The Siren of Paris

by David Leroy

  After another thirty or so minutes, he stood in the street below his apartment. Bricks crushed a car on the other side of the street. People took what they could from the building. Marc stood in shock, as he looked directly up into the parlor room of his fourth-floor flat. He made his way in through the door and up the marble staircase as others were coming down.

  Marc opened the door to his apartment, and the evening breeze gently flapped the drawing he’d done of Marie back in early December. He turned over the armoire, pulled out the clothes, and packed his bags. He found the keys that Nigel and Dora had given him. The bowl’s rose-colored glass lay shattered on the floor. He stuffed the francs from Dora into his jacket.

  Marc felt cold and detached as he gathered his belongings. He fully accepted the loss of the wall to the outside street below. It did not bother him at all that he was not sure where he was going to stay. He had two sets of keys, after all, for two other Parisian apartments. They could not have got all of them, he thought to himself.

  Nothing could take his mind off the crowds at the south station. The desperate voices, the stares of the other refugees looking to flee the city, echoed in his mind. Before he left the apartment, he looked around. He saw the drawing again on the wall, and remembered with a small laugh what the instructor had said. “This is what you came to France for, Marc.”

  He took a deep breath and decided to leave it on the wall, turned and made his way down the stairs, thinking of sleeping that night at the YMCA. He knew it would be crowded, but it was better than sleeping alone in an apartment if another raid should come.

  June 5, 1940

  Bordeaux, France

  Nigel walked through the masses of men, women and children moving toward the city. He could see the Bordeaux skyline in the distance. The bus he had taken ran out of petrol five miles back. On both sides of the road, refugees plodded forward toward the city. Some pulled handcarts containing what belongings they could carry; a few had horse-drawn carriages.

  People talked, but in a hushed tones, as if their voices could somehow draw down the planes. As they began to approach the outer parts of Bordeaux, the mood became somber. From time to time, a car or truck would pass, but this was rare.

  Nigel crested a small hill and in front of him was a scene he was not prepared for. A truck lay on its side in a ditch. About thirty yards in front of that, two dead horses stretched across the road. Beyond the horses laid a dead farmer who appeared to be maybe fifty years old. No one spoke a word. People just kept moving toward the city. In the distance, Nigel could see a column of smoke come from south of the city and knew that meant a bombing raid.

  A teenaged girl walked with her father in front of Nigel. A truck sped by in the opposite direction, just as a second truck was coming from behind Nigel and the girl. The truck swerved to miss the oncoming vehicle, and the truck’s mirror struck the girl in the back of the head.

  She fell to the ground, rolling into the ditch on the side of the road. The father yelled in horror and Nigel ran to see if he could help. The father took the girl into his arms and began to rock her back and forth, yelling for anyone to help. Nigel removed his wallet first and then took off his jacket to give her a pillow. He tried to see if the girl was bleeding on the back of her head and then pulled back. The rear of her skull collapsed inward, mixed with blood and hair.

  More trucks and cars passed, but none stopped. Others came running forward to see if they could help, but it was pointless. There was nothing anyone could do. Nigel felt horribly sick to his stomach and helpless as he started to walk away. The girl had died in her father’s arms, but the farmer refused to leave her on the side of the road.

  June 7, 1940

  Hendaye, France

  The train came to a full stop. All the passengers rose at once. Dora clutched her bag tightly. The conductor yelled out, “Gare des Deux-Jumeaux, la fin, la fin.”

  She was exhausted from the transfers since leaving the phone exchange in Vichy. Limoges, Périgueux, Bordeaux were now behind her. This was the end of France and the beginning of Spain. The tracks were different in Spain and she now needed to change trains again and go through the border crossing.

  She walked quickly to the line, which was very long. She barely remembered the questions regarding her passport and travel plans. She sat for three hours on a bench, waiting for the connecting train. Once, she considered leaving to get a drink, but another hour went by and she had not moved.

  The train arrived. She boarded it with the other passengers. The cars appeared nearly identical to the French, or at least inside. She clutched the armrest, focusing on her index finger. She never looked the passenger across from her in the eyes. Her lip quivered and she gazed out the window at the passing countryside.

  It had been four hours now, but she could not shake it. The woman was gone. In Bordeaux, Dora boarded a direct train for the border. It was extra money, but worth it to her in order to avoid all the stops. The woman across from her had come from Tours.

  “Mum, I am hungry, please,” her little ones pleaded for some food. But the woman had none left. The older sister then left the car to go buy some bread for the family while the mother waited. The boy was maybe four years old, and the little girl was five or six.

  The train’s whistle blew and the car began to move forward. The woman looked frantically out the window calling, “Ranette! Ranette!” and then ran to the front of the car. She pleaded in French with the conductor to stop the train, but he said he could do nothing. She screamed Ranette’s name over and over again out the door, looking for her amongst the hectic hoard of people moving in every direction.

  Passengers tried to calm her down. “You can turn around at the next station,” one suggested.

  “She is old enough and she will be fine,” another man said, trying to help her see that it was not the end of the world. It was true. Her daughter was at least a teenager.

  The woman sobbed relentlessly, for hours on end across from Dora. Her two children tried even to console her between their own tears. Dora held the little boy in her lap and the little girl climbed into the lap of the man sitting next to her. There would be no turning around because the train was direct to the border with no stops.

  The woman would look up from time to time at the window and would murmur “Ranette,” even though it was hopeless. No one knew where her husband was. Maybe he was a soldier at the front.

  Dora thought to ask where her husband was, but then didn’t, out of fear that he had been wounded or even worse. Instead, she thought about what she would do if it had been her who had lost her daughter at a train station in the middle of a war. Dora could see in the woman’s reaction far more than just a single drama of separation, but a breakdown brought about by the cumulative loss of a long, unknown journey.

  Dora gave her a handkerchief and tried to comfort her. Others in the car attempted to bring some relief to this woman. Soon, the car was silent except for the click-clack of the tracks and the sobbing of this woman.

  Dora clutched the armrest, holding it firm. She sank her spine against the core of the seat, to give a posture that seemed strong for the children. Dora could not let them down or break her masked belief that everything would turn out fine.

  Dora was still clutching the armrest of her chair on the train leaving France behind. She focused on her breathing and her index finger held so tight to the wood, she could have drilled through it. But the woman was now gone, and Dora was in Spain. Only the landscape outside passed by. She still felt the little boy in her lap. She still saw the woman sobbing and crumpled across from her. Dora still heard her call out her daughter’s name: “Ranette!”

  The train came to a stop. Passengers rose to exit the car. The conductor called out, “Madrid, Madrid.”

  June 9, 1940

  Paris, France

  “You work at the American Embassy?” the little boy asked Marc in French.

  “Yes, and my friend, Allen, over there, he works as a translator at the
British Embassy,” Marc said as he pointed.

  “He is the one who brought us here,” the boy then said from his position on the floor of the Paris YMCA. “That is my papa. He has a big factory that makes planes that fly in the sky,” the little boy said, pointing and then spreading his arms wide to show the size of the factory. Marc looked and noticed that the man-tall, slender, gray-haired-was speaking with Allen. Next to him was another boy of about eleven years old and another girl with long, blond curls.

  “What kind of planes?” Marc asked.

  “Uh, I don’t know. I am from Belgium. Where are you from?” the boy asked next.

  “New York. And is this your dog?” Marc petted the golden retriever sitting next to the boy.

  “Yes, this is my dog, and this is my little sister and her dog,” he said in a rather simplistic way, almost as if he were younger than his actual age.

  “You have a very large family.” Marc smiled at the young girl.

  Allen then looked up, and then the father. Marc heard the air raid sirens outside of the building.

  “In here, now, everyone downstairs now!” Sister Clayton yelled through the room. She looked to be about thirty-five years old, wore glasses, and held a no-nonsense attitude.

  Everyone stayed that night in the basement and the air raid sirens announced the arrival of another group of bombings soon after 10 p.m. Marc woke in the morning unsure of the time and found the little boy snuggled up against him.

  In the morning, Marc stood half awake, while the ambassador spoke to the staff.

  “Anyone who wishes to leave should do so now. I am choosing to stay on, but I do not expect this of you. Please just let me know,” he asked.

  Marc wondered to himself, if I stay, I wonder if it would be safer to sleep in the basement of the embassy than at the YMCA?

  “Sir, may I ask you a question?” Marc stood before the ambassador in his office. “I was wondering if you know if …”

  “Marc, I have no idea. None. I don’t know at all what I am doing,” he said, going through his papers. “You know, they are going to make me mayor. They are all leaving and they are giving me the honor of mayor,” he mumbled to himself.

  “Sir, I was going to ask you whether, if I need to, I could stay here, at the embassy.”

  “There is nothing at all for a situation like this. It has never happened before. And all they can say in DC is leave. No one has left this post, even during the revolution. I have no idea. I am sure this is the end of my career, but I don’t care anymore. Someone has to stay and try and maintain some order.”

  “Can I?” Marc asked.

  “Can you what?”

  “Can I stay here if I need to? My apartment has been bombed and I have been staying with the YMCA, but I might need to move soon.”

  “Yes, of course. Absolutely, I had no idea your apartment got hit. I almost got hit last week, too. Maybe it was the same plane that got your apartment?” The ambassador looked down again at his papers. “Have you spoken to your father?” he asked as Marc was leaving.

  “No.”

  “You should. Call him on our lines if you need to. Oh, and ask him for his prayers,” Bullitt said as he ransacked his desk.

  The streets that afternoon began to fill with cars and carts. People began to leave the city en masse. The shelling now could be heard during the day and night. The softest of the bombs were as loud as the loudest ones only a week ago.

  Marc tried the bank, but the line wrapped around the street corner, and he gave up trying to wait, instead counting the only money he had left. The francs from Dora he almost turned away became all-important to him. The Germans had been broadcasting into France that they would confiscate savings accounts as their first action in occupation. Every bank through the city had huge lines of desperate people who now believed German radio more than their own nation’s official news.

  Marie surprised Marc when she came to the embassy that day.

  “What are these for?” Marc asked.

  “My father said you can stay there if you need to,” she said, holding back tears. “I have to go with them. I have to go, I cannot stay,” her eyes watered. “The government is leaving and he needs to follow them, to help set up the new assembly, but it won’t be long, and then I can come back, Marc. But if you need a place.”

  “Marc, you need to go. Don’t stay,” she then pleaded.

  “Marie, we are the only ones left. In about an hour, Bullitt becomes mayor of the city. I cannot …” He paused, trying to find his emotions.

  “You can. It was a promise, Marc, for after the war. Bullitt’s problem is not your own. You can go, and should. I am not staying here for you, and it is unfair for you to stay here for me.” She then quickly kissed him, and walked out of the embassy.

  “Marc, Marc,” Bullitt called from his office. Marc quickly walked in to see what he needed.

  “Can you do a cable? Have you done it before?” he asked him and gathered papers from his desk.

  “Yes, I have done them. What do you need sent?”

  “Here, this,” he handed Marc a single sheet. “Send it to Hull and Roosevelt. I have to go meet with the police and fire departments.”

  Marc went into the cable room and checked the line to make sure it was still live. He then sat down to the table and started to type out the message on the secure cable typewriter.

  “Start: Hull; Roosevelt; This embassy is the only official organization still functioning in the city of Paris except the headquarters of the military forces, Governor and the Prefecture of Police. Phones still on. Stop.”

  Chapter 16

  Morning of June 10, 1940

  Paris, France

  Marc drove the car as they passed street after street filled with people piling their belongings into carts and cars, preparing to leave the city.

  “They said that they would wait. Did you get the cable out?” Bullitt asked Marc.

  “Yes, I tested the line before sending. I got a confirmation it was received,” Marc said as they pulled near Notre Dame.

  “You should leave today,” Bullitt said as they walked inside. Marc thought it was an odd statement because it seemed pointless to him. Marc already knew the details of travel for leaving the war zone, and the window to leave had already past.

  Inside the walls of Notre Dame Cathedral, Ambassador Bullitt knelt in front of the priest as he held his hand on his head and gave prayers. It was a horrible scene for Marc to behold, filled with bitterness for all who were present. Bullitt sobbed as the responsibility now rested on his head. The French government had left during the night and the only solution that seemed reasonable was to give Bullitt the duty as honoree mayor.

  Marc returned to the embassy with the ambassador after the ceremony at Notre Dame.

  “Allen, I thought the British Embassy had left?” Marc stood in front of his desk, across from Allen.

  “We are. This afternoon. When will you be back to the YMCA?” Allen quickly responded.

  “Do you need to leave your keys?”

  “No, Marc, you are coming with us.”

  “Allen, I can’t. Bullitt is now the mayor. We are the only officials left. Look, I would help you, but I can’t. It would be like abandoning a post.”

  “Look, Marc, I need your help. The nuns and staff are coming and so are the Belgians. We are going east to Saint-Nazaire and the government is sending an evacuation armada of ships,” Allen said as Bullitt came into the room.

  “You can land in Britain and then over to America through Ireland, but this is it. We have to leave today, and I need your help with the others,” Allen pleaded.

  “Go,” Bullitt said to Marc. “I have the official French police and fire to help. As soon as I am done here, I am leaving south.”

  “But,” Marc hesitated, thinking.

  “We cannot wait another day. In a few more hours, Marc, it is going to be impossible to leave the city,” Allen said.

  Marc then took out of his desk drawer the wad o
f francs from Dora and put them in his jacket. “I should make a call,” he said next. Marc took up the phone and started to dial the number, using the direct line. “This will be just a minute.”

  “Can you call England?” Allen asked Marc. “Is it a direct line?”

  “Yes, but wait,” Marc said as he rang for the operator.

  “I want to let my family know if I can get out on a line. What is wrong?” Allen asked him, looking at the phone.

  “I think it’s dead.” Marc hit the button a few times and listened, then gave it to Allen.

  “They cut the lines. They are dead now,” he yelled back to Bullitt.

  “Goddamn them! I told them to wait. What am I supposed to do without any phone lines? I told them I would give them the go-ahead, and now this!” Bullitt’s voice roared.

  “Time to go,” Allen said, and they left out into the morning streets. A herd of cattle crossed in front of the Place de la Concorde, taking the same route south Marc and Allen were going to take to the other side of the river.

  “We are leaving with a company of the BEF. I think on trucks. By following with them, we are sure to get aboard a ship,” Allen said breathlessly as they neared the YMCA building.

  Inside the YMCA, the refugees put together their belongings, preparing to meet up with the soldiers.

  “When will the trucks be here?” Marc asked Allen.

  “There has been a change of plans, I will be right back,” he said as he ran back over to speak with the commander of the unit.

  “Only what you can carry,” Allen said to the refugees. “This is too much.”

  “It is the food, we need to bring some food,” Sister Clayton said to him.

  “Then Sister, let’s break it apart and put it in different bags. We need to make sure that everything is distributed in case we get separated,” Allen said, sorting through the bags of bread, cheeses and vegetables.

  “Here, this is yours. Put this in your bags,” the nun said to one group.

  “Be careful. Pack it so you don’t lose it. We don’t know when we will get more,” Allen said to the president of the airplane company, as the little Belgian boy hung close with the other children.