The Siren of Paris

by David Leroy

  “So, Allen died?” Marie asked cautiously.

  Marc looked up and then looked inside of himself. “No, Allen got away.”

  “Did he get back to England then?”

  Marc’s face turned blank, as his mind became a quiet ocean of death. After a long pause, he said, “Yes, he got home. Look, I need to go. I’m upset and I’m sorry that I lost it.”

  “Marc, don’t go. You need to talk more. I want you to tell me what is going on,” Marie pleaded.

  “No, I’m sorry. I need to go. Thank you for dinner. The pigeon, it was excellent, the best ever,” he said, looking down at his plate.

  “Pigeon? Marc, it was chicken,” Marie said, looking at him again with concern.

  “Chicken?” Marc gasped and touched the edge of the plate. “I had chicken?” He nearly started to cry. “Where did you get chicken? How do you get this food?” he pleaded, his voice squeaking. He looked around for his coat.

  “Marc, please stay, you need to talk,” Marie got up from the table.

  “I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I need to go,” he said, looking back at the plate. I can’t believe I tasted chicken, he thought to himself as he walked out the door.

  Marie sat down at the table and stared blankly at the remnants of their meal. Over and over again, she reminded herself why she was there, and what her job was with Marc. She continued to hold down any sympathy she had inside for him like a drunk attempting not to vomit on the street. She continued the mantra in her mind that she had told to the Gestapo agent so many times: What do I care for these fleas upon a newborn puppy? France needs to cast them off forever.

  “A new Europe needs brave men, Marc. You don’t make the cut.”

  Chapter 30

  “I am sorry,” Marie said to Marc in the market.

  “Why? You didn’t go mad,” Marc said, trying to avoid looking into her eyes. “I’m sorry I got so upset, but don’t think for a moment that I did not believe what I was saying.”

  “I know, I know, and I’ve been thinking, and you are right. I’ve been acting like it is just a game and not considering the risk, the cost, and I think it is because I just thought, because I am a woman, whatever trouble I would get into, I could just get out of the usual way, the way I have in the past,” she said.

  “That hasn’t worked so well for the others. Your little plan is not a good one.”

  “I know.”

  “Enough. Not here,” Marc said as he looked from left to right and back again for anyone who could overhear them speaking.

  “What?” Marie asked, surprised.

  “We’re in public and you never know who is around or listening. Don’t you get it, Marie?”

  “I can recognize a German uniform when I see one, Marc.”

  “Marie, I know that. It’s the ones without a uniform who are the problem.”

  “I want to make this up to you. Will you come over for dinner again?”

  “Where do you get these rations? Did you hijack a convoy or something?”

  “No, I just save a lot, plus I have a few connections.”

  “Can you get any extra meat?”

  “Yes, I think so,” she said next.

  “We need some for the hospital. The meat rations are not enough for some to heal.”

  “Well, I thought it would be for you, or us. What about you?” Marie said, confused.

  “I don’t need it, but I know a few others who do.” His face then changed. “God, that chicken was good. If you can work it, let me know. Otherwise, it’s best not to eat much of it. Just makes you want more.” Marie laughed.

  “You said there was there more food in Lyons?” Marc said.

  “Yes, a little more.”

  “So, you could get things there, in the market? Cheese? What about butter? Bread? Did they have bread that didn’t have sawdust in it?”

  “That is horrible. Sawdust? No, the bread was very good. There was less, of course, but you could get things, nothing like here.”

  “Paris is not so gay anymore. Milk—did they have milk? Oh God, I miss milk. Eggs, too?” he went on, as if dreaming of heaven.

  “Marc, I want to get back to us tonight. I love being with you because it helps me forget. I just miss you and I’m sorry about the paper.”

  Marc glanced at her, reminding her just by his eyes to not mention papers. Marie gave a playful tug of his belt.

  “No more talk. I know. So, will you come over tonight? I might have a tighter belt for you. You’re so thin now.”

  “Look, I need to go, but yes.” Then he left.

  “I need to head south for a bit,” he said to himself as he rode his bicycle to the south train station. He stood smiling, leaning against a post. Philip emerged from the crowd and walked up to Marc.

  “Do I know you?” Marc said with a smirk.

  “No, but I could use a ride back over to my parents’ home on Foch Street,” Philip said with a boyish grin.

  “Is that right? You have had quite an adventure. All the papers are abuzz about you.”

  “Georges—how is he?” Philip asked as he climbed onto the handlebars.

  “Gone south, vacation.” Marc said.

  “Jean—have you seen his friend Jean?”

  “Nope, but I’m sure he’s fine. Don’t worry. They are smart, just like you,” Marc said as he pedaled up the street.

  Inside, Dr. Jackson had just come home from the hospital, and Torquette had finished brewing some tea.

  “So, tell us all or we will tickle it out of you,” Dr. Jackson said, threatening to grab Philip by the ribs.

  “It went well. We climbed to the top of the church tower and I had the camera in my lunch bag,” Philip said casually.

  “Wow, you can see a lot from there,” Marc said, remembering the town.

  “Well, not a lot. There are the docks, but the town,” Philip paused, “there has been some raids, so not all the buildings you told me about are still there.”

  “I never thought of that, but it makes sense now,” Marc said with a tint of sadness. He wondered if Officer Sean was still there, and Joan, as he remembered them back in ’40.

  “And, there is something else I think you are leaving out,” Torquette smiled.

  “What?” Philip looked up.

  “Smoochy, smoochy,” she said, making a kissy face.

  “Mother, it was serious. I had pictures to take for the war,” Philip blushed.

  “He is shy, leave him be,” Dr. Jackson said.

  Marc was a bit sad inside that, although the pictures Philip had captured of Saint-Nazaire would help their effort, the place in Marc’s memory was now gone. The body of the town had been bombed out; the soul of the place had left.

  He rushed into his apartment to get dressed for the night. He had a large selection of clothes to choose from. He’d been gathering them for other safe houses that might need pants or a spare jacket for a stray airman. Before leaving to walk to Marie’s, he removed the cribbage board from his bag and placed it on the mantel.

  December, 1940

  Saint-Nazaire, France

  The two brothers were in the habit of walking the shores. After the last storm, Marc needed to get out for a bit, so he decided to take them up on their long-standing invitation to accompany them. They walked along the road outside town and up over to the north shores of the bay, and then worked their way up a trail and over to the beach.

  All along the sands, it appeared clumps of seaweed had washed ashore with the high tide. The brothers were shocked and one said out loud, “They’ve never been there before.”

  Marc’s eye focused upon the bones that stuck out from the sand, as he realized the clumps of green seaweed were actually uniforms.

  “The storm must’ve taken away the sand,” the other brother said. There they were, about fifteen or twenty yards from the tide that had gone out, in various positions, embedded in the beach, all along the shore.

  “There are too many to take,” one brother said to the other.
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br />   “Yes, but we can get their papers, and give them to the authorities one day when they come back,” the other brother said.

  Marc had seen this before, and knew exactly what he was looking at, but just a bit surprised to see so many at one location like this. The sand must have covered them up because I have never seen so many at one place before, he thought to himself.

  Marc and the two brothers walked down the trail to the shore, and then the threesome moved from skeleton to skeleton, checking for what papers they could find on the clothing that surrounded the half-buried bones.

  There was no rush or hurry, and in between looking inside coats and pockets, Marc looked for shells along the beach or, most of all, the sea glass that he had collected over the months.

  Then they walked back to town, each with their own collection of papers, though not all of the fallen had papers to be gathered.

  “How many?” Marc asked.

  “Fifteen, I think,” one brother said.

  “No, there were at least sixteen, and there might have been more,” the other brother corrected him.

  Once they were back at the house, they emptied out what they had collected. “Let’s put it together more organized, at least so we know exactly what was found on each one,” Marc said.

  He was going through each of the wallets and papers, stacking them together and making sure they were in order. “Do you have an envelope, or something to bind them together?” he asked one of the brothers, and then he saw it. Marc stared directly at the wallet containing the papers of “Allen Lee Michaels,” his friend whom he followed from Paris.

  “Do you know which one this came from?” Marc asked quickly.

  “No, not sure, I wasn’t paying attention.” The wallet looked so much like the others, truly ordinary, and decidedly British in its non-uniqueness.

  Both of the brothers looked at it, and then at each other and then back at Marc. “No, why? Do you know him?”

  December, 1943

  Paris, France

  Marie lit the candle on the table before Marc arrived. She put a small bow around the new, tighter belt she’d found for him and sat down at the table, closing her eyes. Within her imagination, she told herself the story that Marc never cared for her and was only using her. She imagined if Marc had been with her when she needed him the most, he would fail with weakness. Marie imagined that Marc was not really Catholic after all, but Jewish, and had lied about it when he was at Notre Dame, and he had disgraced the holy sacrament. She repeated the mantra in her thoughts: France is for the French, and only the true French.

  Marc knocked at the door. Marie prepared to answer it. She had completed putting on her makeup of loathing that gave her the emotional wall of protection she needed to commit to her betrayal.

  After dinner, Marc noticed the corner of one of the papers sticking out of Marie’s purse and just asked her in a very casual tone, “So, what is with the paper?”

  Marie pretended not to know what Marc was talking about, but, at the same time, she was internally glad that he noticed it.

  “What paper? I told you, no more.”

  “There is one in your purse. And it’s not even well hidden. If they should come in right now, they would see it,” Marc said as he pointed over to her bag.

  Marie followed his eyes and huffed with frustration. “I forgot to take it out.”

  “What did you mean by no more paper?” Marc pressed, but in a low, rational tone. “Did you mean you are quitting, or just not going to tell me anymore, because you know it makes me upset?” He paused and looked straight into her eyes. “I mean, what is it, Marie? Can you even tell me?”

  “I meant that … that …I meant that you were right. We are not going to talk about it,” she said with a dramatic flush of frustration. “It puts you at risk and me at risk. It is not safe.” She looked away and said, “This last round-up was tough. We lost some people.”

  “So you are still involved?” Marc asked.

  “Marc, I have changed. You have changed. There is a lot that I cannot tell you. You may see me as a childish, immature girl who is playing a game of cat-and-mouse with the Germans, but that is just because when I’m with you, I feel innocent again,” she glanced back into his gaze. “I feel young and I let down my guard. But you are the only one who gets to see that. I have to keep up my guard all the time. The other night, I let you rant and rave because, honestly, you sounded just like me,” her heart was blank as her mouth spoke the words. “I am sorry. It’s not as easy as me just quitting and walking away from what I’m doing. And, I cannot tell you everything, even though I wish I could,” she finished.

  “How will I know?” Marc asked.

  “Know what?”

  “Know when they have you?”

  “You won’t, Marc,” she said after a long pause, “and I will not know when they get you.”

  “I’m not involved with the Resistance, Marie,” Marc said.

  “That does not matter. You think they just watch crazy French men and women passing papers around? You work at the hospital. I’m sure that men pass through there. Every time a plane goes down, they go out and search for the pilots. Where did they go? Who are they staying with? How did they get out of town? You don’t think they are watching you?”

  Marc took up the plates from the table and then started to wash them. Marie sat at the table, matching Marc’s silence.

  “You’re right. I never thought about that. I guess because I haven’t done anything like that,” Marc said, “it never occurred to me.”

  “Your identity card says ‘Winoc,’ Marc. I’m not naive. I have my own, you know,” she then paused, looking to see if he would acknowledge the truth.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Like what?”

  “The name. Do you like the name?”

  “I have a new belt for you,” Marie said, and then paused for a moment as she stared at Marc’s back. “I only know you are here, when you are here, and you will only know I am here, when I am here,” she said as she got up from the table, and touched his back tenderly. “I wish I could change things. Oh God, do I wish I could, but I cannot. But, when we are together, then, let’s be together.”

  Marc turned and took her by the waist into his arms. “You sexy criminal,” he said, and kissed her.

  The following morning, across town and away from Marc’s normal routine, she met her superior at a street café.

  “And how are things going?” he asked her sweetly. The agent was dressed just like every other man in Paris, except that his clothes actually fit.

  “Very well. I don’t believe it will be much longer. He now knows everything I want him to know, and I have demonstrated to him that I can see what he is doing, even though he might pretend otherwise,” she said. She took out a cigarette and lit up.

  “But it has not been easy, which, I have to say, is a bit of a surprise,” she went on.

  “What do you mean?” the agent asked.

  “Well, he is guarded. And I get the feeling it’s not just about what he might be up to, but more than that. I just do not understand men at times. I thought once you give it up, they trust you completely, but Marc has been different,” she said.

  “Do you think he suspects anything?”

  “No, absolutely not. He was dense in ’39, and is dense still.”

  “Why do you think he is so guarded?” he asked.

  “Why do you think? I have a few ideas. Actually, I have quite a few ideas. He knows I am involved and at risk and knows that I keep secrets. I think he loves me, because he hates what I am doing,” she went on while looking at people passing on bikes.

  “What do you mean?” the agent asked.

  “He hates the Resistance. He thinks it is foolish and stupid. He cannot stand the thought that I am involved with it, that I could be in danger.”

  “Interesting. Do you think that is because he is taking equal risk and knows the dangers and does not like to think of you doing the same?”
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  “Maybe, not sure. He’s hard to read. He’s not clear like the others. Constantly thinking, but about what, I’m not sure. Like some flywheel in his mind that will not rest,” she said, her voice uncertain.

  “Appointments? Errands?”

  “Well, if he does, not with me. He is completely blank on any of what he does. I have tried to get him to talk about Saint-Nazaire, but he avoids it.”

  “What do you mean? Was he at Saint-Nazaire?”

  “Yes, back in ’40, when every rat in town was fleeing to their own ship. He got on some ship that sank.”

  “Ship, meaning that he was trying to get out by ship?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “I have no idea. I know it was bad. He was traveling with a British friend of his, a guy named Allen. For all I know, he might be hiding Allen as a spy. When I try and ask him about it, he just throws up a wall.”

  “What is most important to him? What is his most important object?” the agent asked.

  “The board. He has a board with pegs in it. It is the only thing he has from Saint-Nazaire and he does not talk about it, but I saw it once. It is strange looking,” she said.

  “What does it look like?” the agent asked, intrigued by the object.

  “It looks just like a piece of scrap wood, but it has holes in it, in a design, formation sort, and a few pegs,” she answered.

  “And he protects it?”

  “You’re brilliant. I never thought of it, but of course. It is the board,” she said next in a flash.

  “I think you’re right. The board must mean something. It likely is a counting device, and that means it is connected to the others. It is a way of keeping track,” the officer said.

  “I’ll try and find out more, but I need to do it in such a way that it appears I’m just trying to get to know him better. I would expect a little more from someone who once proposed to me,” Marie said.

  “What? You never mentioned that before. Are you engaged?” the agent asked, appearing shocked.

  “No, well, maybe. It was tentative, until after the war, but I don’t think Marc will be available then,” she said, smirking.

  “You really are something else. He loves you and, yet, you impress me with your devotion. If you were German, I could get you into the SS,” the agent said with a smile.