of her surprise. ‘A skinny orphan who can’t keep her promise to God for giving you sustenance and a place to bed down?’
‘I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, Mother. When I’m a big star, I’ll pay it all back, I promise.’ I cross my heart, look upward. She doesn’t believe me, but it’s a truth I give to Him.
Sister Ursula dismisses my plea. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Monsieur Durand rang me up and told me what happened at the movie theater. Parading around on stage half-dressed, acting like you have talent when you have none. Have you no shame?’
I shuffle my feet. Monsieur Durand was worried about me so I don’t blame him. The telephone service never works properly, why today?