The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr

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      It’s important to me to show the people of Paris I’m still their Ninette. That doesn’t stop me from feeling like an imposter. Tears sting my eyes as I wonder what happened to the memorable character I created in silent film serials back in the late 1920s. I keep asking myself, how did I, Ninette, end up holding on to the arm of an SS officer? Nuzzling up to the Nazi swine like a she-hound in heat, the foul smell of his deeds rubbing off me and staining my soul?

      These Parisians staring at me were once my neighbors when I was starting out in pictures. I lived here back then, at number 23, a three-story, white stone building with ivy climbing up the walls and a hand-carved blue door. They helped make me a star, drank rich espresso with me on cool mornings while they acted out their favorite scenes from my early films. Before I became box office gold, according to Emil, the director who discovered me as a teen.

      Now they hate me.

      Ten or fifteen hearty souls gather around me, staring, waiting for something dreadful to happen. I let my gaze wander over the motley group, knowing their foibles. Like the baker’s wife with the big laugh, or the wizened cabinet maker, or the aging soubrette. And the teenage girl with freckles and glasses, her mother using her broom to sweep her daughter inside whenever a lad smiled at her. All waiting for the deadly reprisal of the SS, the smirk, the arrogance, followed by a keen shot from a Luger or a public beating. I feel the intensity of their foreboding, believing someone will be singled out to pay for the rash deed of spitting on my shoe. No one runs. That would define them as the guilty one.

      Instead they wait.

      Their angst hangs heavy in the air as I step forward, my arms filled with daffodils tightly bound with coarse string. I ignore the shiny spittle on my expensive shoe as I look up and down the cloistered passageway. The inhabitants of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine do their best to keep out the distasteful flags of the Third Reich, for whatever happens outside, German soldiers have no reason to wander in here. No brothels, no tabac shops. The street seems untouched by the Occupation, its secret passageways revealed behind black iron doors you only have to swing open… if you know the secret and, thank God, the soldiers in grey-green and black hobnailed boots don’t.

      ‘Shall I arrest them all, Sylvie?’

      Karl brandishes his whip, cracking it against the stone wall washed clean of the blood of the revolutionaries. The sound is as chilling as if he were striking bare flesh. I abhor his show of power, like he’s a bully on a school ground. The younger ones clap their hands over their ears, the women make the sign of the cross. The men shield them with their bodies.

      I draw the line here.

      ‘No, Karl,’ I say in a clear voice, laying my hand on his arm. ‘These are my fans… whatever happened is merely a mistake, n’est-ce pas?’ I scan each face, my eyes pleading for them not to make things worse.

      ‘We’re not your fans anymore,’ comes a daring speech from a woman with a baby on her hip, her blue apron soiled and dirty.

      ‘I still like your movies,’ spouts a girl of about fifteen. Her eyes sparkle with admiration for a moment, then she holds her nose and furrows her brows. ‘I don’t like him.’ She points to Karl, who steps forward, forcing the girl to jump back into the crowd, who form a protective barrier around her.

      ‘That girl needs to be taught a lesson.’

      ‘She doesn’t understand, Karl, how hard you and Herr Goebbels are working to keep the French culture alive.’ There’s no one more hated in Paris than Goebbels, the Minister of Propaganda for the Reich. Holding the bouquet with my black suede gloved hand, I continue. ‘That’s why we’re here… to invite them to see my new film.’

      ‘What’s the name of your film?’ The fifteen-year-old dares to peek her head out. I grin. Ah, the audacity of youth. I remember it well.

      ‘Le Masque de Velours de Versailles,’ I answer with an eagerness that lightens the mood. I project my voice to the crowd so everyone can hear me, keeping my tone upbeat, a bit sugary not squeaky. Like I’m doing a voiceover to promote my films. ‘It’s the story of a milkmaid in the Sun King’s court who becomes a spy when she catches Louis’ eye and then saves her little sister from a nasty sultan’s harem.’ Wild escapades of a heroine rising up against authority, exactly what moviegoers want these days. ‘I hope you’ll come to see it when it opens next week at the Gaumont.’ Undaunted by the tension in the air, I dig into my jacket pocket, grab some tickets and wave them above my head.

      ‘Oh, yes, please!’ The perky girl with the glasses and freckles holds her hand out, but her mother grabs her by the arm and pulls her back.

      ‘You ain’t taking nothing from that woman,’ she spews in a husky voice. Her square face is flushed, grey hair escaping from the plaid scarf wound tight around her head. ‘She ain’t the Sylvie Martone we used to know.’ Her words are harsh, but her eyes betray disappointment and that hurts me the most. I’ve always prided myself on being an actress who can make an audience cry and bellow with laughter, who can incite intense anger as they stare at me up on the silver screen. But never disappointment in my performance… never walk away shaking their head. Now it’s because of my acting ability they turn against me and therein lies the hurt.

      I can’t tell her the truth…

      I leave the movie tickets sitting on a nearby wrought iron table, knowing full well the children will grab them after I’m gone. Behind me I hear—

      Whispering. I know what they’re thinking as I walk up to number 23 and knock on the weathered wood. Then again. No one answers. I turn. ‘Where is Fantine?’

      A rhetorical question. Only I know why Fantine won’t answer the door.

      ‘She’s too ashamed to show her face, mademoiselle…’ says the woman, leaning on her broom, ‘with the likes of him stinking up the street.’ Her proud, lined face sets into a sneer, her short, pudgy nose wrinkling with distaste.

      I hear Karl snarl like a hungry tomcat.

      My arms filled with yellow daffodils. I step forward when I see him reach for his Luger.

      Not so fast.

      If I have to play this part, I may as well use it to my advantage. These are my people even if they hate me. I’ll not let him make them any more miserable than they already are.

      ‘Please tell Fantine I brought these yellow daffodils to cheer her up.’ My whole body is tingling though fatigued. I find it harder to keep up the pace I’m used to. I pray my hormones adjust and I don’t make a fool out of myself. Though I’m thrilled with the changes within my body, it’s got to remain my secret… I have to act the movie star, deal with the insolence of the crowd. They don’t want me hanging around their neighborhood even if I own the apartment and hired a woman to take care of it.

      A woman they adore. Fantine is a charitable ex-baroness, twice widowed with a raspy voice, a kind-hearted soul with a limp, giving them cheese she commandeers from the black market, watching their babies when they have to queue up for bread, always ready with a cheerful tune to lift their spirits.

      No wonder she doesn’t want to come out when her employer is hated so much, they say to themselves.

      I fight to keep smiling, knowing why Fantine can’t show her СКАЧАТЬ