The Siren of Paris

by David Leroy

  “I have something to tell you. I am going back, Joan. I have made the decision,” Marc said.

  “Oh, back to England?”

  “No, I am going back to Paris.”

  “But I thought you were going up to England and then back home to America? There is nothing back in Paris for you, Marc, nothing but trouble, that is,” she said, and then let out a small moan of discomfort.

  “I have decided to go back to Paris. I know other Americans there, and I think I might be able to help out with the American Hospital.” He sounded rehearsed to Joan.

  “Sounds like you have this all thought out. I didn’t know you wanted to go into medicine full time. I could use the help around here, Marc. Why not stay in Saint-Nazaire?”

  “Joan, there is nothing here for me to do. The other nurses can help. There is no more work to be done with the yards. I need to go back. There, I might be able to make a difference.” The words fell away from his mouth over her covers and out the windows to the sea.

  “What has changed? What is the hurry all of a sudden? I mean, you were going to go up to England and stay with your friend, Allen.” She held her stomach as it cramped. “Why do you all of a sudden now want to go to Paris? What are you running from, Marc?” she whispered a little too loudly, unaware that Marc had heard her.

  “I’m not running away, Joan. I just need to be someplace where I am needed. I cannot go back to America and just resume my plush life in New York and forget about everyone I know in France. There are Americans in Paris, not many, but still, and I just think that’s the best place for me right now,” Marc’s voice stood firm.

  She listened and then said, “You found him, didn’t you. You found your friend and now …”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand now. I have appreciated you here these months. Without you, I would have had to deal with that German officer directly, and you made that a lot easier,” she went on.

  “He’s not as bad as you make him out to be. He’s just trying to survive like you are.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. I’ll find out in the morning.”

  “Do you know why you are going?”

  “Yes. I think back in Paris, I can help at the hospital, and help others who are trying to make it through.”

  “Not even close, Marc, not even close,” she said, looking out at the sea.

  “Joan, I can’t go north. Even if Allen were alive and I had a place to stay in London, I can’t get across the Channel.” He sounded like a child complaining to his mother. “I can’t really go south. I have no proof of my American citizenship. I lost everything on that ship out there.” He then looked out and checked if the tide was low, where the superstructure haunted the coastline. “If I even got over the border, I don’t know anyone in Spain and would not know where to go. And, besides, after everything now, I cannot go home. At least in Paris, I can do something.”

  “Marc, listen to me carefully. Do you know why I dragged you from the ocean that day? Do you know what drove me when I was nearly eight months pregnant to convince a French fisherman to go out there and get you swimmers? I got news for you, friend. It wasn’t because God called me and said, ‘Hey, you got to save these chaps.’

  “I saved you, not because I was trying to save you, but because I was trying to save the one whom I had lost in the past. I was trying to save the one soldier who died who I thought I could save if only I had done this, or that.

  “And that dead soldier, whom I could not save—drives me in ways I can’t quite get at. I lost my baby, Marc, because I was so driven by that need to save him. That is why I was out there that day, and dragged you from the sea back to my hospital. Angels do have demons, you know.

  “And you are exactly the same. You’re not going back to Paris to help others. You are going back to try and save Allen, but he’s dead. So, now to make up for the fact you are alive, you are taking his place and going back to Paris to help others through,” she said as she picked at her food. Marc shifted his weight and crossed his arms.

  “Maybe you have something. Is that wrong?” he asked.

  “No. Not at all,” she paused and stared at the ocean. “I used to think it was wrong, but I don’t anymore. It is just part of who I am and why I do things. What is wrong, Marc, is lying to yourself. What is wrong is telling yourself it is some other reason and justifying your motives with some false ideas. That is wrong.”

  “I see,” he said. “I think I understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

  “Marc, go back to Paris and find what you need to do. Help as many people as you can. I would if I could get out of this bed,” she said. “Just don’t fool yourself as to why you’re going back to Paris.”

  “Thank you for understanding. I will be back in a bit for the tray.” Marc then left the room. Joan picked at her food a bit more. She looked again up at the window and caught a break in the clouds.

  “Oh, maybe there will be a break? Ha, some angel of Saint-Nazaire I am! I can’t even part the clouds.”

  I don’t think he heard a word I said, but all the same, it would make no difference. He is going to do whatever he wants, because I would, she thought as she gazed at the waves.

  “Oh my Lazarus sur Mer, I raised you from the dead of the sea, and now you are searching to go do the same.”

  May, 1944

  Paris, France

  “So, do you play the game?” the airman asked him pointing to the board.

  “Yes, at times, but not lately,” Marc said.

  “I would love to play cribbage. It would help me relax,” the airman said.

  “I would, friend, but I don’t have any cards,” Marc said in a distant voice. Marc weighed the options of telling the airman of the possible danger he was in by staying here, or keeping his silence.

  “Pity. What happened to the cards?” the airman asked. Marc then remembered that the Jacksons were arrested. How could I have forgotten so soon? he thought. The cards were always at their apartment and Marc would bring the board.

  “Some friends borrowed them and have not returned them yet,” Marc said, deciding to smile and push away his sadness.

  The next morning Marc told the airman, “Stay away from the windows and do not let anyone in, or answer the door ever. Understand? You are not safe here, but safer than out in the garden. I need to head to work but will be back soon.” Marc started to leave.

  “Sorry that I don’t have anything to eat. Things are very tight right now, but I will see what I can get from a friend coming into town,” he said, careful not to mention her name. He left a cryptic message for his American friend Drew that he needed to repair some socks. She lived south of Paris on a farm. He never called for supplies for himself, but only when he needed them for an airman.

  “When do I head south?” the airman asked.

  “I don’t know. You are an unexpected surprise, so I’m winging it right now. I will be right back,” and Marc left then to meet Drew downstairs.

  “I need your help,” Drew said to Marc.

  “What is it?” Marc asked. He took the basket and quickly peeked inside. “This is great, Drew, my God, thank you.”

  “I have one who is being a problem and I need to knock some sense into him. He is acting really arrogant and cocky, like some do, and seems to think he is king of the house,” Drew went on in a low voice.

  “Give me a minute and I’ll go with you,” Marc said to Drew as he ran upstairs to put away the supplies. “Listen, I need to go help my friend out a bit, and this is all you have. I cannot cook for you right now, but I will be back. Look at me and listen,” Marc said firmly to the airman. “This is all, it has to last, and you have no idea what it took for me to get this. I will be back. Stay away from the windows and do not answer the door,” Marc finished.

  The airman looked at the basket full of eggs, some vegetables, and bread.

  Drew walked with a determination about her, and Marc did not say a word as he fol
lowed. She wore her hair up, in a bun, but looked younger than her true age. She had worked in radio, and Marc had met her through other safe house contacts. Normally they would muse about America and the war, but not today. Drew was on a mission.

  They walked quickly up the stairs to the flat and rang the bell twice, with one knock. A much older French woman opened the door and they started to greet each other in French.

  “You, we are taking a walk. Let’s go,” she said to a tall, handsome captain Marc had never seen before. He looked a little shocked, and was maybe twenty-one years old. He glanced at Marc and could tell he was the same age, but gave him a slightly dirty look. Marc suspected he believed he was French.

  “Where are we going?” he said in a New England accent as they walked down the stairs.

  “Shut up,” she said curtly.

  “Silence,” Marc said firmly.

  After walking a few blocks, she turned into a small alley and they walked down until she was sure no one could see or hear them. She turned quickly and faced the handsome young captain.

  “You have been one hell of a fucking prick. They tell me you expect to be waited on hand and foot and you are not appreciative of our food,” she growled.

  “They are not giving us what you bring,” he said, shocked.

  “It has to last. It is all we have and it has to last for your trip out of here. They cannot give you everything,” she continued on, staring angrily at him.

  “This is just a gimmick for you people. You are being paid. If I am a pain, then why don’t you just give me to another house?”

  Drew’s eyes narrowed and she glanced at Marc. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself.

  “They get 100 francs per day, per man, and it costs 800 francs per day, per man, to live in this rat hole of a city. You are right. It is a gimmick and we are the ones being played.”

  The airman fell silent. He backed up against the wall and looked away from Drew, first toward Marc, and then to the ground.

  “So, if you want to go someplace else, this man is with the Milice, the French Gestapo, and I can trade you right now for a handsome reward that will go a long way to helping support more sensible characters than you.”

  When they returned to the apartment, the captain barely looked up at the woman he was staying with. Drew assured the woman there would be no other problems, but if there were, to call her quickly.

  “Thank you, Marc. You are such a good actor,” she said to him before they parted.

  “You are a tough bird, Drew,” he said, smiling.

  “You need some more ass-kicking with your new bird?” she joked.

  “No. I’m not sure of him yet. I need to teach him a bit of French at least. Look, Drew, the Jacksons are now gone. If I don’t call you, don’t chance anything with me,” he said.

  “You got it, but I hope to hear from you more,” Drew said before she left.

  Chapter 33

  “It’s me, all clear,” Marc called out as he entered the apartment. The airman came out of the back room.

  “Don’t worry, I made something for myself but I was sparing. Thank you for everything. I want you to know that. I know this is a big risk for you,” he said.

  “Thanks. Risk is everywhere these days. Look, can you speak any French?” Marc asked.

  “Some, but not well.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Well, voulez vous couche avec moi chez soir.”

  “Do you know what that means?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Don’t ever say that sentence again. What else do you know?” Marc asked.

  “Let me see. There are all kinds of sentences in the back of my pocket guide,” he said as he took out a small four-by-six brown pamphlet with the seal of the American Eagle on it, as well as A Pocket Guide to France.

  “Uh, look, that will not be much help. So, you’ve never spoken French?” Marc said.

  “Wait—I have something else,” and the airman took from another pocket a very small American Red Cross map of Paris. He opened it to the section where it had a list of simple questions. Marc covered his mouth in shock. He took both the pocket guide and map away from the airman.

  “Listen carefully. If you take these things out, they’ll know you’re an American. See, American Red Cross? And see here, it says down here ‘War and Navy Departments of Washington, DC.’ I’m sorry, but you cannot have these with you ever.” Marc took them and put them under the cribbage board.

  “Now listen. Say you get stopped walking along the street, or on the Metro someplace, by a German, and before he says one word, what do you say?” Marc asked the airman. He looked back at Marc with a blank stare.

  “Vous sie haben fumer?” Marc said next. The airman squinted slightly.

  “‘Sie haben’ is German, not French,” the airman protested.

  “Yes, and vous and fumer are French for ‘you’ and ‘smoke.’”

  “You are telling me to ask in German and French, mushed together like that, for a smoke?” The airman looked perplexed.

  “Fuck yes, I am. The German thinks you are either American or British. But if you ask for a smoke using both German and French, he will know, without ever asking for your papers, you are from Paris,” Marc said.

  “Foomay,” Marc said lifting his head a bit. “Think fuck you, but instead say ‘foomay.’ It’s not just what you say, but how you say it, as well.”

  “Wouldn’t I want to say it the correct way, to show I am really French?”

  “No. You want to talk like a fool. Otherwise the German will start speaking in French to you as well as the Parisians, and then what? Do you want to die and sound good, or be an idiot and live?” Marc said. He hated dealing with Americans now, with all of the attitudes they had about the Europeans.

  “Why a smoke?” the airman asked.

  Marc studied him closer and began to doubt some of his sincerity, but decided that he just was another young stupid flyboy who survived his crash. “Because everyone wants one here, and the Germans have the best rations,” he said.

  “I have to go into work. I’ll be back at the end of the day. Stay away from the windows. and, if it makes you feel any better, here are your little books back,” Marc said as he took the pamphlets from under the cribbage board.

  December, 1940

  Saint-Nazaire, France

  Officer Sean finished filling out the rail pass, and then turned to another folder on his desk. He scanned the list of names alongside the various graveyards that he requested Marc to prepare. A small package rested on the corner.

  “The American is here,” his secretary said.

  “Send him in.”

  Marc entered and sat down. He took a deep breath and waited in silence. Officer Sean finished looking through the file and put it to one side. He inhaled deeply and smiled at Marc.

  “I am not happy about this, Marc. Not one bit. I am more than a little disappointed that you want to return to Paris. I thought you were getting along here quite well and I had found myself a cribbage partner for good.” He studied Marc’s expression to see if he had changed his mind. “You really want to return to Paris?”

  “Yes. I think it’s best,” Marc said.

  “Why?”

  “I can’t get home. I can’t get to England. I don’t have any papers for the border to prove I’m American. At least in Paris …”

  “Why? I can get you papers for Spain if you need them. Why Paris?”

  “There are Americans in Paris and maybe I can help with the hospital there.”

  “I knew you were an American even before you did. The day I came into Joan’s hospital and you told me that Eleanor Roosevelt was the chancellor of Germany, I knew right then you were American. The nurse told me later that you thought I wanted to know if you were the father of her baby. Who else would have ever thought of such a crazy thing?” the officer went on, looking down at his desk, talking more to himself than to Marc.

  “Why?” he snapped at M
arc as he looked up.

  “I can’t stay here any longer,” Marc paused and looked into his eyes. “I need to get away from the sea. I need to get away from the yards,” he said, trying to hold back his emotions. “I found someone the other day, and now I just need to go.” His upper lip quivered.

  “Was that why you got drunk? I had never seen you drink before, so I knew something was wrong,” the officer said in a softer tone.

  “Yes. I needed those drinks.”

  Officer Sean began to speak, but then stopped. He shifted his weight in his chair and then leaned his elbow upon the desk, leaning in toward Marc.

  “I do not understand you. I will tell you something that most people do not know. I wake up everyday with a plan on how to get back to America. I cannot do a thing about it, because if I leave, what will happen to my parents? But you, Marc, you can leave, but you won’t. I understand that you need to leave Saint-Nazaire. I am shocked you have been here this long. I am sorry if you found a friend in your work.”

  Marc’s eyes turned away from Officer Sean. He looked up at the new portrait of Hitler that had replaced the previous head of state.

  “Marc, look at me. What siren of Paris is calling you back there?”

  Marc sat considering the question. “I know Americans in Paris who I can stay with, and, maybe, she will come back. I knew this woman and she went south with her family, and maybe. I know it won’t be easy. I know it’s going to be hard in Paris. But, I need to be where I feel like I’m needed. I just cannot stay here anymore.”

  “I have your pass. I had already decided to give it to you. I just wanted to know why. I understand what you are saying and maybe you are right. But I have another question for you.” He paused. “Do you see who I am?”

  “What do you mean?” Marc asked.

  “Marc, I want to win the war, but it is a different war than the British, French, or Germans want to win. I think you just see my uniform and think I am a Nazi. It is not true. It is not easy being a slacker German. I just want to stay put. I don’t want a promotion, and I do not want to leave my post. I am just trying to stay put and stay alive. If I live through this, then I win the war, my war against death.” He gazed deeply into Marc’s eyes.