The Siren of Paris

by David Leroy

  Marc realized that he was not much different from those men. Maybe just a few weeks more and he would be exactly like them. It shocked him as he realized why the sight of the soldiers made him feel uneasy. They are fully alive, not just half, he thought.

  “Marc, Yves has spoken, and it is official, you know, for he is a priest. You must be a god as well, because only a god’s eyes can recognize and see another god here in the flesh,” Jacques said.

  “Jacques, maybe now all the eyes I see will be the eyes of God?”

  “What a gift, Marc, to see God. It takes a special sort of sight. Why can you see God just now?” Yves asked.

  “Because I am not dead, but I am not alive. I think it is because I am between the two,” Marc said.

  “I understand. I feel the same way. Do you think after we leave, we will return to just the sight of the living?” Yves asked.

  “No. I don’t think we will, nor do I believe that we can,” Marc said.

  The soldiers began to stack crates of supplies near the camp’s front gate. No one rushed the food. A new spiritual order came over the men, with a certain kind of air to it that could not be smelled, but could be felt.

  Chapter 44

  April 19, 1945

  Buchenwald, Germany

  “Forward, march!” the leader called out. Marc stood with Jacques and Yves as the group moved forward. Jacques held Marc’s shoulder for guidance. The French flag flew over the men.

  Another group of men had the flag of Poland, and yet another the flag of Russia. The entire camp changed over the short course of just eight days.

  Blockhouses had signs outside of them detailing what can happen to Hitler. Men’s attitudes changed about survival. A tall, wooden obelisk stood on the quad, as Marc’s group paid their respects. Fifty-one thousand stood out, written in black paint against the whitewashed wooden structure.

  Later that evening, Marc, Jacques, and Yves walked around the camp, upon Jacques’ insistence.

  “I want to remember this sound, the sound that came after we became free again.”

  “Does freedom have a sound, Jacques? How is it different from before? Men are still dying, you know, the ones who are beyond the point of recovery,” Yves said.

  “Yes, I know that. But the sounds have changed. There is no resistance in their voices.”

  “The ones who are still dying?” Marc asked.

  “No, all of us. The resistance in our voices is now gone. I forgot how, when the occupation began in Paris, this strange anguish emerged in the voice of my friends. I had never known or heard such a collective anxiety before Paris fell.”

  “And now you no longer hear it?” Marc asked, as he searched his own memory for some voice of innocence before the war.

  “Yes, it has left. I hear pain and sorrow. I am not telling you all is now healed, but now I can hear freedom,” Jacques said.

  “Things have changed. Men now have hope,” Yves said.

  “It is remarkable how quickly the men have changed from prisoners to comrades,” Marc said as they passed one of the blockhouses with a group of Russians dancing inside.

  “Freedom was all I had known before, but I could not hear it, because I had nothing to compare the sound of freedom to. Now I know how to recognize this sound, because I now know the sound of resistance, not just from the voices of others but from within my own voice. Where is the music?” Jacques asked a man passing by.

  “The small camp, in the theater,” he answered him as he walked past the blockhouse.

  “I want to hear the concert. What do you say, Marc?” Jacques asked.

  “Yes, it will be nice. It has been a while,” Marc said after pondering the opportunity for a moment.

  They walked together, Marc leading the way for Jacques and Yves down toward the small camp, where they used to keep the Jews before the Liberation. Then they came to the doors of the small theater across from the camp brothel.

  A large ensemble took the stage, and the tune Dipsy Doodle played. The theater stood packed full of Americans from Patton’s Third Army. Marc, Jacques, and Yves found a seat near the back, as the band played Solitude, and then In the Mood.

  Then the band played Bugle Call Rag, and the men went wild with shouts, hollers and whistles.

  “Why don’t they like it?” Jacques tugged at Marc’s striped uniform sleeve.

  “They do like it, Jacques. In America whistling means you like the performance, not like France at all.”

  A smaller ensemble then took the stage. They played Honeysuckle Rose, and then Confession. The mood shifted and became more relaxed. The music shifted Marc’s mood, and he thought, When was the last time I just enjoyed music without any fear?

  The band continued with a minor swing. Jacques listened to the music, smiling, his face tilted upward. Yves sat with his legs crossed. Marc thought about his friend Dr. Jackson and his family. He hoped that they were still alive.

  Then they started to play Les Yeux Noirs. It was sweet to Marc’s ears. He thought of Paris, and when he first arrived there back in 1939.

  A young Frenchman took the stage and began to sing in a wonderful voice. The first number was Ménilomontant, and it brought so much happiness to Jacques as he tapped his foot. Then he sang La Polka du Roi. The men of the Third Army listened and gave thundering applause after each number. Joseph, Joseph followed after that number, and then Zafouket Na Klarinet.

  The young Frenchman sang the song A Tisket, A Tasket, and the men found it hysterical. Smiles and laughter filled the small theater, which had been a place of such horrible sorrow. Marc then remembered this was the place where Jacques and Yves found him and Georges. Georges and Jean should be here, Marc thought. Then he changed his mind and decided he was wrong.

  “Georges and Jean are here, you know,” Marc said.

  “Yes, I know. I was just thinking the same thing,” Jacques said.

  The concert closed with a wild rendition of Tiger Rag. The men stood for the number, and the entire room shook with the excitement of the band and the singer. For Marc, the concert was a sweet memory, like an eternal moment of time of freedom. He had found the freedom to enjoy himself again, even if only for a while, and most of all, the freedom to confess to Jacques in a gentle way his lies regarding Jean and Georges. The timing seemed predestined to him, like he had fallen into just the right moment, where he had the freedom to speak of them as passed, but also a way to speak of their presence as eternal.

  Chapter 45

  April 23, 1945

  Ravensbrück Concentration Camp for Women, Sweden

  Torquette shook inside, out of fear of what was to come next. The guards called the entire camp together for a spontaneous roll call, and she knew by their voices this was a selection.

  “Français seulement, Français seulement ici, maintenant,” the guards called out. Slowly, all of the French women of the camp lined up separately. Torquette’s stomach boiled with fear. She thought of her husband and her son, and the last time she’d seen them at Moulins. A scab on her face, from a rat bite the previous week, bled.

  As she reached near the front of the line, she saw the guard mark the back of women with chalk.

  “The final selection,” she thought to herself.

  On the back of her coat, the guard drew down from the left and then the right, in heavy white chalk, a cross. Then all the women with a white cross on their backs gathered to one side. Rumors went wild through the group, as some cried and mumbled they were going to shoot them all.

  “The Swedish Red Cross has agreed to care for your needs. You have been selected to be turned over to their care,” the guard said. Torquette began to cry, because she had prepared herself to die and now she knew she would live.

  May 3, 1945

  Bay of Lubeck, Germany, S.S. Thielbek

  Philip looked up from the deck of the ship. He could hear planes overhead, but could not determine their direction just yet. The holds and lower decks of the ship contained a world worse than any he ha
d seen in the other camps or prisons. Guards began to shout out commands, and men started to run back inside the ship as the planes opened fire.

  Pandemonium broke out, and soon the ship began to roll over. Philip jumped into the sea without his father. On the shore, machine gun fire rained down on the swimmers. Philip made it out of the water just past the gunners. He recognized another prisoner, and asked him, “Have you seen my father?”

  “Yes, he was swimming toward the shore over there,” he pointed back toward the ship. It burned, sinking into the sea. Only fifty prisoners survived, and Philip soon accepted that his father, Dr. Jackson, was not among the survivors.

  May 7, 1945

  Buchenwald, Germany

  “Tolbert, Tolbert?” Marc heard as he stood in the crowd surrounding the American soldier passing out the mail.

  “Here,” Marc said, moving toward the soldier to get the letter, the first since December 1941. He quickly tore open the American Red Cross telegram seal.

  “Start: Dear Marc, I am well, living with auntie in California. Mum gone in ’42, and Papa last year. I am so thankful for you to be alive. I believed I was alone. More to follow. Love, Your Sister, Elda: Stop. Richmond, California. USA.”

  “What does it say?” Jacques asked Marc.

  “Everything is great. My sister misses me,” Marc said, and his voice trailed off a bit. Marc quickly stuffed the letter into his pocket while looking around, as if he had a secret to hide. His jaw became stiff and his eyes hollow.

  “Do you think you are going back to America?” Jacques asked next in a neutral tone.

  “No. I believe I am going to stay in France for a bit longer. We need to get ready. The trucks are going to be here soon, and today is our day to leave,” Marc said, quickly taking Jacques with him back to the blockhouse.

  “Did you get good news from America?” Jacques asked.

  “Yes, everything is fine,” Marc said, trying to measure his voice.

  “Is that so?”

  “Do you have everything you need for the trip?” Marc asked.

  “I am leaving what I have here.”

  “But, don’t you want to take …”

  “It stays here. I am not going to hold on to anything,” Jacques said.

  That afternoon, Marc, Jacques, and Yves boarded the trucks that took them to a city near Buchenwald, called Eisenhart. In the lobby of the hotel, piles of pants, shirts, and jackets, along with shoes and socks of every imaginable size and color, laid waiting for the men. They stood mulling around the piles, uncertain of what to do, as if the clothing intended for them seemed too good to be true. Marc started to sift slowly through the garments, looking for something that might fit. He felt self-conscious, aware of his camp uniform, as he picked up some dark slacks and a white button-down shirt.

  Marc then took Jacques with his new garments up to his room. Yves took the room opposite to Jacques, Marc next door. Yves had not spoken much since the concert. Marc could tell by his mood that this silence was not directed in anger at Jacques or Marc, but inward toward himself. In his room, Marc opened the closet door, but resisted closing it after he had put away his new clothes. Anxiety arose inside of him with each hour in the room. The bed did not welcome him, and he felt unworthy of the clean water.

  Eventually, he took a long bath, overwhelmed by the idea that all of this warm, clean water was for him alone, without anyone else waiting or watching him in the room. The bed’s warmth and comfort pained him until he found the space to let go into sleep.

  Early in the morning, he awoke from a deep dream, hyperventilating. Marc was back at Monowitz, before the march. He was near the fence, and one of the guards took his cap off and threw it toward the barbed wire. The guard taunted and mocked him to get the cap, or he was going to have him hung for sabotaging his uniform. But Marc could not get the cap, because he knew the guard was going to shoot him if he went near the fence.

  He sat up in bed, drenched in sweat. Marc sat confused for a moment as he struggled to decide which was more real, the dream or his room. The dream took him back to the day in Monowitz, when the same guard took off his cap and threw it against the fence. An air raid siren had gone off and the guard disappeared into a bomb shelter. Then Marc ran for cover. He stole another cap later from the oven room. It was still difficult for him to shake the dream that had no siren of salvation.

  Marc put on the pants, and cinched his new belt all the way to the last hole. He then put on the shirt, buttoning the collar, followed by his socks and shoes. When he walked, the shoes slipped, even though they were, at one time, his size.

  Marc gazed at the striped wool shirt and pants that he had worn from the camp. He then remembered the telegram and took it from the pocket, along with the small square piece of brown paper used as a pass from the camp. As he turned, he caught himself in the mirror. The shirt did not fit but just hung on him. The collar circled his neck like a loose tire. He looked like some kid wearing pants meant for a giant. A swell of emotion started to overtake him, and he could feel a breakdown coming as he looked at himself. He was in better health than many, but still he weighed one hundred and fifteen pounds when released. He had gained twelve pounds since April 11, but it had not been easy.

  “No, NO, NO, goddamn it, NO!” he shouted as he pounded his fist into his hand with the telegram and small pass. Why did I survive these camps, but my own parents did not even survive back at home? raced through his mind. He gained his composure and said to the mirror, “I think you have gained some weight,” and then turned away. The camp uniform sat piled in the chair. Marc thought to fold it, but then stopped himself. He turned to leave it as trash, but stopped at the door.

  “Jacques is right. I should just let it go,” he said softly to the walls of the empty room. Marc closed his eyes and then looked back at the uniform again. He then tore off the small red triangle and number and put it into his pocket with his camp pass and telegram.

  Jacques basked in the sunlight and wind in the back of the truck with Marc and Yves as it drove down the roads of Germany.

  “Where are we now, Marc?” Jacques asked.

  “We have left Coblentz, going west to Luxembourg.”

  “We have passed the Rhine, then. I guess I missed it,” Jacques mused. He must have been so happy that he could take a nap and let go of knowing exactly every detail of a trip to someplace unknown.

  They arrived then at a camp for displaced persons at Longuyon, in northeastern France. The next morning, the sudden jerk-and-stop motion that Marc made as he walked, shocked Jacques.

  “What is wrong?” he asked Marc.

  “Uh, just waiting,” his voice cracked. Jacques’ ears scanned the station. He could hear the footsteps stopping, but none climbing onto the platform.

  “Come along now, please, one at a time,” a French voice called to the men. Jacques could feel Marc’s shoulder tense up and his movements became forced.

  “Where are you going? This is the right train to take back to Paris,” he heard a voice to his right call out.

  The word train split the air in Jacques’ consciousness. Of course, he thought as Marc lurched forward in the line, it is the train they fear. Another man then brushed up against him, walking away.

  “You sang the other night, didn’t you?” Marc asked a young Frenchman sitting across from them.

  “Yes, for the soldiers. Yes, that was me up there,” the young man said. Marc looked at him and guessed him to be just about eighteen or nineteen years old, his stature far shorter than Marc’s. His eyes smiled with warmth.

  “Were you in show business before the war?” Jacques asked him.

  “Yes, I sang and danced. I had a small band of friends. I don’t know what has become of them.” His voice grew quieter. “I must be an orphan now. I am sure of it.”

  “I can understand that feeling,” Marc said, his voice clear.

  “Did they get your parents, too? They rounded us up and put us in train cars, like animals. They were screaming and
yelling at us like a bunch of lunatics back in Paris. Are you Jewish, too?” he asked next.

  “No, but my parents passed away during the war. It really is not the same thing, but still. Actually, I am rather lucky because I have one sister left. You must hate the Germans?” Marc then asked.

  “No, I don’t hate the Germans. In fact, I don’t want to hate at all. I am finished with all this hate. That is the problem, you see, people hating other people. We all need to stop hating. I do not want to become like the people who hated me just because I am Jewish,” he said with a passionate voice. “Do you believe in God?”

  “No, not in the one I cannot see. You know, the one in the sky,” Marc said dismissively. Jacques sat and listened to them speak, deep in thought. It was so odd that Marc could casually tell a stranger that his parents died, yet would hide the fact from me. Jacques even wondered if Marc was aware of the fact that he had told Jacques nothing of the death of his parents.

  “How can I believe in someone like that after everything I’ve seen?” Marc went on, trying to shake off the question. Yves looked up at Marc and smiled, nodding his head in silence.

  They arrived in Paris at the East Gate station. Crowds of people waved French flags and threw flowers at them as they left the train. The buses drove through the streets of the city and then arrived at the hotel.

  “Where are we, Marc?” Jacques asked, trying to get his bearings.

  “Hôtel Lutetia. We are on the Left Bank,” Marc’s voice squeaked out with the tension of a piano wire.

  “Why are you so tense? Is something wrong? You don’t seem very happy to be back,” Jacques asked.

  Marc pulled him to the side, and then cupped his hand over Jacques’ ear so he could hear over the noise in the room. “This was the Gestapo headquarters. They brought me here the first night of my arrest.”

  “Marc, I will be outside,” Yves said.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but I can’t go in. Can you tell them that I am outside and need someplace else to stay?”