The Siren of Paris

by David Leroy

  “He did that? I thought you did that?” Joan turned to Marc, her face perplexed.

  “I cannot do that alone. He sends me because they will listen to me. I am an American. You know the French. It does not matter how well you can speak, but where you are from. The only reason they listen to me now is because I am not British, and I am not German and I am not French.” Marc smiled and said, “At least not French enough for them to distrust.”

  “I know some people in England,” she said as she tried to sit up in the bed.

  “So do I, and I think if I can get a fisherman to take me, then maybe I can stay with him. I probably would’ve made it over there with him if I had not been so sick, but that is the past now. And after a bit, I can get up to Glasgow and get home,” Marc’s voice cracked.

  “Why, Lazarus, you could just walk upon the waves?” she said.

  “What do you mean?” Marc asked, perplexed.

  “Lazarus sur Mer, that is the name the nurses gave you. You were dead, but then rose again from the sea. They believe you are blessed.”

  “Blessed by an angel.”

  “Oh, and what angel would that be?”

  “You, the Angel of Saint-Nazaire.”

  “Who calls me that?

  “I do, because, had it not been for you, I would’ve still been in the sea floating dead. Officer Sean never fails to remind me how you saved me.”

  “Do they know yet?” she asked, sitting up in the bed.

  “Yes. I got word back,” Marc said.

  “How?”

  “Officer Sean had a friend call for me down at Vichy. So, at least they know I am well, and not dead someplace.”

  “Maybe you are right about him?” she said, and then a new wave of cramps overcame her.

  April 1943

  Paris, France

  Marc stood looking at the board of messages in the market, walking past the German guard who stood by the board. “I am looking for the ‘W’ family. Missing: good friend. Looking for father: missing from depot. Looking for brother: he left last on Feb 12.” None of the messages he read were of people he knew.

  “Marc, Marc! Is that you?” he turned and ran straight into Marie.

  “Oh my God!” she gushed. “What are you doing here? I thought you would be gone by now.”

  “Marie, I don’t know what to say. You look great, by the way. It is good to see you again.” Marc replied. He did not have an answer for why a wall went up inside him just then. He heard his response and voice, and it rang cold in his head, which conflicted with the fact that he had proposed to this woman in the spring of ’40.

  She hugged him and then said into his ear. “I am so glad to see you. I have missed you so much.” Marc melted and his formality fell.

  “It … it …” he stammered. “Marie, I really have missed you as well.”

  “Where are you staying? I have so many questions but, first, what are you doing for dinner?” she asked him next.

  Marc then remembered why he was at the market in the first place and that, again, he had found nothing suitable to eat. She seemed different to him, but he pushed it aside in his mind, just as he tried to forget the war.

  “Well, not sure yet. I am looking for anything but cat,” he said with coldness suddenly in his voice.

  “Come to my place tonight for dinner. I have some rations. Not much, but enough. And I have so much to tell you.” She studied his contours and features. “You’re so much thinner. I have some work to do to get you up to weight again. But you are still so handsome.”

  “Are you at the same place?” Marc asked.

  “No, well, close. I am close.” She got out some paper and wrote down the address. Marc looked at it and realized he knew the building.

  Marc saw her shoes. They were new, with leather soles. “No wonder I did not hear you walk up. You have leather shoes. Where did you get them?” he asked.

  “Well, where do you think? The black market, of course,” she raised her eyebrows at him.

  “Did they have men’s shoes? Do they take trade? How many francs?” Marc’s mind focused upon salvation from his hated wooden-soled shoes.

  “I can see.”

  “It is just so hard to get any leather these days because, you know, they take it all away.”

  Over dinner, Marc explained how he did not get home. He talked about the ship, and the people aboard, the hospital and Officer Sean in St. Nazaire. Marc talked with Marie without any guard for the first time in almost two years.

  “Are you in?” she asked him.

  “In what?” he asked, perplexed by the question.

  “The movement, silly. Are you doing any work with the heroes?” she said, her eyes bright.

  Marc stopped cold and was not sure how to respond next. He studied her. Her question suddenly seemed to wake him up. Marc seemed to forget the world for a moment, how he’d been talking about all these things that had happened to him. He never actually thought of how it all related to Marie.

  “No, Marie, I cannot get involved with that. I’ve already been interned once. When America entered the war, they arrested us all. The only reason I’m back here is due to the hospital work.” He then remembered and said, “Oh, and the strange fact the Germans have no idea what to do with someone who is both French and American. Otherwise, I would be working with the others.” He thought to himself, I cannot tell her the truth because I cannot protect her from it.

  “I am,” she said in a proud tone.

  “What? What do you mean by ‘in’? In exactly what?” Marc pressed with a mixture of concern and suspicion in his voice.

  “It is why I have come back to Paris. I am here to work, to help with the papers,” she said, as if he should have known this fact. She looked down as though hiding something else from him. “And a few other things. You know, whatever is needed.”

  Marc crossed his arms, and his face set with fear. In his mind flashed the faces of others he had know who had disappeared. In addition to the random arrests that have taken place, there was the round-up of Jews at the ice rink in the summertime, the occasional round-up of innocents at the Metro who would be executed in reprisal for attacks on the Germans. His skin started to burn with nervousness that Marie could be next. His dream of sharing a life with her was shattered by the fear inside him that she, too, might be arrested, rounded up, or shot, that she could simply disappear in the night.

  “You should stop. It is not something you should be doing or even talking about. It is not safe at all,” Marc said in a low, hushed tone.

  “Nothing is safe, Marc. I cannot just sit by and watch my country slip away. Nothing is safe,” Marie said.

  Marc realized she was right, and that she had changed. He feared her, but for a different reason than the guards or checkpoints. He feared her courage. To him it meant she would soon be dead or missing like the others.

  A sudden wall of disconnection descended in his mind. Marc hated to face the ultimate fear of such work. Without any words to describe it, he retreated emotionally, yet still listened to her as she continued on. He had only remembered her as the scared girl at the movie back in May 1940, hating that she would become those people in the newsreel. Now, she seemed to jump at the chance to join the newsreel. Marc’s stomach was sick, as if he had swallowed a bowling ball.

  “I know the risk, but I couldn’t live with myself if I did nothing at all,” she said. She blazed with courage, and Marc burned under it in fear. He searched for some escape from the conversation.

  “Do you have a bike? You will need a bike,” Marc said next, trying to stir it away.

  “I can take the Metro, and walk,” Marie answered back, perplexed.

  “Take the bike. The Metro is not that safe. If something should happen, they pick up the hostages from the Metro trains. Or, they set up spot inspections in the Metro. You will need a bike, Marie. I have an extra one.”

  “Marc, what do I do with my Metro tickets, then? Can you use them?” she asked.

 
; “I never ride the Metro, and you need to live further out, but maybe they will not take your bike, being a woman.”

  “Take my bike?”

  “If you can walk to work, or take the Metro, and if the Germans stop you on a bike, they could take it from you because, technically you should not need a bike.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Yes, Marie, they have,” Marc said, expressionless. All the desire he’d had to make love to her left him that night as a tide of fear over the future rushed onto the shore of his soul.

  Chapter 28

  June, 1943

  Paris, France

  “It is too early,” she said to the agent.

  “Does he trust you?” the agent asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes, of course. That is not the problem. The problem is that things have shifted. Time has gone by.”

  “He likely is involved. It is just a matter of how and with whom,” the agent suggested to Marie.

  “I agree, and this is why it is going to require time. If you just want to arrest someone, anyone, then sure, I likely can move this along, but,” she paused and considered her next words, “if you want to get an entire ring, and how they do business on the front and back end, then this will be an investment of time.” She looked at him. “But worth it because it will be above and beyond all the other small little fishes you have caught.”

  “And you, Elio, how are you doing?” he turned to one of Marie’s counter partners in the Milice.

  “I’m in. It took a lot of time, but I’m finally in, and soon I will have enough names to provide,” he said glowing, “for a full arrest.”

  “Excellent. That will make some progress.”

  “They cannot win. They are just godless Communists and Jews. The right is on our side in this thing and, with patience, right always wins out over wrong,” Marie said.

  “The main one is blind. They have placed a weak, helpless fool at the center of their web. It is sick, really,” Elio continued, “but getting past him was not as big a challenge as I thought it would be. He does not approve of me, but I have convinced the others before I got to him that I am trustworthy of their pathetic cause. Now, it is just time gathering enough information to ensure all of them are arrested. Marie is right. It takes time, and she has just started. I have been working on this for eight months.”

  “Elio, do you know if they ever ride the Metro?” Marie asked casually.

  “Never. Only if they must escape, otherwise they walk or ride bikes,” Elio said.

  “Very interesting. I will keep that in mind. Thankfully, I have a bike now,” she said.

  “You should get some fashionable riding pants,” the agent said, smiling.

  “Yes, excellent idea, and if any naughty Germans stop me to take my bike, will you get it back for me?” she said, batting her eyelashes.

  “Before I forget, I was reading one of the special papers about concerts. You could take him out to this special concert. It is invitation-only, and they are playing Jewish music. If you go, he might run into others he knows. I can get you an invitation, amongst our resistance contacts,” the agent said, nodding then in Elio’s direction.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you. I would love to take in a concert. Please do,” she said.

  The night of July 19, 1943, was busy for Jacques, for he had several stop-by guests that evening. The work with the papers had grown along with the circulation. The group had a goal for growth of 250 percent for the month of July.

  The Bastille Day circulation became the largest effort ever. The size and scope surpassed anything yet done to provide people with information and hope. Several locations printed the papers. The distribution took place in the open, under guards provided by the Defense of France. The papers were passed out in the open streets, instead of through apartment buildings under the doors, or on the Metro seats, or in the market to be used for packaging. This day, they were passed in the open streets of Paris, directly in front of the watching Germans.

  The Defense of France had grown now to over five thousand strong. The logistics of the organization had outgrown Jacques’ ability to keep pace.

  Elio was a recommendation to him via Georges and of Philip. A 25-year-old medical student at the university, there was something odd in his voice. Jacques could not quite place it, but it was as if his voice was off-pitch, like a bell that had cracked and then been repaired.

  None of this mattered now, for there were other considerations to be made. The man had contacts and was eager and self-sufficient. Most of all, he had convinced the others of his trustworthiness even before he’d met Jacques.

  Jacques did not sleep well that night. He was up until one in the morning. and then awoke at four, but then fell back to sleep again. He woke to hear his father’s voice downstairs at five o’clock.

  “Jacques, Jacques … the Germans are here to see you.”

  Dr. Jackson sat across from Marc and Torquette at the table in late August 1943. Finally, there was a knock at the door, and Torquette checked to see who it was. It was R. She opened the door and welcomed him in.

  “Bonjour, R,” Dr. Jackson said in a dry Maine accent. R sat down at the table and took up the cards. He glanced at the cribbage board in the center of the table.

  Torquette brought in a cup of weak tea. It was more hot water with some color than real tea, but this was all that now could be offered. The table was barren of any cheese, crackers or blueberries.

  “Any more contact with DF?” Marc asked R.

  “No, and yes. Well, I found a place for Georges to stay.” R sipped his tea. “He tells me Jean is fine and remaining north, out of town.” Marc nodded as R finished his report.

  “So, any other ideas for contacts?” Dr. Jackson asked.

  “Well, yes, there is another group that is much more official than DF. But, I am uncertain of them yet. They want other things from us and I’m not sure yet how to process that.”

  “What do you mean?” Torquette asked.

  “I mean that they can take the pilots, but they also want us to provide information and be more active on the ground.” He looked over to Dr. Jackson and then glanced back at Marc before he continued. “They have requested to see if there is a way for us to get passage into Saint Nazaire. They want us to provide a report on the base there for submarines.” He then looked out of the corner of his eye at Torquette and then Dr. Jackson. The room went silent.

  “The other request amounts to nothing but street reports of conditions here in Paris and the rest of France. That is well enough. But the trip to Saint Nazaire is a bit of a pinch, in my opinion,” R continued.

  “I know the city, but I don’t think I can go there. They’re not going to let an American pass back through for anything,” Marc finally broke the silence at the table.

  “We have some family near there. Maybe we can send Philip for a vacation?” Torquette said next. R’s eyes perked up and then immediately glanced at Dr. Jackson for his reaction.

  Dr. Jackson looked at her and then looked at the board. He took a peg and moved it forward. “Marc, are you ever going to teach us this game?”

  “Do they want just a report, because maybe I can meet one of my friends from there?” Marc asked R.

  “They want photographs,” R said as if he had just dropped a five hundred pound bomb on the table.

  “Photographs? Really?” Marc snapped back. “How about a sketch or oil painting? It would be easier. Philip can just take some paints and set up an easel and do a plein air oil painting of the base. Would that work?” He rolled his eyes and stared at the table as he continued. “Because I have no idea where we are going to get a camera or some film.” Marc reached down and took the peg that Dr. Jackson had moved. He moved it backwards by two positions from where it originated and then looked away.

  “I know where I can get a camera, but not the film. It takes 120,” Torquette said.

  R said, “If they want pictures, then maybe they can supply the film
? Now, how do we get there?”

  “Oh, that is not a problem. Philip has a crush on this girl who is a friend of ours and he will enjoy the trip. And Marc, you can give him some sightseeing pointers about Saint Nazaire. Marc lived there for about six months back in 1940.” Marc’s face stretched in shock that both of them were still even talking about this expedition.

  “It is a small box camera. A brownie, so he can hide it in a lunch bag and no one will know,” Torquette continued to explain.

  “Well then, let me know when we need the film. As for birdies, they can take five on Tuesday, but one at a time, of course.” R finished ignoring Marc’s foul mood.

  “Good, because our nests are full,” Dr. Jackson said.

  “Any eggs?” Torquette asked.

  “Of course not,” Dr. Jackson said.

  “Since none can be found in the market, I thought I would at least ask,” she said.

  Marc took up the board and put it back in his bag.

  September, 1940

  Saint-Nazaire, France

  “Long trenches. Long trenches will work and we will need a few more people,” Marc said to the officer.

  “I cannot spare any men, but whatever else you need, let me know,” Officer Sean said.

  “Well, we need shovels for one. I know there were a lot of supplies they left along the road, so, any shovels, and tarps, something to wrap them in. It is too much to deal with coffins. Besides, we cannot wait. The storm kicked them all up and now it is a complete mess,” Marc said next. It only took a few days once the storm blew through the harbor for the bodies to come washing ashore.

  “Understood. They can’t fish now, so maybe the fishermen can help,” the officer suggested.

  “They are superstitious. I will talk with the one I know, but I have to be careful. It has to be put just the right way, but I think that will work.”