The Siren of Paris (26 page)

Allen said to Marc in the clearest tone, “Be careful of the butterflies.”

Marc awoke and immediately jumped from his bed. His skin itched. Wide-awake, he ran to the sink to wash. There was nothing on him to wash, but he scrubbed his arms. He breathed deep and fast, and his heart raced in his chest.

He stopped washing his arms and looked at his face in the mirror. He then closed his eyes, again seeing Allen in his mind’s eye. He held onto his face. It had been now just under four years. He wanted to shake the dream, but could not resist the temptation to share a few more minutes of sweet friendship with a familiar face unburdened by the trials of life and war.

“T
here is someone out in the garden for you,” the orderly said to Marc.

“Who is it?” Marc said.

“Don’t know, but says he knows you.”

Marc walked out into the hospital’s garden. He looked around and almost left, believing whoever it was had already gone.

“Are you Marc?” the man said, emerging from a bush.

“Yes. How do you know my name?” Marc asked the airman. None of the airmen whom Marc had assisted over the years ever openly asked his name like this, and when he did give it, it was short, such as “M,” or even Winoc. Many times Marc concealed that he was even from America as his own personal joke on the airmen.

“Dr. Jackson told me that if he was not here, to ask for you,” he said. A trigger inside Marc closed all the doors of trust.
Could this be true?
he considered. The man seemed American, and was in a flight uniform but, still, how in the world did this man know ahead of time to ask for Dr. Jackson, and how is it that Dr. Jackson had told him that Marc would be a back-up?

Nothing like this had been discussed in the past, but perhaps Dr. Jackson knew something was coming. Perhaps his arrest was not so much a surprise to him, as it was to Marc.

“Is that so? When did you talk with Dr. Jackson about this?” Marc asked the man, still trying to decide who he was under the uniform.

“I didn’t. He is not here. But according to what we were told at the base, if we could make it here, we were to ask for him, and if not him, then you,” he explained next.

“You were told this where? What base?” Marc pressed quietly.

“The airbase, in Britain, before we took off on the mission for the factory,” he said.

“What factory?”

“The Renault factory, you know, the one that burned to the ground a few weeks ago.”

“You’ve been down that long?”

“Yes. I was staying with someone who then brought me here.”

“Is that so,” Marc said. He pondered to himself.
Could it really be true
?
Could it have traveled all the way through the previous airmen, through the hospital, down to Lyons and through to Spain, and back to England?
He had been doing this now for a few years, so, anything was possible. But the idea that Marc was actually now a person who was known to British and American air forces, as well as Dr. Jackson, Marc found a bit odd, but plausible.

“Here, it’s in here,” the airman said. He pulled from his pocket a small officers’ guide, which Marc had seen before. “See?” He pointed to a page with a small detail about the American Hospital in Paris, and Dr. J, and Mr. M. Marc grew alarmed and horrified that they would be so stupid as to print that in a book that could fall into enemy hands.

“Look, are you able to help with a place? I haven’t had any food and have been on the run for a bit. The people I was staying with couldn’t keep me and they brought me close enough to the hospital. Can you help me get to the next leg out of Paris?” the man asked.

Obviously, the airman knew not only about his mission but what to do if he should be downed. And it was 1944. Back in ’42, even ’43, this was simply not the case. Marc’s guard eventually dropped to the familiar American accent.

“Yes. Stay out here until I come for you. I need to get some stuff,” Marc said.

The airman returned with Marc to his apartment that night. Marc had a change of clothes at the hospital for just such occasions, so he was able to pass through the streets of Paris without too much problem. Marc had become remarkably adept at bypassing the checkpoints. The airman was appreciative and a bit chatty at times that night.

“Do you play cribbage?” the airman asked Marc while looking at the board on the mantel.

Marc glanced at the board. “Sometimes. It was a gift.”

December, 1940
Saint-Nazaire, France

Joan rolled over to her side. She looked at the clock and told herself,
Five more minutes
. The clocked chimed at the top of the hour. She started to lift herself out of bed, looking out the window.

“What a stormy day. Maybe I will not take a walk,” she said out loud to herself. A knock came to the door.

“Yes.”

“Breakfast.”

“All right,” she said as she fell back into the bed.

Marc opened the door and brought in the tray. He set it up on her lap and then took the seat next to the bed.

“Is something bothering you?” Joan said.

“I have something to tell you. I am going back, Joan. I have made the decision,” Marc said.

“Oh, back to England?”

“No, I am going back to Paris.”

“But I thought you were going up to England and then back home to America? There is nothing back in Paris for you, Marc, nothing but trouble, that is,” she said, and then let out a small moan of discomfort.

“I have decided to go back to Paris. I know other Americans there, and I think I might be able to help out with the American Hospital.” He sounded rehearsed to Joan.

“Sounds like you have this all thought out. I didn’t know you wanted to go into medicine full time. I could use the help around here, Marc. Why not stay in Saint-Nazaire?”

“Joan, there is nothing here for me to do. The other nurses can help. There is no more work to be done with the yards. I need to go back. There, I might be able to make a difference.” The words fell away from his mouth over her covers and out the windows to the sea.

“What has changed? What is the hurry all of a sudden? I mean, you were going to go up to England and stay with your friend, Allen.” She held her stomach as it cramped. “Why do you all of a sudden now want to go to Paris? What are you running from, Marc?” she whispered a little too loudly, unaware that Marc had heard her.

“I’m not running away, Joan. I just need to be someplace where I am needed. I cannot go back to America and just resume my plush life in New York and forget about everyone I know in France. There are Americans in Paris, not many, but still, and I just think that’s the best place for me right now,” Marc’s voice stood firm.

She listened and then said, “You found him, didn’t you. You found your friend and now …”

“Yes.”

“I understand now. I have appreciated you here these months. Without you, I would have had to deal with that German officer directly, and you made that a lot easier,” she went on.

“He’s not as bad as you make him out to be. He’s just trying to survive like you are.”

“When do you leave?”

“Maybe tomorrow. I’ll find out in the morning.”

“Do you know why you are going?”

“Yes. I think back in Paris, I can help at the hospital, and help others who are trying to make it through.”

“Not even close, Marc, not even close,” she said, looking out at the sea.

“Joan, I can’t go north. Even if Allen were alive and I had a place to stay in London, I can’t get across the Channel.” He sounded like a child complaining to his mother. “I can’t really go south. I have no proof of my American citizenship. I lost everything on that ship out there.” He then looked out and checked if the tide was low, where the superstructure haunted the coastline. “If I even got over the border, I don’t know anyone in Spain and would not know where to go. And, besides, after everything now, I cannot go home. At least in Paris, I can do something.”

“Marc, listen to me carefully. Do you know why I dragged you from the ocean that day? Do you know what drove me when I was nearly eight months pregnant to convince a French fisherman to go out there and get you swimmers? I got news for you, friend. It wasn’t because God called me and said, ‘Hey, you got to save these chaps.’

“I saved you, not because I was trying to save you, but because I was trying to save the one whom I had lost in the past. I was trying to save the one soldier who died who I thought I could save if only I had done this, or that.

“And that dead soldier, whom I could not save—drives me in ways I can’t quite get at. I lost my baby, Marc, because I was so driven by that need to save him. That is why I was out there that day, and dragged you from the sea back to my hospital. Angels do have demons, you know.

“And you are exactly the same. You’re not going back to Paris to help others. You are going back to try and save Allen, but he’s dead. So, now to make up for the fact you are alive, you are taking his place and going back to Paris to help others through,” she said as she picked at her food. Marc shifted his weight and crossed his arms.

“Maybe you have something. Is that wrong?” he asked.

“No. Not at all,” she paused and stared at the ocean. “I used to think it was wrong, but I don’t anymore. It is just part of who I am and why I do things. What is wrong, Marc, is lying to yourself. What is wrong is telling yourself it is some other reason and justifying your motives with some false ideas. That is wrong.”

“I see,” he said. “I think I understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

“Marc, go back to Paris and find what you need to do. Help as many people as you can. I would if I could get out of this bed,” she said. “Just don’t fool yourself as to why you’re going back to Paris.”

“Thank you for understanding. I will be back in a bit for the tray.” Marc then left the room. Joan picked at her food a bit more. She looked again up at the window and caught a break in the clouds.

“Oh, maybe there will be a break? Ha, some angel of Saint-Nazaire I am! I can’t even part the clouds.”

I don’t think he heard a word I said, but all the same, it would make no difference. He is going to do whatever he wants, because I would
, she thought as she gazed at the waves.

“Oh my Lazarus sur Mer, I raised you from the dead of the sea, and now you are searching to go do the same.”

May, 1944
Paris, France

“So, do you play the game?” the airman asked him pointing to the board.

“Yes, at times, but not lately,” Marc said.

“I would love to play cribbage. It would help me relax,” the airman said.

“I would, friend, but I don’t have any cards,” Marc said in a distant voice. Marc weighed the options of telling the airman of the possible danger he was in by staying here, or keeping his silence.

“Pity. What happened to the cards?” the airman asked. Marc then remembered that the Jacksons were arrested.
How could I have forgotten so soon?
he thought. The cards were always at their apartment and Marc would bring the board.

“Some friends borrowed them and have not returned them yet,” Marc said, deciding to smile and push away his sadness.

The next morning Marc told the airman, “Stay away from the windows and do not let anyone in, or answer the door ever. Understand? You are not safe here, but safer than out in the garden. I need to head to work but will be back soon.” Marc started to leave.

“Sorry that I don’t have anything to eat. Things are very tight right now, but I will see what I can get from a friend coming into town,” he said, careful not to mention her name. He left a cryptic message for his American friend Drew that he needed to repair some socks. She lived south of Paris on a farm. He never called for supplies for himself, but only when he needed them for an airman.

“When do I head south?” the airman asked.

“I don’t know. You are an unexpected surprise, so I’m winging it right now. I will be right back,” and Marc left then to meet Drew downstairs.

“I need your help,” Drew said to Marc.

“What is it?” Marc asked. He took the basket and quickly peeked inside. “This is great, Drew, my God, thank you.”

“I have one who is being a problem and I need to knock some sense into him. He is acting really arrogant and cocky, like some do, and seems to think he is king of the house,” Drew went on in a low voice.

“Give me a minute and I’ll go with you,” Marc said to Drew as he ran upstairs to put away the supplies. “Listen, I need to go help my friend out a bit, and this is all you have. I cannot cook for you right now, but I will be back. Look at me and listen,” Marc said firmly to the airman. “This is all, it has to last, and you have no idea what it took for me to get this. I will be back. Stay away from the windows and do not answer the door,” Marc finished.

The airman looked at the basket full of eggs, some vegetables, and bread.

Drew walked with a determination about her, and Marc did not say a word as he followed. She wore her hair up, in a bun, but looked younger than her true age. She had worked in radio, and Marc had met her through other safe house contacts. Normally they would muse about America and the war, but not today. Drew was on a mission.

They walked quickly up the stairs to the flat and rang the bell twice, with one knock. A much older French woman opened the door and they started to greet each other in French.

“You, we are taking a walk. Let’s go,” she said to a tall, handsome captain Marc had never seen before. He looked a little shocked, and was maybe twenty-one years old. He glanced at Marc and could tell he was the same age, but gave him a slightly dirty look. Marc suspected he believed he was French.

“Where are we going?” he said in a New England accent as they walked down the stairs.

“Shut up,” she said curtly.

“Silence,” Marc said firmly.

After walking a few blocks, she turned into a small alley and they walked down until she was sure no one could see or hear them. She turned quickly and faced the handsome young captain.

“You have been one hell of a fucking prick. They tell me you expect to be waited on hand and foot and you are not appreciative of our food,” she growled.