The Siren of Paris (22 page)

“And you, Elio, how are you doing?” he turned to one of Marie’s counter partners in the Milice.

“I’m in. It took a lot of time, but I’m finally in, and soon I will have enough names to provide,” he said glowing, “for a full arrest.”

“Excellent. That will make some progress.”

“They cannot win. They are just godless Communists and Jews. The right is on our side in this thing and, with patience, right always wins out over wrong,” Marie said.

“The main one is blind. They have placed a weak, helpless fool at the center of their web. It is sick, really,” Elio continued, “but getting past him was not as big a challenge as I thought it would be. He does not approve of me, but I have convinced the others before I got to him that I am trustworthy of their pathetic cause. Now, it is just time gathering enough information to ensure all of them are arrested. Marie is right. It takes time, and she has just started. I have been working on this for eight months.”

“Elio, do you know if they ever ride the Metro?” Marie asked casually.

“Never. Only if they must escape, otherwise they walk or ride bikes,” Elio said.

“Very interesting. I will keep that in mind. Thankfully, I have a bike now,” she said.

“You should get some fashionable riding pants,” the agent said, smiling.

“Yes, excellent idea, and if any naughty Germans stop me to take my bike, will you get it back for me?” she said, batting her eyelashes.

“Before I forget, I was reading one of the special papers about concerts. You could take him out to this special concert. It is invitation-only, and they are playing Jewish music. If you go, he might run into others he knows. I can get you an invitation, amongst our resistance contacts,” the agent said, nodding then in Elio’s direction.

“That’s very thoughtful of you. I would love to take in a concert. Please do,” she said.

The night of July 19, 1943, was busy for Jacques, for he had several stop-by guests that evening. The work with the papers had grown along with the circulation. The group had a goal for growth of 250 percent for the month of July.

The Bastille Day circulation became the largest effort ever. The size and scope surpassed anything yet done to provide people with information and hope. Several locations printed the papers. The distribution took place in the open, under guards provided by the Defense of France. The papers were passed out in the open streets, instead of through apartment buildings under the doors, or on the Metro seats, or in the market to be used for packaging. This day, they were passed in the open streets of Paris, directly in front of the watching Germans.

The Defense of France had grown now to over five thousand strong. The logistics of the organization had outgrown Jacques’ ability to keep pace.

Elio was a recommendation to him via Georges and of Philip. A 25-year-old medical student at the university, there was something odd in his voice. Jacques could not quite place it, but it was as if his voice was off-pitch, like a bell that had cracked and then been repaired.

None of this mattered now, for there were other considerations to be made. The man had contacts and was eager and self-sufficient. Most of all, he had convinced the others of his trustworthiness even before he’d met Jacques.

Jacques did not sleep well that night. He was up until one in the morning. and then awoke at four, but then fell back to sleep again. He woke to hear his father’s voice downstairs at five o’clock.

“Jacques, Jacques … the Germans are here to see you.”

Dr. Jackson sat across from Marc and Torquette at the table in late August 1943. Finally, there was a knock at the door, and Torquette checked to see who it was. It was R. She opened the door and welcomed him in.

“Bonjour, R,” Dr. Jackson said in a dry Maine accent. R sat down at the table and took up the cards. He glanced at the cribbage board in the center of the table.

Torquette brought in a cup of weak tea. It was more hot water with some color than real tea, but this was all that now could be offered. The table was barren of any cheese, crackers or blueberries.

“Any more contact with DF?” Marc asked R.

“No, and yes. Well, I found a place for Georges to stay.” R sipped his tea. “He tells me Jean is fine and remaining north, out of town.” Marc nodded as R finished his report.

“So, any other ideas for contacts?” Dr. Jackson asked.

“Well, yes, there is another group that is much more official than DF. But, I am uncertain of them yet. They want other things from us and I’m not sure yet how to process that.”

“What do you mean?” Torquette asked.

“I mean that they can take the pilots, but they also want us to provide information and be more active on the ground.” He looked over to Dr. Jackson and then glanced back at Marc before he continued. “They have requested to see if there is a way for us to get passage into Saint Nazaire. They want us to provide a report on the base there for submarines.” He then looked out of the corner of his eye at Torquette and then Dr. Jackson. The room went silent.

“The other request amounts to nothing but street reports of conditions here in Paris and the rest of France. That is well enough. But the trip to Saint Nazaire is a bit of a pinch, in my opinion,” R continued.

“I know the city, but I don’t think I can go there. They’re not going to let an American pass back through for anything,” Marc finally broke the silence at the table.

“We have some family near there. Maybe we can send Philip for a vacation?” Torquette said next. R’s eyes perked up and then immediately glanced at Dr. Jackson for his reaction.

Dr. Jackson looked at her and then looked at the board. He took a peg and moved it forward. “Marc, are you ever going to teach us this game?”

“Do they want just a report, because maybe I can meet one of my friends from there?” Marc asked R.

“They want photographs,” R said as if he had just dropped a five hundred pound bomb on the table.

“Photographs? Really?” Marc snapped back. “How about a sketch or oil painting? It would be easier. Philip can just take some paints and set up an easel and do a
plein
air
oil painting of the base. Would that work?” He rolled his eyes and stared at the table as he continued. “Because I have no idea where we are going to get a camera or some film.” Marc reached down and took the peg that Dr. Jackson had moved. He moved it backwards by two positions from where it originated and then looked away.

“I know where I can get a camera, but not the film. It takes 120,” Torquette said.

R said, “If they want pictures, then maybe they can supply the film? Now, how do we get there?”

“Oh, that is not a problem. Philip has a crush on this girl who is a friend of ours and he will enjoy the trip. And Marc, you can give him some sightseeing pointers about Saint Nazaire. Marc lived there for about six months back in 1940.” Marc’s face stretched in shock that both of them were still even talking about this expedition.

“It is a small box camera. A brownie, so he can hide it in a lunch bag and no one will know,” Torquette continued to explain.

“Well then, let me know when we need the film. As for birdies, they can take five on Tuesday, but one at a time, of course.” R finished ignoring Marc’s foul mood.

“Good, because our nests are full,” Dr. Jackson said.

“Any eggs?” Torquette asked.

“Of course not,” Dr. Jackson said.

“Since none can be found in the market, I thought I would at least ask,” she said.

Marc took up the board and put it back in his bag.

September, 1940
Saint-Nazaire, France

“Long trenches. Long trenches will work and we will need a few more people,” Marc said to the officer.

“I cannot spare any men, but whatever else you need, let me know,” Officer Sean said.

“Well, we need shovels for one. I know there were a lot of supplies they left along the road, so, any shovels, and tarps, something to wrap them in. It is too much to deal with coffins. Besides, we cannot wait. The storm kicked them all up and now it is a complete mess,” Marc said next. It only took a few days once the storm blew through the harbor for the bodies to come washing ashore.

“Understood. They can’t fish now, so maybe the fishermen can help,” the officer suggested.

“They are superstitious. I will talk with the one I know, but I have to be careful. It has to be put just the right way, but I think that will work.”

“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.

“
L
e 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.