The Siren of Paris

by David Leroy

  “What?”

  “In Italy, we only had to meet one person, and that person was the head of state.”

  “Yes.”

  “But in Germany, we met four, including Hitler.”

  “You are very observant, Marc.”

  “And, I am still uncertain of who exactly is in charge of Germany.”

  “You have read my thoughts,” Sumner Wells said as he turned back to Marc from the window. “You should return with me to America. When we get back into Paris, call the Italian Line and let them know,” Sumner Wells said casually.

  “I see, just like that? Who will run the travel desk at the embassy?”

  Sumner Wells did not respond. He continued to look out the window as the landscape passed by. The train steward came by and offered drinks.

  “Yes, please,” Wells grunted. “Make it two,” as he looked at Marc. “I just believe it is a good idea to leave. Have you thought about working in diplomacy? You did very well,” he said, his voice even, without ever looking at Marc.

  “Has this been helpful to you?” He turned to Sumner as he stared out the window, lost in his Scotch. “Mr. Wells, was it helpful to have me along, as a citizen of both France and the United States, in these meetings?”

  “Yes, of course, but Marc,” and after a long pause Sumner said, “they are beyond all help.”

  An hour later, Sumner had several drinks down. “Is there anything else that I should know about before we get back to Paris?” Marc asked.

  “Only that you had met several assembly members and the premier before the trip, and will meet them privately after this trip,” he said, his words somewhat slurred, “but don’t worry. It does not matter. It is just the story we floated. But …” He paused and then never finished his sentence.

  “What about others? Do you think I could call the Italian Line and get passage for others?” Marc asked.

  “You can try, but I doubt it. I think I have played my cards and lost. Actually, they are the ones who have lost,” he said.

  Marc had to help him walk when they arrived in Paris.

  “There he is,” Marc heard as he reached the platform with Sumner.

  “Grandpa, Grandpa! You are so ill,” the man said dramatically, and Marc recognized him as Bullitt—in disguise.

  “So good to see you, my son.” The nun kissed Marc on his head and drew in close to him, taking the cane away to hide in her smock. “His fever is very high, so very sick.” She spoke loudly for others to hear. Mr. Wells looked on the surface just like any other middle-aged man; however, his cane set him apart and had become his calling card to the press. Without the cane, he could pass unnoticed through the curtain of doubt.

  “Make clear, my father is very ill, please,” Bullitt said, as the four of them walked past the reporters looking for Sumner Wells’ arrival from Germany.

  “We will take him directly to the hospital, do not worry, my son,” the nun said.

  No one spoke of the smell of hard alcohol that wafted through the car. Marc held his mind in check as the silence in the car built into an uncomfortable roar.

  “I should have told you he drinks,” Bullitt said as the car drove through the darkened Paris streets. “I thought you would know, but, well, I am sorry.”

  “How did you know?” Marc asked, still shocked by the ruse at the station.

  “He told a porter on the train in Belgium, who called ahead,” Bullitt said. “When did he start?”

  “Before the train left Berlin,” Marc said coldly, understanding just how much a failure Sumner Wells felt the trip had been.

  The trip accomplished nothing and Marc realized there would be no peace. He did not follow Sumner Wells to Britain, but instead stayed behind in Paris. He focused upon the travel logs. Sunday came, and Marc joined his friends for dinner.

  “When are you leaving?” he asked Dora.

  “I am not. I don’t need to get back to America, that is David and Nigel’s problem,” she waved her hand dismissively and snorted.

  “It is your problem, Dora. This is not going to end with any peace agreement,” he said. She looked out the window at the street. Marc became frustrated at her denial over the danger of the war.

  “Marc, they have to have peace. They have no choice,” Nigel said in a strong direct voice. “The first meeting is always a failure. This is just the start of the process,” he continued to preach. “Mr. Wells always gets drunk on trains and you are reading too much into it.”

  “What is he like?” David asked meekly.

  “Dry as dust, and just about as much life,” Marc said, believing he was asking about Mr. Wells.

  “Odd, he speaks well enough on the wireless,” David said next, obviously referring to Hitler. Marc froze for a second inside. He weighed the consequences of his friend’s reaction if they knew he had met Hitler.

  “I never met him. I just waited outside,” Marc lied. “At the hotel, in fact.” Marc regretted that, wondering if they believed his lie. “I have a problem,” he said, trying to get Dora’s attention.

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Wells met with Leon Blum, and I have now close to three thousand of the most vile and nasty letters I have ever read in my life,” Marc said, hoping that she would see that the same anti-Semitic attitudes in Germany were now in France.

  “Are they addressed to him?”

  “Yes, of course,” Marc said, wondering where this would end up next.

  “Then he should read them. He should read every single one of them. Your job is not to hide his eyes,” she said with near disgust in her voice.

  “Dora, are you the least bit worried about these kinds of attitudes?”

  “Marc, if I was to move every time someone said or wrote something anti-Semitic, I would be living at the bottom of the sea.”

  Monday morning, Marc approached the ambassador regarding the letters.

  “This is not South America, and he wanted to come over here. Therefore, they are his to read. He needs to understand the significance of meeting with certain individuals,” Bullitt said. “He would not listen to me, so let him live and learn.”

  Sumner surprised Marc as he started to read the letters. Marc did not think he would pay much attention to them and would just brush them aside. He read for nearly two hours straight without saying a word. Marc noticed that he had stopped and closed his eyes. Marc recognized the same emotional storm of frustration and despair in himself. Sumner then said out loud to no one, except to himself and maybe Marc, “I am amazed that this poison of the mind knows no border.”

  Roosevelt spoke in glowing terms of the diplomatic trip. Marc’s routine returned, but every time someone would stall or delay booking on the American ships, Ribbentrop’s raging fit, that Germany would never accept anything but a full surrender, haunted him. Finland settled with Russia.

  Marie found the meeting with Leon Blum more troubling than with Adolf Hitler, which hurt Marc’s feelings. Sumner was back in America by March 30, and Marie could not meet Marc that night for dinner. He spent Wednesday evening with Allen and his British friends from the British Expeditionary Force at an English pub in Paris.

  The warm tone of the tube radio filled the room. The men echoed back to the radio like a church choir, “Germany calling, Germany calling,” laughing out loud, with shouts and hollers. The voice told of the important papers found in Poland that proved that America was anything but a neutral power. Lord Haw Haw’s thick British accent sickened Marc, as it scolded America for attempting to drive a wedge between Germany and Italy.

  But it was the next bomb blast of words that hit Marc the hardest.

  “Ambassador Bullitt in these papers is quoted that he considers the French the first line of defense of the United States.”

  Marc walked to the bar and said, “Double Scotch, straight up.”

  Then, not long after that, Marc ordered another round. Allen stopped joking with Marc, and then he had to walk him home that night to his flat.

  Chapt
er 10

  David did not hear Lord Haw Haw that night on the radio, but he did read the papers. “America No Longer Welcomed at the Peace Table,” flashed across papers in both French and English.

  “Do you think this means they might target our ships?” David asked Marc over Sunday dinner.

  “No, absolutely not. It just means they are rubbing our noses in it to make themselves look big.”

  “But, Marc, if they say we are not neutral, then those flags on the ship mean nothing.”

  “David, Germany has enough war already, it will be safe,” Nigel said, trying to calm him. Dora sat silently and just observed.

  Before Marc left that night, he cornered Dora. “Why is he so preoccupied by these absurd fears?” Dora looked down first and then back up at Marc.

  “Some things never leave people,” she paused. “They are like eternal moments.” Marc stared at her. “David has a moment like that, and all we can do is just listen to him,” she said. Marc pondered her words. He knew she was holding something back about David out of a sense of protection.

  The Italian Line advertised a sailing, but then canceled it. Eventually, they did both at the same time; they made an announcement that all voyages were canceled, and then released a poster that stated “Full Steam Ahead.” The confusion and frustration did not matter for most, because the price exceeded their means. David, however, rushed upon the opportunity.

  David stood in the line that wrapped out of the Italian Line ticket office and down the street.

  “Two thousand dollars?” David gasped.

  “Yes, sir, that is correct,” the agent responded quickly.

  “American dollars? I just want a standard cabin, not a suite,” David continued, his face blank.

  “Sir, it is American dollars, and that is for a standard cabin,” the agent explained. David’s face then contorted in shock.

  “That is insane. Why are these fares so outrageous?”

  “Sir, there are no passengers going east, and the insurance is very high. We have to cover the expenses for the ship round-trip. So, I understand, I could never afford these rates myself, but there is nothing I can do about it.”

  “How much is third?” David asked.

  “Berths are seven hundred dollars,” the agent said quickly, while looking at the others in line.

  “I will take it,” David paused and realized he did not even have this much money now left in his bank account. He would need to get a loan.

  “Do you want a ticket, sir?” the agent asked. David just walked away without answering. He walked back to the Opera Metro station, and stood on the platform in disgust. The train came, the passengers boarded, and the train left with David standing on the platform. He climbed the stairs back to the street and made his way toward the Place de la Concorde and the American Embassy.

  “They would never fire on the Italians,” David said over and over again to Marc. His eyes appeared to be looking past Marc, to someone behind him. He spoke quickly, with a tremble in his voice. “Is there any way that I could get a travel loan through—” He paused. “I know they would never fire on the Italians,” he repeated softer, and he appeared like a child.

  “I tried to get a ticket, but the rates are too high,” David added.

  “What was the date of their ship?” Marc asked.

  “May 28. Not sure which ship. I think the Rex,” David said. Marc could tell by David’s behavior that he would starve himself and likely sleep on the streets to take this ship.

  Marc took out his wallet and looked, then told the secretary he needed to run an errand. He walked to the bank and took out the money for David to get a ticket on the Rex. “You owe me nothing. Just try and slam some sense into the other two.” Outside the bank, David broke down in tears and then ran back to the Italian Line offices on Rue Auber.

  Sunday came again, and Marc welcomed the break for dinner with the gang, but missed the jovial conversations of the past.

  “Marc, those ships are floating targets. They have huge American flags on them, and they are stopping them at Gibraltar for hours. Sometimes even a few days,” Nigel said, dismissing him outright about taking David’s slot in July. “Don’t you think the British would like it if America would join the war? It does not have to be a German torpedo. Any torpedo could do it under the right circumstances.”

  “I think you are …” Then Marc stopped. He had tried to keep this thought from his mind over the months as he directed Americans to Genoa or Lisbon. He knew there were risks, but did not take seriously that a ship would be fired upon.

  “When are you leaving?” Dora asked David.

  “Well, the ship leaves on the twenty-eighth, but I want to get down there sooner than that, so I am thinking of leaving May 15.” Marc did not know why, but the simple fact of having a ticket gave David a complete new sense of peace.

  “And what about you?” Dora looked toward Nigel.

  “I still have business with the bank. If things turn, they have assured me they will make the arrangements,” Nigel responded, shrugging his shoulders.

  “I see. I heard you had a nice time with the LeRoy family,” Dora pressed.

  “I did not realize you knew them. Are they …”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean the family involved with bauxite and aluminum production? Are you sure?”

  “You have been a very busy boy running all about France for your bank,” Dora said, toasting her wine glass.

  “Dora, I think you know why, and I am impressed. Next time I will clear my appointments with you.” Nigel smiled.

  “They are very nice. I hope she is not wearing that silly perfume, Chypre, anymore. I got her some Shalimar last time I visited.”

  “I believe that was her scent at dinner,” Nigel stared back into Dora’s eyes.

  Marc began to feel a greater sense of disconnection with everyone around him. “This is not going to last forever, you know,” Marc said.

  “Dinner?” Dora asked.

  “No, this false peace. Soon, there will be no need to argue,” Marc said, and no one replied.

  Marc took Marie’s hand from across the table during dinner that same week.

  “But I do love you,” Marc pleaded with Marie.

  “I know, but Marc, it is not right. We cannot do this just so I can leave with you. What about my family? What about my life?”

  “Marie, they could come as well.”

  “Marc, you are overreacting. France is in no danger. I will marry you when there is no threat of running away. Not just to run away.”

  “Then, you accept. We are engaged.” Marc looked at her.

  “Yes, of course I do. I love you, but I do not want to do this just to run away. After the war, like your parents,” she smiled at him. Marc cherished the promise. It pleased him to think that he had found her at last and now he knew eventually they would marry. He also took a certain pleasure that his life would follow, in a sense, his parents’ lives. “But, for now, we must tell no one. It is a promise, for later, Marc. For later, after this war.”

  Chapter 11

  “It is a classic overreach,” Nigel said when Germany invaded Norway.

  “I suspect they must have overlooked the country,” Dora said when Germany invaded Denmark.

  “Thank you, Marc. You have no idea what this means for me,” David said as he left for Italy with the ticket Marc had bought for him.

  “They have now taken on a fight they cannot win,” Allen said to Marc when Germany invaded Belgium on May 10, 1940.

  “No, no, nothing serious. I want to see the Walt Disney parade. It seems like everyone has seen it now in Paris. Please, we can see something more serious next time,” Marie said, using just the right tone of voice that would win her case that Wednesday afternoon of May 15.

  “If there is a bunch of kids cutting up in the theater, remember, I told you so. What about Goodbye, Mr. Chips? I hear it is very interesting, but it might be in English.”

  “I can understan
d English. I have not heard of it before. You are just so stubborn about French.” She poked him and he leaned in to kiss her. “No, I want to see a cartoon.”

  “Then let’s. It will be good for me, too,” he decided. They bought the tickets at the box office and walked inside for the show.

  The theater had an art deco interior. People of various dress packed the rear part of the theater to take in the daily newsreels, which were free so long as the viewers did not sit down. One newsreel had just finished as Marc and Marie seated themselves in a pair of seats in the middle.

  “I am looking forward to this weekend.” Marc took her hand and squeezed it.

  “I have created a monster in you,” she whispered into his ear and nudged her nose against his earlobe.

  “You have indeed,” he turned and gave her a long kiss, then said in a childish voice, “I love you.”

  The screen of the theater came to life with the black-and-white headlines of the newsreel. People in the back of the theater jostled to see if the headlines were new or old.

  “Militiamen follow in fathers footsteps” flashed over the screen as two lines of soldiers marched in the snow. “The twenty-ones have reached France. And on the snow-clad surfaces where their fathers once tread, they stride out with weary step.”

  “My God, this is so old. I can’t believe they are still showing this one,” Marc complained to Marie. She had never seen this newsreel, because it was produced for the British. Her eyes took in the sight of the young, cocky British striding across snow-covered fields, rifles in hand.

  “Roll out the barrel, we’ll have a barrel of fun! Roll out the barrel, we’ve got the blues on the run,” the men sang with hearty voices. Some in the audience joined in the chorus. “Zing, boom, tararrel, ring out a song of good cheer. Now’s the time to roll the barrel, for the gang’s all here.”

  “The British sure love their songs,” Marie leaned over into Marc. He leaned into her closer, a smile on his face.

  “That’s the song of this war, the song that these militiamen will be remembered by when they are veterans. They are a splendid type of fellow and it is funny to think that twenty-one years ago, they were called war babies.” Marc could not wait for this tired newsreel from February to be over. He never liked it and each time it played, he liked it even less. “People wondered if being born at the end of a long war, if their nerves would be affected.” Men crawled on the ground and made their way over the field with rifles at the ready.