The Siren of Paris

by David Leroy

  Ships came in and out, picking up swimmers. A dog yelped atop of an overturned lifeboat. It seemed like only a few minutes had passed and Marc waved his hand toward a boat in the dark. He woke up on the deck, crawling up from a pile of life jackets. Marc’s eyes focused upon the oil-stained faces of half-clothed men sitting around the deck, wrapped in blankets. He stumbled toward the galley. The light inside the cabin blinded him for a few moments.

  “Oh, you’re not dead after all,” a young pregnant woman said to him.

  Marc curled up in a ball in one corner of the cabin on a bench. The woman draped a blanket around his nude, oil-covered body.

  “My name is Joan, and you are on the Saint Michelle. Do you think you can drink some warm tea? I am a nurse, and it would do you some good to warm up.”

  Marc nodded, and took the cup in his hands. The warmth radiated through his arms. After a gulp, he started to gag and cough.

  “Careful now. You have taken in quite a bit of the sea, and a fair amount of oil,” she said. Marc doubled over and began to heave up his stomach.

  Chapter 23

  Spring, 1942

  Paris, France

  “Robert tells me you are looking for some birds for your birdhouse,” Marc said to Georges.

  “It is true, I am,” Georges said. R was right. The boy looked as if he could be fourteen years old. He was small and thin, built like a horse jockey.

  “Bird care is not easy. Lots of feeding and caring for them, and escorting them so they can fly again,” Marc said coolly. “Have you cared for birds before?” Marc studied Georges’ facial features and his responses, trying to judge if he was a kid, or a man.

  “Some, but we can take more now. Besides, more birds are falling from the sky. They will need nests, you know,” Georges said. He looked like a young schoolboy, but it did not match the way he spoke or held himself.

  “True, very true. Can you come for a game of cribbage?” Marc asked next, checking his expressions.

  “Cribbage? You mean that game of cards with the funny board?” George asked, perplexed.

  “Yes, that is the game.”

  “I don’t know how to play,” Georges responded, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I am the only one who does and, besides, it is never about the game but the company and tea,” Marc relaxed a bit and gazed past Georges toward the park. The serious tone of his voice put Marc at ease.

  “Yes, then, of course,” Georges responded.

  “Great, then. See that fellow over there?” Marc pointed to Philip, Dr. Jackson’s son.

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to meet him for a game of boules tomorrow afternoon about a quarter past three at the park. He is very nice. Play a bit and then he will bring you for a game of cribbage.” Philip made eye contact with Georges and smiled.

  “Philip, Philip,” Marc called to him. Philip then walked over. “I want you to meet Georges. He likes to play boule. You are going to meet him tomorrow for a game in the park and then bring him back for some cribbage,” Marc said. Philip nodded.

  “He needs to make some friends, Philip. Be nice to him.”

  The following day, Georges met at the Jacksons. The conversation started to wind down over to the details of their next move.

  “His name is Jean,” Georges said to Marc. “He is very important to the group and he should meet you.”

  “Dr. Jackson has agreed. Can he come over tomorrow afternoon?” Marc asked Georges.

  “Yes, but no boule and park business. Jean is very direct and busy,” Georges continued.

  “Fair enough. Four then,” Torquette said to Georges and looked at R. R nodded with a smile of approval. Marc looked at Dr. Jackson who had just put down his phony score.

  “Let’s not forget the numbers,” Dr. Jackson said.

  “Oh, right,” R said.

  Marc took the board and placed it back into his bag for the bike ride home. So far, everything felt right to him.

  June 20, 1940

  Saint-Nazaire, France

  Marc awoke in what looked like the foyer of a hotel, though he was not sure. He was groggy and sick to his stomach. His joints ached and his hands were swollen. He looked to his right and left and could see other beds with other men in them. Across from him was another line of beds holding even more men. The sheets were stained with oil. He looked into his memory as to how he got here.

  I was swimming. The life jacket, it was dark, the woman, the pregnant woman, he thought to himself.

  I must be dead, I feel dead, Marc continued in a quasi-dream state. He was there, but not there. He was alive but not alive. There was pain, but at the same time the pain was in the background of his consciousness. Marc moved his arm, but it felt as if his body were not his own.

  He could remember the nude dive into the sea to fetch the struggling swimmer. Was I the swimmer? The ship pulled to the side of an overturned lifeboat. The Pekingese dog was plucked from the small, overturned boat. Then all was still.

  They are dead, too, Marc looked around the room. He was sure of it. I wonder when they are going to tell me, he thought about the nurses. He was sure that he must be dead. This must be the waiting room. They are letting us get better first before they tell us, he thought to himself.

  A German officer came to the front desk and talked with a nurse. She told him something and they talked for a few minutes. He was asking about some woman who was in charge.

  He then walked down the row of beds and looked at each of the men. The German officer called over the nurse and asked about an empty bed. She cupped her hand and spoke into his ear. He nodded and looked up and around.

  He pointed to Marc and asked the nurse about him. She nodded and walked away. The German officer took a chair and then sat next to Marc’s bed.

  Marc thought, Here it comes. The one who tells you are dead must be the one who killed you. He felt an overwhelming sense of dread come over him. He scanned his memory and thought he must have been shot alongside the officer but did not know it yet. Maybe it was not the officer who was killed but me, and I was looking at myself instead of the officer. Marc’s mind raced as he tried to solve the mystery of when and how he must have died.

  “What is your name?” the officer asked in perfect English.

  “Marc, Marc Tolbert,” he said, surprised that he could even speak.

  “What unit are you with?” he asked next.

  “I am not in the army. I was just a passenger,” Marc responded, looking around. He felt an overbearing sense of dread and churning in his body. He began to shake.

  “Passenger? What do you mean?” the officer pressed next.

  “I am not British. I am American. I was trying to get home via Ireland,” Marc said directly to the officer. The officer got up from the chair and went back to the nurse and started to talk with her.

  Marc looked at them and wondered what they were planning on doing with him. A wave of nausea washed over him. He looked at his hands and arms and could see deep, dark oil stains in his skin. The officer then returned.

  “Can you tell me where in America you are from?” he asked next.

  “New York. Just north of New York City.”

  “Do you know how you got here?”

  “I was on the ship that was bombed.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, but do you remember getting here?” he pressed.

  Marc looked at him with fear. He is going to tell me how I got here and what will happen to me next. His stomach burned with nausea, mixed with fear and anger.

  “No. I was in the sea and now I am here,” he said back, hearing his voice as if he was speaking into a bucket.

  The officer just looked at him and then nodded. “In a few days, I will be back. We will talk more then.” He got up and started to walk away.

  He turned back and asked Marc, “Who is the chancellor of Germany?”

  Marc thought and then said, “Eleanor Roosevelt.”

  Then he asked, “Who is t
he prime minister of England?” and Marc knew it was Mick. Mickey? Is it Mickey?

  “Mickey … uhh … Mickey. I think Mouse.”

  Then he asked Marc, “Do you remember the woman?” he asked him next.

  “The mother? The pregnant one?” Marc answered.

  “Yes, her,” the officer responded.

  “I saw her, yes,” Marc said, feeling relieved and connected in a way to the officer.

  “Good, don’t forget her. I will be back in a few days.” He then walked out of the makeshift hospital.

  Marc felt ill. His body shook and he leaned over the bed, shoving his face into the bucket. He heaved, but nothing came up. His body trembled and shook until he could not heave anymore.

  Allen then walked up to his bed. “Marc, you are going to be fine, but you need to rest.”

  Marc looked up into his friend’s face and could not believe his eyes. Allen survived! He looked as though he’d just come back from the bar, without a scratch on him.

  “I need to go, Marc, but before I leave, I want to encourage you to hang in there.” Then he walked right through the nurse and out the door. Marc felt another wave coming down upon him, but at least he knew Allen had survived. How did he do that? Walk through the nurse? he thought.

  Then it came to Marc. He understood what the German wanted. He said to the nurse who was walking past his bed.

  “I am not the father. You understand me? I am not the father.”

  She looked at him, perplexed. “Father of whom?” she asked.

  “That German is going to take me away in a few days to see the chancellor of Germany. Eleanor … Eleanor Roosevelt. And she is pregnant, and they think I am the father.”

  She looked at him, stunned, and could not come up with a response.

  “I am not the father, I’m telling you. It is not my baby,” Marc pleaded with the woman.

  Finally, it came to her and it was simple, “I believe you.”

  Chapter 24

  Spring, 1942

  Lyons, France

  “Here, you take these over to François,” he said to Marie as she picked up the plates and carried them to the press.

  “Now, these copper plates bend and go over the drum,” he said, installing the plates.

  “Can you get me some of that paper over there to load?” Marie retrieved some of the paper from a corner.

  “Now, the paper loads here, but you need to watch and make sure it loads correctly. Stack it this way and place it in the tray, and always run a test print to see if everything lines up before you hit the power and start making a run.”

  “See, just like that!” He pulled a sheet out from the other side of the press. “It is still wet, so be careful, but the alignment is correct.”

  “Now, see how much ink is on this sheet? It is not dry yet,” he went on in his training.

  “Yes,” Marie answered back with an intense look. She smiled at him, glowing.

  “The control for the ink flow is here. That is another reason for a test run for the first couple of sheets. You need to adjust the amount of ink for each page. It is touch and go, and might take a few turns before you get it right.” The man giving instruction was not much older than Marie, and shorter. He was short compared to many other men.

  “Have you been doing this long?” Marie asked him.

  “Printing? All of my life. Before the war I used to work in my parents’ shop.”

  “Is that where you got the equipment?” Marie asked in what she hoped sounded like an offhand tone.

  “No. That shop is gone. This press came from the university,” he said as he turned away to organize the supplies.

  “What happened to your parents’ shop?”

  “They are gone now. Deported.”

  “Are you Jewish?” she asked, with a whispering confessional tone.

  He looked at her, but his eyes seemed to turn inward, searching for the beginning and end of some story.

  “No, not at all. I am French,” he said looking directly at her. “I am not sure really what happened to them. One day they were here, and the next they were gone. Get used to it, Marie. It happens, you know, more than you might realize.” He then brushed her cheek with endearment.

  “We are ready. Now, when you are ready to make a run and have tested everything, you hit this button and watch. Watch the paper carefully as it comes out. Don’t walk away and do anything else. You are watching to make sure the alignment stays correct. If it starts to get off track, stop. Sometimes after a few hundred sheets, these settings start to slip up.”

  Spring, 1942

  Paris, France

  Marc, Dr. Jackson and Torquette were seated at the table at four in the afternoon, wondering if Jean had gotten lost or if he would show. Perhaps even wondering if they were wrong and had been set up.

  Then a knock sounded at the door. Torquette got up and looked out the window to see a young man, slightly heavier set than Georges. She opened the door and said, “Bonjour.”

  “I am Jean, I have come to play some cribbage with your club,” the young man said, as he believed he was going to play cards.

  “Excellent. Please come in and sit down. I will take your coat,” Torquette said.

  “Jean, have you played this game before?” Dr. Jackson asked him, grinning.

  “Birdies, or cribbage?” Jean responded in a serious, straightforward manner.

  “Well, both?” Marc said.

  Jean then laughed. “No, I have never played cribbage before. It is an odd game. I am not good with cards.”

  “Well, you can certainly be a part of this club. Only Marc seems to understand the stupid game,” Torquette said dismissively.

  “Jean, how soon do you think you can have a nest ready?” Marc asked him.

  “Soon, very soon. We have many men in the group. It is just a matter of working out the logistics, honestly,” Jean answered.

  “Logistics?” Torquette said.

  “Yes. We need to know where and how to take handoffs. We are going to need to come to an agreed-upon method of communication. And, we need a single point of contact. A go-to for your group, and a point of contact for our group,” Jean explained matter-of-factly. His tone seemed completely out of place for a schoolboy.

  Dr. Jackson nodded and pulled a peg, then put it down into another hole on the board, smiling at Marc. “Jean, we are not really a group, but just people trying to help others in need. I hope you understand that.”

  “Agreed,” Marc said. “I will be the single point of contact. Everything will go through me.” Marc nodded as he glanced at both Dr. Jackson and Torquette, confirming what they had spoken about before Jean’s arrival.

  “Then it is settled. You will meet our head and he will interview you. He is the one who knows all the others and acts as our single point of contact. Georges and I are not in charge. He is.”

  “When?” Marc asked and took a deep breath.

  “Wednesday. I will give you instructions through Georges. We need to keep things appearing normal with him, so, you will be asked to bring a package, just some books,” Jean said.

  “Excellent. We need a nest soon. We have too many birds right now and some need to get flying home. So, we need to get started sooner than we expected,” Marc said. He was frustrated that this process was taking so long.

  They finished their tea and Marc told them their scores for the game that day. He then took the board and placed it back into his bag.

  July, 1940

  Saint-Nazaire

  “Maybe you should go south?” the German officer suggested to him.

  “To Spain?” Marc asked.

  “Yes, Spain?” the officer pressed again.

  “Are you going to drive me there?”

  “Well, no, but it is an idea,” the officer said with a curious look.

  “I don’t know anyone in Spain. I mean, it sounds like a good idea, but how I am going to get over the border? I do not have a passport. I have no papers. I don’t have any mo
ney.” He turned to the window and with a voice of desperation said, “It is all out there. I am not just going to stroll down to Spain and show up at the border and say, ‘Let me through, American here.’” The officer sat back in his chair, bemused by Marc’s rant.

  “I know someone north,” Marc said.

  “Oh, England?” the officer responded with interest.

  “Yes. Do you think I could go north?”

  “Oh, no problem. I will put you on a U-boat and they will just drop you off in Southampton. Do you want Churchill … oh, excuse me, Mickey, to meet you at the dock?”

  “So, going north is not an option,” Marc said quietly.

  “No,” the officer said looking up with a smile, “look, I believe you are an American. If you were British, we would not be having this talk. But the fact is you were born in France. So, that makes you a French citizen as well. And, if I wanted to, I could have you arrested and put into a POW camp, or even worse.”

  “But I am not a soldier,” Marc complained.

  “Yes, yes, I know, but still, the point is, you have no passport, no proof, and even though I can radio back and check in on this or that about your story, you don’t want that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you do not want me to verify your citizenship, because then you are on record. Then, something must be done,” the officer raised his eyes. “I don’t like paperwork.”

  Marc shifted to one side of his chair as he looked down at the desk. He then shifted back, looked at the portrait of the French head of Parliament and back at the officer.

  “We have not got around to changing them out yet. Other duties, you know. What about instead of a POW camp, you stay here a bit? I need some help with a problem,” the officer said.

  “Problem?”

  “Yes, a problem. Your savior friend, Joan, is bugging me about the bodies washing ashore, and she will not let up. If there is one Brit I would like to send back over the Channel, it is that one.”

  Marc sat and listened, taking in what the officer told him, realizing just how stuck he was. He had no way of traveling south and he knew it was dangerous. Even if he could get to the border, he had no idea with whom or where he would stay in Spain. If at any point he should be stopped in France, he would be arrested without his papers. At least with the hospital, he knew people.