The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr

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      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

       Acknowledgments

       More from Jina Bacarr

       About the Author

       About Boldwood Books

      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