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      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