The Resistance Girl
There is a price to pay for survival.
JINA BACARR
To all the brave and daring women of the Resistance… may their stars shine bright in the annals of history.
Contents
1. Sylvie
2. Juliana
3. Sylvie
4. Sylvie
5. Juliana
6. Sylvie
7. Sylvie
8. Sylvie
9. Juliana
10. Sylvie
11. Sylvie
12. Juliana
13. Juliana
14. Sylvie
15. Sylvie
16. Sylvie
17. Juliana
18. Sylvie
19. Juliana
20. Sylvie
21. Juliana
22. Sylvie
23. Sylvie
24. Sylvie
25. Sylvie
26. Juliana
27. Sylvie
28. Juliana
29. Sylvie
30. Sylvie
31. Sylvie
32. Juliana
33. Sylvie
34. Juliana
35. Sylvie
36. Sylvie
37. Sylvie
38. Juliana
39. Juliana
1
Sylvie
A day in the life of a French film star
Paris
1943
I slide out of the shiny, black Mercedes-Benz with two miniature swastika flags waving in the breeze. I feel a tug at my heart when I’m back here in the old neighborhood in the 11e arrondissement filled with age-old ateliers, workshops devoted to the art of making beautiful things. A creative spirit lives on here from the days when workers crafted exquisite décor for the aristocracy. Golden doorknobs, Chinese silk wallpaper, gilded wood paneling.
I inhale the smell of freedom born here in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine during the Revolution. Now the Germans occupy Paris and it remains bottled up.
Waiting to uncork.
The tension in the air makes me tighten my gut as I take in the familiar sights of the narrow passageway. The vine-covered walls, cobblestones polished with the patina of footsteps from the past, curious faces sneering at me through multi-paned windows, telling me I’m not welcome.
I feel like a crushed rose in a bouquet.
Still, I can’t help but relive the days when I was young and innocent to the ways of politics.
It’s not something I’m proud of, but I can’t ignore being chosen as one of Goebbels’ select few in French cinema.
Not if I want to survive.
Before I can take a breath, the Nazi staff car is surrounded by an unruly crowd. I wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee.
Or not so welcoming.
Banging dented pots. Waving a dead fish. Holding their noses. I feel a rising frustration, not to mention a great hurt, at their indignation, but I can’t let anything sway my mission. Or do anything that looks suspicious. I have a message to deliver right under the nose of the SS officer breathing down my neck. Besides, you never know who’s watching you.
I smile big, put my game face on. Play to the crowd. After all, I am an actress.
‘Bonsoir, mes amis, je suis Sylvie Martone…’
‘We