The Siren of Paris

by David Leroy

  “I need help with the port to go between you and the hospital and morgue. I am good with French, but very good speaking English. You know French very well, and English, of course. The body issue is becoming a problem and, as much as I would not like to be the one who takes charge and comes up with a solution, that is not the case,” his voice droned on. “I need to get some order of the problem so that every time a body comes ashore, I am not dealing with some hysterical French grandmother telling me that it is my job to do something.”

  “And you are not going anywhere soon, Marc,” he said, without any hint of joking in his voice.

  “Understood. What do you need done first?”

  “I need some land. I need to get a place to bury them quickly. No more of this hold-and-wait business. So, I want you to talk to the church here and get me some land. I could send a German who knows better French than I do, but I would rather send you, because,” he paused and took a deep breath, “this requires trust. They simply do not trust us. You are, however, an American, so my bet is that they will trust you.”

  “This is going to be tough,” Marc said softly.

  “She saved your life, Marc,” the officer said in a firm tone. “She saved you and all the others from the sea that day, and she lost her baby.” His tone grew intense. “But that did not stop her from keeping that hospital running, and has not stopped her from cursing me out every time I come over to speak to one of those sick Brits.” He paused and looked out the window toward the bay. “She is not going to let me just sit on my ass while bodies wash up on the shore. I may not like her but I do respect her, and I also have something of a fear of her. I want to keep things here going well. If I can solve the problem at the docks, then I have a few points with her and then maybe I can come up with a solution for you.”

  “Where did you learn to speak English so well?”

  “University of Chicago. Class of ’37.”

  “You are an American?”

  “No. I am a German. After university, I returned home for a visit and, due to the graces of the new order, I was conscripted to stay longer than I’d planned.”

  Marc thought for a second and realized he was right. If it had not been for her, his body would be washing up on the shore alongside the others.

  “In many ways, Marc, I am a lot like yourself, except I have papers,” the officer said.

  “I understand. I’m sorry but I’m still a little loose in the head. What is your name again?”

  “Sean.”

  “Is Sean German?”

  “No, that is my American name. I would prefer you call me Officer Sean.”

  “I will speak to the church.”

  Chapter 25

  April, 1942

  Lyons, France

  “We have a very large circulation,” Marie said to the man sitting across from her.

  “I am surprised, honestly.”

  “About what?” she asked him in a low tone.

  “Well, about you, a woman so beautiful, doing such risky things as an underground newspaper.”

  “Yes, it is risky, but I am not alone.” She looked up and studied his face. “You already know my skills.”

  “Do you want to go now?”

  “Let’s finish the coffee first,” she said.

  “Agreed. But not too much longer.” He pondered her as he drank up. “Where is your family now?”

  “Oh, they live in Bordeaux. Once they left Paris, they took up an apartment down there. I see them. They are very loyal to Marshal Pétain, and they are devout Royalists.”

  May, 1942

  Paris, France

  Georges met Marc downstairs at his apartment. “You are going to go over to the Old Shakespeare and Company Bookstore. It is closed, of course. Go upstairs and knock. Sylvia will answer the door. She is going to give you some books of Braille.”

  “I know her! What a surprise. Braille?”

  “Yes, just a few. Not a lot, and she will give you instructions on how to get to his house.”

  “What is his name?” Marc asked.

  “Jacques. His name is Jacques,” Georges said, patting Marc on the back.

  “And then what?” Marc asked.

  “You will go straight to his house, which is not far, and arrive at his door on the fourth floor at exactly a quarter after seven.”

  “How long will this take?” Marc studied Georges’ expressions for some hint. “I would like to know everything that I am in for, Georges. I get a little nervous when I am walking into something open-ended.”

  “Marc, I understand but, please, when you get there, you will understand. It will take as along as Jacques needs it to take. Relax and enjoy the visit,” Georges finished.

  June, 1942

  Lyons, France

  The printing room door busted open as a squad of SS troopers bolted in. Marie threw up her hands, followed by others in the room. The printing press continued to roll out the papers.

  “Schnell, schnell!” the soldiers shouted at everyone in the room. They carried them away in three separate cars, with the men separated from Marie.

  They were taken into small, dark, six-by-nine cells. Marie screamed as the guards roughed her up and tossed her inside.

  A few minutes later, she heard the door to the first cell slam open. A man shouted as he was dragged into a questioning room. Then a second man was dragged into the questioning room. After a few hours, they finally came to Marie’s cell, and flung the door open. The guard screamed at her and pushed her down the corridor. They were the roughest with her.

  She arrived in the questioning room and the door slammed behind her. Across from her was a single Gestapo agent dressed very neatly.

  “You have done good this time,” he said to her quietly. “I am impressed. Now, if we can just figure out how to use this opportunity to get some more information out of them, even better.”

  Marie smiled at the Gestapo agent. “I have some ideas. I have been thinking back in the cell.”

  “Good. Let’s hear them,” he asked her, smiling.

  Marie screamed as if she were being hit, and then muffled her voice with her own hand. Then she looked composed at him and said, “Let’s work toward this one—Reni—he likes me. I have slept with him now a few times. He will be the easiest to get to,” she said, and then she nodded to the guard who slapped her hard on the face.

  Marie yelled, and then recomposed herself. “Trust me on this. He will have to rescue me because he believes I am doing this just for him.”

  June, 1942

  Paris, France

  “Here are the books.” Sylvia said as she winked at Marc. “When you meet him, don’t forget that I need some back. Otherwise, I will run out.” She was direct and to the point.

  “You are very brave. Do I bring them back?”

  “No. You go from here to his place, and then away, such as a café, or a walk,” she looked up directly into his eyes. “Don’t go directly home yet, and do not come back here, whatever you do.” Sylvia looked tired. “Just remind him that I need some more books.”

  “Understood. And you look good,” Marc said to Sylvia with a smile.

  “Get going and don’t lose my books, you foxy fool.” She slapped him on the butt as he left the old Shakespeare and Company Bookstore.

  He walked down several blocks and then crossed the Seine River onto the Isle de France, finally making his way to the four-story apartment complex. It was ten after seven. He entered the doorway to the main foyer, and then took the stairs slowly up to the fourth floor. The lights were off in the stairway and he was not sure of the switch location. But there was just enough light leaking through the window at the front door, and light peering down from the skylight to illuminate the handrails of the tightly twisting marble staircase.

  Marc knocked on the door three times and then rang the bell. It was just at a quarter after seven.

  The door opened and he could see a young man in front of him, but could not make out his features. “I a
m Marc, are you …?”

  “Yes, I am Jacques. Come inside.”

  The front hallway was dark. There was a light in the bathroom, but all the other lights were off. He followed Jacques down the hallway and then up a small staircase. Jacques was thin and of medium height.

  “I have the books from Sylvia,” Marc said, breaking the silence.

  “Oh, yes, in here.” He pointed to a small room to the right at the top of the staircase. It was packed to the ceiling with thick Braille books and papers of all kinds.

  “Wait, let me check,” Jacques said to Marc as he took the books from his hands.

  “Oh, yes, I know these,” he said, passing his fingertips across the first pages. “Put them in the stack,” he said and gave them back to Marc. Marc then turned and put them down where he believed they were safe from falling down.

  “She said she will need some more,” Marc continued, studying Jacques’ reaction.

  “I bet she will,” Jacques said, raising his voice slightly.

  “In here,” he said. Marc followed him into a small room at the end of the upstairs hallway. “Sit here, please,” Jacques invited. Marc felt the top of a chair to get his bearings.

  “Are we going to sit in the dark?” Marc asked, perplexed more than concerned.

  “Oh shit, no. Sorry, I forget. The light button is there on the wall, by the door,” Marc got up and reached over to hit the button. A lamp then came on.

  One of his eyes appeared to be missing and the other looked at Marc directly, but with no sense of sight. “So, you are blind,” Marc asked.

  “Yes. I guess they didn’t tell you,” Jacques said.

  “No. I mean, I should’ve guessed by the books, but I thought they were just a game,” Marc said, looking side to side in the room and then back up at Jacques.

  “They are a game. I don’t need those books, but I do need some reason to meet you. It is better for the both of us that, if it comes to that, we at least can say you were here to bring me some books.”

  “Understand,” Marc said back quickly, as if answering a general.

  “Jean and Georges have spoken to me about you, but I needed to meet you in person. We need to talk and get to know each other. Where are you from?” Jacques asked.

  “New York.”

  “Is that where you were born?”

  “No, I was born here in Paris.”

  “So, you are French?”

  “Well, sort of. Yes, I am French, but my father is American and my mother barely speaks French any longer, and I grew up in New York.”

  “So, you are a Teddy Boy?”

  “Yes, you know that term?”

  The conversation continued on for ninety minutes and covered all sorts of topics but never once did they talk about birdies, or the Resistance.

  “What was the name again?” Jacques pressed him to repeat the answer Marc just had given him.

  “Lancastria,” Marc responded, focusing all his energy toward controlling his voice from cracking.

  “I have never heard of this ship.”

  “It was not my choice. You know the Normandie, right?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. You must be of some means traveling over on her.”

  “She was very nice but a bit lonely. I did meet some very nice people,” Marc said, and then his voice became a soft mumble. “They’ve all left now, of course.”

  “What is the other ship?”

  “Lancastria,” Marc coughed, and then started to choke up just a bit.

  Jacques paused for a moment. “What happened?” he asked next.

  “Well, it sank, Jacques, and I did not get home and now I am here,” Marc said, his voice as tense as a piano wire.

  Jacques paused and seemed as if he had another question, but then stopped.

  “You pass. We can help,” he said next.

  “What do you mean? Don’t you have any other questions?”

  “I am the gatekeeper, Marc. All of the members of the Sons of Liberty must meet me and be interviewed by me. Anyone we work with comes through me,” Jacques said in a relaxed manner.

  “But you are blind.”

  “Exactly. See, they insisted I be the leader. I see by the voice. I listen to your voice and can tell, if you are truthful or if you hiding something? I have this knack of sizing up character by just listening, not to the words, but to the sound of the words. A lot of boys who want in are just frivolous thrill seekers. They are silly kids who do not understand the risk, the danger and the price,” Jacques finished and listened to Marc’s breath echo against the apartment walls.

  “You do know the price,” Jacques said to Marc.

  “How do you know?”

  “The way you talk. How your voice changes. Everything changes. I see something else in my mind, something dark, and oily.”

  “That is amazing.” Marc shivered, as he felt suddenly naked in front of Jacques.

  “What?”

  “I never said anything about the oil.”

  “Yes, see, that is why I am the leader. It is not the words, but how they are said. It is not what you say, but how your voice sounds to me. You are not some kid, and you know death. So, you pass,” Jacques said. He tilted his head back and up toward the right corner of the room.

  “Good, because we need help. We have some birds that need a nest, and soon,” Marc said.

  “I will set it up. We have a lot of contacts. There are over six hundred of us now and we are working with another group. Most of what we do is the newspaper, but we can do much more. The rules, though, are the same: Never more than two at the same time together. We never meet in large groups, or have any kind of centralized meetings. It is too dangerous. It brings attention where we do not need any attention,” Jacques spoke quickly now.

  “Do you have contacts south?”

  “Yes, we are working out the way to get the birds home. We can set up the nest and then set up the flyaway south.”

  “Good, because they keep coming to the hospital. We can only do so much now. We cannot keep them long. In fact, we need to stop keeping them there, period.”

  “I understand, Marc,” and then he paused and searched for his next words. “I am glad to have met you. You could have gone home, you know. You did not need to be here.”

  “No, I did need to be here. I couldn’t have gone home, Jacques,” Marc said firmly.

  “Um,” Jacques said, and then took a long pause with his head cocked to the side. “I understand. You may go now. Georges and Jean will set up the details for handoffs.”

  “I read your paper.”

  “Defense de la France? And how did you like it?”

  “I enjoyed it. Someone threw it under the door of my flat.”

  “Yes. That is our way of passing on the news.”

  Marc left and descended the stairs slowly in the dark. Upon reaching the street, he looked both ways for any sign of someone waiting to follow him.

  Jacques sat in his chair, alone, with the light still turned on. He rocked back and forth for a moment.

  “Lancastria. There is a story in his voice,” he said as he rose to leave the room.

  August, 1940

  Saint-Nazaire, France

  Marc was back at the hospital after a long day of running errands to and from the hospital. Most of the other patients had now gone. Two British slipped out one night and the German officers gave Joan hell about it and threatened to shut everything down.

  Marc cooled them off by telling them that no one knew when or how they left. The others had already died.

  A man in one of the beds who had been burned in the oil slicks was still there and shaking. He had been well, and then sick. He would rally and then crash. This had gone on for weeks now.

  The nurse was exhausted and Marc said he would watch that night. The man’s breathing started to slow around 10 p.m. About 10:15, he stopped shaking and shivering. He had not spoken to anyone for nearly a week. By 10:20, his breathing was extremely shallow. At 10:30 p.m., he st
opped breathing altogether. Marc sat by his bed and read until about 11 p.m. He then carefully checked the man’s wrist for a pulse. He put the back of his hand over his face. He then pulled the sheet over the man’s head and in a soft whisper, wished him a good night.

  The next morning came as a surprise to Marc. “We leave at 6 a.m. Be here early,” the fisherman said to Marc.

  “What do you mean?” Marc said.

  “I mean if you want to get across the Channel, then we are leaving at six.”

  “How did you know I was thinking about this?” Marc asked him in French.

  “A friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Look, why does it matter? You do need to get across, right?”

  “Yes, but,” Marc said as he stepped back from the man.

  “But what?”

  “I am not ready yet. Is there another time?”

  “Look, I cannot promise another time. Don’t be a fool. If you want to go, then be at the dock at 6 a.m.”

  Officer Sean could not keep himself from glancing at Marc during the funeral the following day. He studied him closely as the prayers were given for the coffins in the church.

  “Your American pet is still tied to his chain,” a German joked with Officer Sean at the pub in town that evening. “How long are you going to keep your pet?” they poked and prodded him.

  “I already have tried once to let him go. I sent one of the fishermen to set up a ride for him north,” the officer said after sipping his beer.

  “What a fool. He just keeps digging those graves,” they joked and laughed. Officer Sean glanced down at his mug, and then up at his friends.

  “I don’t think it is that at all.” He paused. “I think he can’t go,” he finished, raising his eyebrows.

  “Why?” another asked.

  “Fear.”

  “I bet you rounds for a week you are wrong,” someone else said to the officer.