The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr

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СКАЧАТЬ I spent hours conjuring up a fantastic tale of them being Resistance fighters, brave partisans fighting the Nazis but making sure their daughter was safe with the nuns since they’d most likely be killed before their country was free again. I’d come up with various ‘looks’, but my favorite was a sketch of my grandmother outfitted in partisan chic – pencil skirt, silky cream blouse, knee-high, brown suede boots, and a bomber jacket cinched in at her waist. A deep navy beret pulled down over one eye, her lips bright with a sizzling red lipstick.

      So unlike my mother. I often tried to get Maman to add a necklace or earrings to her ensemble, but she always pooh-pooed the idea, saying she was a convent girl at heart. After all, glam is my business. Giving actresses the right cut on a dress, the fit of a pair of jeans, the angle of a hat. The retired art history professor never deviated from her black suit, crisp white blouse, low pumps, and square glasses.

      These memories of Maman and fantasies of my grandmother are all I have to cling to. I realize now I avoided a lot of things in my life because I was too busy following my dream of making it in Hollywood. In college, I was picked as the model for the movie studio tour ads, though I never saw myself as an actress or beautiful. The only thing I can lay claim to as anything interesting about my face is the deep dimple on my left cheek.

      Ever since I was a kid I’ve loved to draw… stick figures in my mother’s textbooks, making clothes for my Barbie, working on costumes for school plays. I do visual storytelling, designing costumes specific to that character and give it the cinematic flair to work on the silver screen.

      Maman didn’t understand my love for design or the movies. She loved her history books and her students and rarely talked about anything else. I never pressed her about where we came from and she seemed happy I didn’t. My mother was such a private person, so careful with saying and doing the right thing, even her handwriting was precision perfect. I never wanted to look behind the curtain and see otherwise. No wonder I feel empty inside when it comes to knowing my roots. I suck in a sharp breath and take the plunge to find out.

      Let the unpacking begin.

      I take my time and rearrange the boxes I’ve kept stored here in my study. I do the smaller ones first, blowing off the dust coating the brown cardboard. Cutting the tape with scissors with a reverence that doesn’t surprise me. Taking my time with each packed box as if Maman is watching me, nodding her head in approval.

      I go through her possessions with a careful eye, my heart pounding, looking for clues about my roots in each box. Nothing yet… no wild revelations, but with every box I open, every memory I find helps me cope with her loss. Still, my curiosity tugs at me to find out more about her, to fill in the gap of where I came from. I’m delighted when I find a sealed box of letters written by my parents – I never knew it existed.

      Maman told me years ago my father was American, but my parents never married. How they had this long-distance love affair that culminated when my mother came to America to have her baby. Me. After skimming several letters, I wipe away a tear, feeling the deep love between them, but there’s no hint of my mother’s family, like she was born without a past.

      I find photos of me as a baby, then from my childhood since I grew up in a time before everything went digital. First communion, dressing up for Halloween, teenage angst years where I shied away from the camera. I love handling these glossy four-by-six prints, the color as vibrant as a scene out of Oz. Then I find old movie camera tapes I gave her of my trips to San Francisco and New York for location shoots, cities Maman loved to visit with me. Nothing here that says anything about her life before she settled in California except for a few letters in French. Letters from the convent where my mother lived until she met my father, signed by a nun named Sister Rose-Celine.

      I put the letters aside, looking for something about my mother as a young girl. She was forty when I was born, she must have had a life before me, relatives somewhere… but nothing. Even 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…

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