The Siren of Paris (23 page)

“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 before 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.

“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.”

“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.