The Siren of Paris

by David Leroy

  “Do you have a plan yet?” the officer asked.

  “Yes, we will dig the trenches and fill them as they come in. Not all at once, but slowly as we need to. We have so many now, I can fill at least a few rows. But, this will not be the only one. We cannot bring them to just this single yard. We will need other yards closer to where they come in.”

  “I mean for getting back home?”

  “No. Well, maybe. I have thought of going south and then getting a fishing boat instead of a freighter. They are less of a target, of course, and I think I might get one that gets me to where I need to be,” Marc answered in a sincere tone, which he actually may have believed.

  “If you need my friend to call again to your family, just let me know,” Officer Sean said. He studied Marc’s expression for some indication of his intent.

  “Thanks, I appreciate that,” Marc said.

  “But for now, it sounds like you will be around a bit more. I will see you tonight for cribbage.”

  “Yes, I will be there.”

  October, 1943

  Paris, France

  “I have a surprise. We can eat later,” Marie said to him as he arrived.

  “What kind of concert is this?” Marc asked, looking down at the handwritten invitation.

  “It is a private recital and very beautiful. It is like a salon except for musicians,” she said, taking his hand.

  “Sounds intriguing, and if you think it’s a good idea,” Marc said.

  When they arrived, Marc became still. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets without speaking to anyone. The first few numbers, he was rigid and stiff sitting next to her. Marie watched with a glow of wonderment and complete relaxation. Marc rushed to leave when the private concert finished.

  “Why did we have to leave so quickly?” Marie asked him, wondering what it was that had spooked him.

  “I’m just hungry,” he said, without any apology.

  “I was hoping to visit a bit with such an interesting crowd of people.”

  “What do you say we eat out?” Marc said as they passed one of the main hotels. “It is pricey, for sure, but it has been such a long while, and I have enough money. Plus, the food, I am sure, is black market,” he whispered, as if no one knew that fact.

  Marc checked the prices first and then to make sure he had enough francs, and then they stepped into the restaurant. Marie instantly recognized the men sitting in one corner and made eye contact with the agent. Marc noticed her body tense up but then she relaxed a bit. Then Marc noticed the Germans in the corner.

  “They will do nothing,” he said to her.

  “I just cannot stand them,” she said in a near whisper.

  “We can go, but any place good will have some, you know.”

  “No, no, this is fine.” She patted his arm.

  “What are they having?” Marc asked the waiter while looking over at the Germans.

  “Rabbit, Monsieur,” he said firmly.

  “Excellent. Two, if you still have them,” Marc told the waiter. “It is supposed to be a no-meat day for the restaurants, and here we are, rabbit. I told you all the good places are where they eat,” Marc said to her, excited about the meal.

  Marie began to wonder if Marc might not lead to anything in the way of resistance. She couldn’t help but notice how relaxed he was in the restaurant with the Germans just a few tables over, and yet deeply uncomfortable around a private concert full of people from the underground.

  The following day, the agent asked her, “Did you enjoy your rabbit?”

  “Of course. It was all the more delicious considering it was surely black market.”

  “And the concert? Did your friend meet or see anyone of special interest?”

  “Not one. If he did, he sure avoided them. Maybe that is why he was so uncomfortable. It was like he wanted to crawl away into an air raid shelter.”

  “You mean, as if there was someone there he did not want you to know he knew?” he went on.

  “Exactly,” she said emphatically.

  “Sometimes, it is what is not said, the lack of hello that speaks louder than the warm greeting,” he said.

  “I never thought of it that way, but you are right. He was more uncomfortable around people he knew yet committed to never acknowledge than in a restaurant with Germans who could ask for his papers right on the spot,” she mused.

  “And the music?” he asked next.

  “Wonderful. They did perform very well,” she said, smiling.

  “It is a pity, you know, because not all Jewish music is subversive. Perhaps one day someone will reconsider that decision,” he said, then put out his cigarette to leave the café.

  Chapter 29

  “Le Corbeau, it is supposed to be very good,” Marc said to Marie.

  “I’ve not heard of it.”

  “Well, at least the theater will be warm,” Marc said as he glanced over the crowd of people in coats, hats, and muffs.

  “Do you think they will throw a fuss here?” she said as they waited for the German newsreels to play.

  “With the lights on? I doubt it. This crowd just looks to be hungry for escape,” Marc said, smiling back at her just before the lights dimmed.

  “I cannot believe you took me to this movie. It was terrible,” she said as they left the theater.

  “What was so bad about it? I thought it was fascinating.”

  “It is just the whole suggestion of denouncing people. The writing of letters, and terrorizing innocent people, all of it was repulsive to me,” she said.

  “I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. The subtext is there that people can turn against each other, and maybe even should for some causes,” Marc said calmly. “Next time you get to pick, and I promise to be good about it.”

  “So, when do I get to come over?” she pressed his arm.

  “I have no heat, and no food,” Marc said quickly.

  “That’s fine, I understand.”

  “Marie, my apartment was bombed, so my place is not grand and, besides, I have a roommate,” Marc said.

  “You never told me. Who?”

  Marc stopped and wondered what he would tell her. Would he say it was a friend, or a coworker? Should he say it was someone from art school, or just someone from the neighborhood?

  “Oh, it is a sad story. I met him at the soup lines. You know, the public kitchens they set up. I used to know him from before the war, great fellow and excellent student,” Marc went on creating the story as he spoke.

  “Well, he had no place to go or stay. Nothing too bad happened. It’s not like he’s wanted or anything. He’s not Jewish, or anything foolish. He works at the factory, you know, the Renault factory,” Marc said, wondering if he had gone a little too far. “So, he’s staying with me until he can get a better place.”

  “That’s very sweet of you. I didn’t know you would do that,” Marie said.

  “A lot of people, Marie, they’re just hungry and cold. That’s all.”

  “In the south, there was so much more food. I have to say, I am surprised that Paris is so barren of good food, yet so busy with plays and concerts,” Marie said.

  “Well, they take everything, you know. The only way I got these shoes is through you.” Marc looked down at his feet. “So, in other cities, there is more to eat?”

  “Oh, yes. I mean it is not a banquet, but nothing like this.”

  “I had no idea. I haven’t left since I got back from the sea,” Marc said distantly.

  “You never talk about that.”

  “What?”

  “The sea, I mean, what happened. Why did you not leave?”

  A wave of nausea filled Marc and his skin burned as he recalled the mixture of salt water and oil. He focused his mind upon a small point inside of him for peace, trying to overcome his urge to scratch his arms.

  They reached her apartment on the Left Bank. “I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing you again,” he said. “Look, I need to get home befor
e the curfew. I love you and we will go see whatever play you wish.” He kissed her good night and walked quickly in the direction of the Latin quarter before she could say anything else.

  Marc arrived at his apartment. He stopped by another safe house to pick up a small bag of supplies, which was not much. He bought a small basket of strawberries that were only half ripe, along with a few greens and a loaf of highly questionable bread. He went into the kitchen and then to the back room. He knocked and said, “It is me.”

  “Clear,” came back to him.

  He opened the door and Georges was sitting up on the bed. “I have some food, not much, but something for you. I need to get over to the hospital in the morning. I didn’t see any Germans out today, so it looks like it has cooled down quite a bit. Maybe a few more days,” Marc said.

  “Thank you, Marc. Have you seen anyone else?” Georges asked.

  “No, just Marie. What do you think about Lyons or going south?” Marc said from the other room.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think about doing an escort south to Lyons? Marie says it is easier there, more food, fewer Germans, fewer problems. It sounds like things are a lot better outside of Paris. And you can be the guide for some birds,” Marc continued as Georges listened. “You get out of Paris, take some birds with you, and get south where there is at least some room to breathe and live a bit.”

  “What about the checkpoints? How do I get past the checkpoints?”

  “I am working on the papers. In a few more days, they should be ready.”

  A few days later, before leaving for work, Marc said, “I’m going to be home late. I’m seeing Marie for another play. Remember, don’t answer the door.”

  “I won’t. Trust me, I won’t,” Georges said.

  Marc glanced at the cribbage board on the mantel just for a moment before he left Georges alone in the apartment.

  November, 1940

  Saint-Nazaire, France

  “If I can make it north, I have a place and plan, but making it north is not easy, Joan, and I’m not sure it is even the right thing to do anymore. I think going south is even less of a good idea. The closer I get to Spain, the more important my papers will become, and then, eventually, I will have a problem of crossing the border.” Marc continued to rationalize his plan out loud to her. “But even once in Spain, I don’t know the language. I will stand out. I really will be a stranger in a strange land, and I think it is riskier than the Channel.”

  She nodded, in bed. “I’m sorry if I seem off. It has been another really bad day of it.”

  “You need to take it slow,” Marc said.

  “I have been.”

  “You were up running all around the other day.”

  “And?”

  “And now you’re down again.”

  “I cannot just lie about every day, Marc.”

  “If you feel good one day, maybe if you rest even more, you will feel better?”

  “Crazy American ideas. If you can get to England, go. Take it. Take the chance and don’t look back. Then, maybe get word back about me. You can get word out …” she droned on over the pain.

  Marc looked at her as he searched for the words. “Don’t think about using the transmitter.”

  “What transmitter?”

  “I know you have a radio, or at least almost a radio. I made one before, you know, back in school. I’m the one who got the supplies and I knew when you asked for them they were not for the hospital. Copper wire is not for bandages. The spool is not for wrapping gauze. You might be missing a few parts still, but I doubt it. But, if you are thinking of a transmitter, don’t even do it,” he said in a cold, steady voice.

  She looked up at him with a blank stare and shrugged her shoulders. “Do you blame me for trying?”

  “Not at all, but they are listening, too. They know the same frequencies. They are bringing the equipment into town now and setting it up, and if you send one spark out, just one single spark, they will know it came from here and damn near likely will have you triangulated so damn fast, you’ll not even see it coming,” he said.

  She turned away to look at the sea. “You’re right.”

  “You can listen, Joan, but never speak, at least not here, never here, for they will hear you. Things have changed while you’ve been in bed. There are new dangers now, new enemies, but do not think it was like it was in the past, because it is not. I see it now. Listen, if it works, listen with careful caution, but never speak, not here, not now. It’s not time yet.”

  “Yes, Lazarus sur Mer, I hear you.”

  “Then be a good angel, and pray.”

  December, 1943

  Paris, France

  “That was terrible,” Marc said as they reached her apartment.

  “I thought it was amazing,” Marie challenged.

  “It should be called Slaughterhouse Opera, not Antigone. I’ve never seen so many people die on stage without the aid of a machine gun,” Marc said.

  After a modest dinner for Marie, she decided to try a new approach about the Resistance. “I’m very excited about this new paper project. I want to read for you what they are going to print,” Marie said.

  “Stop.” He looked up at her. “I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want to even know about it and I cannot believe you brought that here.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Marie, I don’t need to know, nor do I want to know,” Marc said, trying to regain his composure.

  “Marc, what do you believe in? I mean, in that play, yes, all of those people die, but it was for something they believed in. What would you die for?”

  Marc thought for a second and said, “I would risk my life so that someone might have a chance to live.”

  “That’s it? That is not dying, but just risking your life. What would you die for? Would you die for freedom? Would you die for France, or America?”

  “I told you, I would risk my life so that someone might live,” Marc repeated firmly.

  Marie looked at him silently. Her hands rested underneath her legs, and then she crossed her fingers.

  “But not die. Why are you such a coward?” she snapped at him. “Why are you even here? Could you not make it down to Spain for the Yankee Clipper? Did your family not send the Normandie back for you?”

  Marc looked directly at her and saw no way of avoiding the argument that had been building for weeks. She would drop hints and then talk about this or that, or make comments about “the movement” or the “the group” or “the club” or “the brave ones.”

  “Are you willing to die for this?” he asked, picking up the paper.

  “Yes, of course. I would rather die for truth than allow untruth to rule,” Marie said passionately.

  “Have you seen someone die before?”

  Marie thought for a moment and collected her words carefully. “No. I am a woman, not a front-line soldier. I mean, I’ve known people who have died, but never seen it,” she said in a voice that gave not one inch to backing down.

  “Then you have no fucking idea what you are doing. How in the hell can you sit across from me and tell me you are willing to die for truth, and honor, and bravery, and all these high-minded ideas you are throwing out to me? Liberty, oh liberty, for the fucking liberty of France, and you have never seen someone die? You have never seen the look on their face, or the glare of their eyes, or heard their last words. What the fuck is this?”

  Marie’s mouth fell open. Then she scrunched up her mouth.

  “You’re acting like a schoolgirl. This is a big game to you, playing cat-and-mouse with the Germans and papers, with lots of noble ideas. It is just pranks. Are you one of the kids who mark up the seats on the Metro? Are you running down the street, Marie, and using chalk on the doors proclaiming ‘Victory’ or ‘Long Live France’?” Marc pushed himself away from the table and stood.

  “It would hurt my feelings that you called me a coward if, for one single moment, I actually believed you know
what the fuck you are doing, but you don’t,” Marc said, realizing he had started to yell.

  “Oh, is that so. You don’t think I know what I’m doing?”

  “This is not some play. Actors find it easy to die for their cause when they know the curtain will bring them back to life another night. The only ones who seem to get it are the animals. Remember the look on that elephant? Remember the shock of those bears that broke free and ran into the ditch to get away from the bullets?”

  “What elephants? What bears? What are you talking about?”

  “They get it. There are no Germans, or French, or British. Just death to them. There is life and death.”

  Marie turned silent as her expressions fell.

  “I said, I would risk my life so that someone else might live, because when that moment comes, when they realize they are not going to live, no one gives a flying damn about this war- the French, English, Germans, or Americans. It is then only about someone they love, who they will never see again, and very likely will never ever know where they died or are buried,” Marc’s voice rushed upon Marie like a storm.

  “That stupid play is a lie. Everyone dies with courage and honor, as if that is how that goes. Bullshit. There is no remorse, no regret, no sorrow on that stage, and you know why?” he screamed at her. “It is not real!”

  “Is that so? You don’t think people can die with courage for a cause?”

  Marc got down very close to her face and in a low, growling voice said, “People who talk of courageous death never have faced real death. They have never felt death all around them, in every direction, and heard the cries.”

  “Is that what happened?” Marie said quietly.

  Marc froze. He woke up and realized he needed to get back to some place sane again.

  “Is that what happened to Allen?” Marie said, her face soft with understanding.

  Marc closed his eyes and looked for a point of balance.

  “I mean, I’m just guessing. I have no idea what you’re talking about, with bears and elephants. I wasn’t there, but you were. I can see it,” Marie continued, her eyes slanted with concern.

  “Yes, and many others,” Marc said, swallowing hard.