by David Leroy
“Oh, what do you propose?”
“I will set up another boat for him, a sure thing, and if he takes it, and what fool would not, you are buying the rounds for a whole week.”
“And if he stays?”
“Then, your round is on us for the week.”
Officer Sean thought to himself and considered carefully what he had seen, and then said, “Make it a month. If he goes, I buy for a month, and if he stays, you buy me for a month.” The officer then pointed his finger at them and said, “And no scaring him off or any funny business. Leave him alone and let him decide.”
“You’re a fool. Your American pet has just cost you rounds for a month.”
“I hope you are right. He needs to go, but don’t count on those rounds just yet.”
Chapter 26
March, 1943
Lyons, France
“I need you to wrap this up,” the officer said to Marie.
“I am trying. I think if we give it a little more time, we can get other names,” she said.
“I am sure we can as well, but that is not the problem. I need you for another assignment.”
“Where?” she asked.
“I need you in Paris. The problem is growing there, even more than it is here in Lyons, and they can use your skills. Plus, you know Paris.”
“And some in Paris know me, as well. It will be a little more dangerous.”
“Francs are not a problem. You will be taken care of,” he said with some irritation in his voice.
“That is not the problem. The problem is that I did live there, and people do know me, but maybe things have changed a bit,” Marie answered back. There was a tension around the entire idea but she shrugged it off.
“Oh, they have. There are very few people right now living there compared to before we liberated it from the previous filth,” Marie listened to him, trying to imagine Paris now compared to when she lived there in 1940. “I would be shocked if you just happen across someone. Besides, if you do, that might be a benefit to your work.”
“Yes, it could be. You’re right.” But it also could be a problem, she thought silently to herself.
“We need to get on top of it better. The usual methods are not working so well. We need someone on the inside to help, and you are ideal. You know Paris, but you have not been living there for a few years now. The old becomes new again. So, we need to wrap this up,” the officer finished and looked down at some papers on his desk.
“When am I leaving?” she asked.
“Soon, very soon. I will let you know as soon as we have it worked out.” He then noticed something else on his desk. “Oh, and one more thing. Don’t take this the wrong way. There is no doubt as to your loyalties. But, you said your family is now living in Bordeaux.” Everything froze inside her as he went on. “But we have not been able to locate them. Do you know more specifics?” he looked up and studied her face.
“Well, yes, I did say they live in Bordeaux, but they have moved since. I did not realize you would need to contact them,” Marie said while observing her own voice for nervousness that would hint at betrayal.
“Well, we do not need to contact them, but I do need to confirm relatives of our operatives. Is there something wrong?” he pressed.
“They have moved since. They are now in Tours,” Marie said, taking a seat across from the agent.
“Do you have their address?” then she leaned in toward him.
“Maybe you can help me? I have been trying to reach them myself and when they moved to Tours, they have not sent their address yet. Do you have some contacts that might be able to search for them? I do want to get them some money. If not, I understand. I think I know possibly where to look,” Marie looked at the officer with a slightly pathetic look of dignified desperation.
“I will see what I can do. It is not my job to track down the lost, but at the same time, I value your work,” he said. He inhaled deeply and looked back at the forms.
Marie reached over and touched the top of his hand. “I would be very grateful to you,” just before she left.
March, 1943
Paris, France
Marc walked up and down the aisle of empty market tables looking for anything he could buy for supplies but, as usual, everything was gone. People were selling “vegetables,” but they were crude-looking oddities for tea or soups. A sign posted warned people of the dangers of eating cats.
Leaving the market, he rode his bicycle down the streets heading back to his apartment, but decided to take a detour instead and headed over to the Metro where, from time to time, people sold goods at the station. He found a vendor who actually had some crude cheese to sell. Marc paid the francs quickly and then stuffed the cheese into his bag.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw in the distance a woman he knew but could not place exactly. He looked for a few more minutes and thought, Is that Marie? He took his bike and started to move toward where she was standing but she turned and started to walk away with a man. The man was tall and French. Marc had never seen him before.
He decided to hold back and watch. It looked like her but he could not be certain. Her hair was a different style, as was her clothing. But the curves of her body appeared the same to him. He decided to move in closer.
Just then the woman and man stopped talking and started walking toward the front of the station. Marc decided to take a risk.
“Marie, Marie!” he called, but the woman did not turn and look back. Maybe he was too far away or his voice did not carry? He was still uncertain and felt like it was her, but she did not turn and look at him. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. He watched them walk away toward the Metro and decided not to call out again.
Marc scrubbed the skins of the potatoes. They were small, and more than a few were shriveled. Dr. Jackson entered the kitchen and picked up one of the larger potatoes, turning it carefully.
“This is a nice one. Downstairs there is some dirty laundry that needs to go out. When you get a chance, take a run.” Marc then waited until Dr. Jackson left the room and after a few more minutes, he removed his apron and went to the basement.
He took a large basket in the corner that was filled with linens and rolled it through the basement toward the large doors and then out to a German truck that was waiting. The driver helped him lift the basket into the back. They put in a second basket of linens behind the first, and then closed the doors.
Marc got into the truck and then the driver took off. The trip was not long, just a few streets, until they came to the back of a store. They backed up the van and then unloaded the two carts of laundry. After the truck took off, Marc waited a few minutes with the baskets.
Soon Georges and Jean came through the rear door, both carrying satchels. Marc moved the baskets over to the large washers and had started to unload the sheets until the top of the heads of two men could be seen underneath.
“It’s time,” Marc said.
Both men rose from the front basket and climbed out. From the second basket, a single man got out.
“Can you take another?” Marc asked.
“We only have clothes for two,” Georges said to Marc.
“Well, we thought it would be a chance. If not, he can come home with me tonight, or maybe over to Sylvia’s place. But, he cannot go back to the hospital.”
“We can take him, just not wearing what he has on,” Jean said, shrugging his shoulders. Marc looked at the man, an American. They were about the same size.
“What about this?” Marc said, pointing to what he was wearing.
Georges and Jean looked at each other and nodded.
“Fine, we will swap clothes. But I need you to send Dr. Jackson, or maybe Philip, to my apartment and get a change. I cannot go out looking like that, either. They will not care where I work or anything. They’ll just see the clothes and arrest me.”
Marc quickly stripped and passed his pants and shirt to the man. The man peeled off his flight suit and took off his boots. He was putting on his
boots after stepping into Marc’s trousers when Marc said, “No. No boots. If you are stopped, they will see that.”
Marc took off his shoes. They were a bit big for the flyer, but he stuffed his socks into the front and then they fit fine.
“Don’t forget I am here,” Marc told Jean.
“Don’t worry. I will go right after we drop them off,” Jean said.
“Good luck to you guys. Nice of you to visit Paris and, next time, we will give you a better tour,” Marc said with a little chuckle.
“No problem, friend, and thanks for the lift,” one of the airmen said sheepishly.
“Do as they tell you. And do not talk much. Remember the French I taught you. Speak low and mumble, and only a few words at a time. Nothing more.” Marc’s tone became so serious; it sounded like he was scolding him. “Mumble when you talk, and low. Do not pronounce your words like you are in high school. If you are stopped and questioned in French, pretend not to understand and just keep asking for a cigarette.”
“Cigarette? I don’t think I want a smoke from some German if I am stopped,” one of the airmen said in a cocky tone.
Marc glared at him. “Only a Frenchman would ask a German with a gun for a cigarette. It is not a joke. You need to act French if you want to get home.” The flyer looked slightly embarrassed, realizing the real danger.
Eventually, Jean returned with a change of clothes for Marc and, after returning to the hospital, he rode his bicycle home. It was close to dark, and a new curfew had been implemented. The apartment stood cold when he arrived. He turned on the lights and did double-check through the flat to make sure everything was secure. He then glanced at the board on the mantel.
August, 1940
Saint-Nazaire, France
“We need to leave soon! Are you coming aboard?” the fisherman asked Marc. “What is the problem? Is there a girl you want to bring?” he then said mockingly.
Marc stood frozen on the dock, his chest tense and throbbing, his breathing shallow and fast. His skin itched as if it had caught fire. His stomach churned and threatened to spill out into the sea, just like the oil had done.
“Come along now, come along, it will be fine. No one will give any attention to such a small fishing boat,” the fisherman said next, trying to coax Marc onto the boat. “In just a bit, you’ll be over in England, so don’t worry.”
The fisherman’s words struck a cord of fear so strongly in Marc’s body that he could not find anything inside of him to override the overpowering need he had to leave the dock.
“Look at him. He is afraid of it,” one shipmate said to another.
“He will get over it. He just needs to get into the boat first,” the German agent spy said to the other shipmate. “My bud needs those rounds,” he whispered to himself.
The German spy, dressed as a fisherman, left the boat and walked up to Marc on the dock. “It will be fine. I know it is hard, but you just need to take one step at a time and then you are on the boat,” he said, trying to move Marc forward. “Once you are in the boat, you will see there is nothing to fear.”
Marc took a step forward into what felt like a wall of mud. He then took a second step forward. The tension grew inside him and the fear churned. Then he took a few more steps until he was within just a few feet of the boat’s ramp. A shock wave of mortal fear rose up from the sea and swept over him. Marc dropped to the dock, violently heaving the food he’d eaten that morning, and then the air inside of his stomach. His body trembled as if all his bones had shattered.
The German spy had never seen anything like it before and stopped trying to coax him aboard. When Marc was not looking, he shook his head from side to side for the German officer, watching from a distance, to see.
Marc crawled backward on all fours, away from the gangplank and made his way slowly off the dock like a crab that had escaped a basket. His entire body took over his mind and forced him to move away from the invisible wall that he had hit on the dock.
A few days later, Officer Sean saw Marc on the street walking. He crossed over to catch up with him.
“Have you thought of a plan yet for getting back home?” Officer Sean asked him casually.
“No. I’m not sure right now. Any ideas?” Marc asked, not glancing at the officer’s eyes.
“France is a very nice country, and can be hard to let go of,” the officer said. He was pleased he upped the bet to a month, but felt a bit of guilt inside about it each day.
“I believe I have secured enough land for the problem,” Marc said.
“Excellent. I am impressed. It is always a good thing to be a solution to a problem, rather than be the cause.”
“I will make sure, as they come in, that they are put to rest quickly.”
“Well, Marc, I am glad to hear that. So, you plan to be staying for a while, it appears. Since you will be around, maybe you can join me for cribbage games? The practice with my English will be good.”
“I don’t know how to play cribbage.”
“Not a problem. I will teach you.”
Chapter 27
April, 1943
Paris, France
“Marc, should we be arrested, you think they would question us about the game?” Jacques asked calmly. Jean and Georges sat around the table, each holding a hand of cards.
“Perhaps, but likely not,” Marc said, his tone cold.
“Let’s get on with this. We have work to do,” Georges complained.
“I have made contact with another house just south of the city. She can take up to two birdies at once,” Jean said.
“We have lost another house, but he could only take one, so we are at least ahead,” Georges continued.
“What happened? Do you know?” Marc asked with concern.
“He was not arrested but deported for the force labor call-up. He was twenty-three years old,” Jean said.
“But Marc, about arrest—how did you deal with this before?” Jacques asked.
“Safe houses? We were it, and still are. Sometimes they stay with the doctor, and sometimes I have one in my home,” he paused. “R has always set up the arrangements south, so I do not know them, but we have never had this many at one time.”
“Tomorrow morning, then, we will be by,” Georges said to Marc.
“The mornings are working out well. Everyone else is up and going about, so they blend in perfectly.” Marc paused and said, “We must avoid evenings because the assumption is to stop you. I was stopped just the other night and it was not even dark.”
“But what about arrests? How have you dealt with the problem of when you lose someone to arrest, is my question,” Jacques asked for a second time.
Marc grew somber. “It has only happened once, back in ’41. I will just say it was a real lesson.”
“And?” Jacques continued to press.
“I was lucky. I was meeting with Boris Vidal and Angus from the university, and then they were gone. I did not know all the details, but I do now. It was an early paper, Resistance, and stupid. Some of us were just lucky, but too much risk and arrogance over courage.”
“Did you have to run?” Jean asked next.
“No. I changed nothing. I went to work and kept to my routine. I have been told if they are watching, they want to see if you react, because that means you must know.”
“That could be a problem because we are each other’s routine,” Georges said.
“We may need our own safe houses?” Jean asked.
“Perhaps, but fear will only stop us,” Jacques said. “The reason I asked is because something is coming up soon. Marc, would you be able to help on the morning of Bastille Day?” Jacques asked.
“What is the game plan?” Marc asked cautiously.
“It will be our largest circulation to date. We are printing up 250,000 copies of the Defense de la France and will be distributing them in broad daylight on corners of the city. It is our two-year anniversary,” Jacques said.
“What if you are arrested?” M
arc asked in disbelief.
“That is what I am asking about. We are going to be distributing under armed guards, but we also need watchmen. We need eyes set apart and away that can give us time if they should come,” Jacques said.
Marc thought carefully about the request and it made sense to him. His personal risk was low, and he aided others taking a greater risk for all. The idea of 250,000 papers in broad daylight, he found inspiring.
“Yes, I can do that,” he said, “but you realize this is going to cost you. They will see and they will search after that,” he said.
“Yes, we know, but we promised ourselves this goal,” Georges said.
“We will have plans, of course, Marc,” Jean said.
“Put me down for watchman and safe house if it comes to that. What is the date?”
“July 14,” Jacques said.
“Bastille Day,” Marc said.
“The date our paper began,” Jean said.
“Gentlemen, this has been an outstanding game of cribbage. You are incredibly gifted players of the game.” Each laughed out loud. Marc then took up his tea and made a toast, “To Boris and Angus, watch over us fools.” He then took the board from the table and replaced it in his satchel.
September, 1940
Saint-Nazaire, France
“I am not ready to go yet and, besides, not sure where,” Marc said to Joan.
“Well, at some point you need to come up with a plan. I can’t pay you to work at the hospital,” she said. “I barely have enough for supplies.”
“That is not it. Besides, I have a few francs now from digging,” Marc said.
“Why are you helping him?” she asked.
“The officer? What choice do I have? Either I help him or I am going to be sent off to some camp, or sent south. What am I supposed to do?” Marc answered back, his voice tense with surprise.
“I hate him. I think …” But she did not get far.
“You asked him for graves, and he got the graves. You asked him for a funeral service, and there was a service. You have been sick every day now and barely up and around. A German, not a British, and not a Frenchman, but a German organized and set up the service for nameless bodies that floated up on the shores here. What more do you want? He is no more a demon than the men who decided to overload that ship,” Marc said indignantly.