The Siren of Paris (36 page)

“Please, tell Jacques he got better and they took him to the other work camp,” Marc shouted at Yves.

“Marc, I will, but he will also ask you,” Yves said with a hushed tone.

“I know. I know.”

“Don’t you think it would be best to …”

“They took him to the Mittelwerk-Dora camp. He got well and they put him to work. I will it to be so,” Marc shouted at Yves, shaking.

“I understand,” Yves said, walking back with Marc to the block.

Inside, Jacques sat waiting after roll call.

“Where is Georges?” Jacques asked Marc, holding the extra soup and bread. “Did they take him to the infirmary?”

“He got better. He got better, Jacques, but they selected him for work at Dora,” Marc started to cry and sob. “At roll call, they took the strong ones off to Dora.”

Jacques sat and listened to Marc’s cracking voice. He could tell by his tone that Marc was lying to him, but at the same time willing himself to believe the lie first. The voice frightened Jacques, for it did not seem like it was human any longer, but the voice of a tree struck by lightning.

“Marc, it will not be long. We can hear them now. We will get Georges out of Dora. Don’t worry, he will make it, and so will you, just a few more days, Marc. We know. It is true this time,” Jacques said carefully to Marc.
It is true, but does he believe it?
The voices of this place are unlike any I have heard before
, Jacques heard from within himself
.

“I have some bread for you, Marc, a little extra. Please, you need it,” Jacques said. Marc broke off a small piece and put it into his pocket, and then ate the rest quickly.

April, 1945
Buchenwald, Germany

“I
just cannot forgive myself. How could I have been so blind?” Marc said to Jacques as they sat outside the blockhouse after morning roll call.

“Marc, I am blind. I was trusted by all of the men of the Sons of Liberty and the Defense of France with the job of making sure that no one joined who could not be trusted. And I was given that job by the others due to the fact that I am blind.” He raised his voice like a prophet from a mountaintop. “I see not with my eyes, but with my ears and mind. I see things with my ears that eyes cannot see, and this was my job.

“I should have been more forceful. I should have been more emphatic,” Jacques said. “I should have insisted that he not be allowed in,” and then Jacques’ voice lowered a bit, “but I was told that I was too cautious and that he had good references. So, I relented, and Elio became a part of the Sons of Liberty and, ultimately, our betrayer.

“Instead of listening to my gift, I listened to my friends who were gifts to me in life, and now, I am here with you in this place. I have lost now those friends because they trusted me,” Jacques pressed the words into Marc’s ears, still uncertain if Marc continued to believe his own lies or had accepted that Georges and Jean were now dead.

“Marc, I am able to discern trustworthiness by voice alone, and yet I made a terrible mistake, so how is it that you are holding yourself to an even higher standard of omniscience?” Jacques said, wondering if any of it had gotten through to Marc. He listened for any indication that Marc was indeed receiving his words, as they basked in the warmth of the early morning sunlight.

“We all knew and accepted the risks, and it was foolish to think we were going to cheat our way out of paying the price. You and your friends did the same,” Jacques went on, trying to bring Marc around.

“I trusted her, Jacques. I trusted Marie, and then I was blind to what she was doing until it was too late. Because I was blind, an entire family was arrested. I saw them in prison.” He turned into Jacques’ face.

“I so much wanted to tell Dr. Jackson about what had happened, but I couldn’t. First, I couldn’t bear to tell him that it was my girlfriend, a French Catholic woman, who had betrayed and denounced us.” Marc stared into the yard as ghostly men passed by, moving in every direction through the camp. “And I couldn’t tell him because we had agreed beforehand, if we ever were caught, we would not talk about it if we should see each other. I trusted her, and because of that, they paid,” Marc’s voice trailed off.

“Marc, I trusted far more than you did, and far more have now paid. We cannot know everything nor see the future. Remember, I am better at seeing blind a person’s heart than you are able to see with sight. Yet, my luck ran out,” Jacques said, feeling a sense of healing inside of himself with those words.
Perhaps I needed to hear myself speak those words, even more than Marc,
he thought.

“Even though we knew the risk, I did not think we would end up like the others. I somehow believed we were special, that we would somehow prevail,” Marc said.

“We all did, Marc. We all believed we would walk on water. We sank, but it is not because we lacked faith. We sank because we had the faith to get up out of the boat and take the step. You did not fail your friends. You did not get them arrested. You just had faith, Marc. That is all. I had faith. Jean, Georges, and all the others had faith. Everyone you see here had some faith. You had faith in Marie, and you gave her your trust. She betrayed that trust and now you are here. Faith is not a sin, Marc. Giving your trust is not losing your soul,” Jacques said, his face tilted toward Marc. “Losing the ability to trust and have faith is losing your soul.” Jacques realized that he could open the cell door, and even point the way, but only Marc could take the step and walk out of it. He put his hand on Marc’s shoulder and, then took a deep breath. Jacques almost started to add to his words, but then stopped.
Maybe I have said enough, and it will just take time for him to hear the words
, he thought. He decided to just enjoy the warmth of the sun.

April 11, 1945
Buchenwald, Germany

Marc and Yves guided Jacques as he went from blockhouse to blockhouse.

“Do not go, stay. Do not go with them, no matter what they say,” Jacques said.

Rumors ran rampant through the camp, but the guards were gathering up inmates to march out. They told the men that if they stayed, it meant death.

The following morning, there was no roll call and the guard towers stood empty. A group of inmates had managed to get a radio communication out to the nearby advancing Third American Army.

Marc felt self-conscious as he saw the first of the American soldiers come through the camp. The men were healthy and appeared strong.
They walk without any fear
, Marc thought. But it was not long before Marc noticed a different kind of fear in their faces, as they saw the bodies waiting to be cremated, men covered with head lice, and the walking dead appear in the doorways of the blockhouses.

Men cried when they saw the soldiers. Many of the soldiers gave over all their rations to the prisoners. They would eat with a certain uncontrolled hunger until they’d stop, unable to eat any more. The prisoners became sick, and a few died from gorging on the food.

A group of mäusle men, or walking dead, came out from a blockhouse to see the soldiers, and then they walked back down the row of buildings to wherever it was they’d come from.

Marc said to Jacques, “God is not three persons in one. That is a lie. God is five persons and walks in the same direction.”

“What do you mean by this, Marc?”

“They have come out to see, the mäusle ones, the ones without anything but bones and skin, and they are walking away from us down toward their blockhouse. I have no idea what holds them up, or drives them forward except that they are gods. They must be gods, Jacques. But not three in one, up in the sky, like the priest says, in church. No. God is five—no, wait, six. I did not see the one behind the others. At least six, and separate, walking in the same direction, here on Earth, not in the sky like the priests lie about in church,” Marc said, his voice quivering.

“Yves, what do you think of Marc’s new sight of God?” Jacques asked.

“I see the same, but a different number. There must be more than six gods walking. Maybe seven, eight, or more,” Yves said.

“What makes you say that?” Jacques asked.

“Marc, and yourself. You may not be as thin, but that is only due to lack of time. If those are gods, we can see that because everything else has burned away,” Yves said.

Marc realized that he was not much different from those men. Maybe just a few weeks more and he would be exactly like them. It shocked him as he realized why the sight of the soldiers made him feel uneasy.
They are fully alive, not just half,
he thought.

“Marc, Yves has spoken, and it is official, you know, for he is a priest. You must be a god as well, because only a god’s eyes can recognize and see another god here in the flesh,” Jacques said.

“Jacques, maybe now all the eyes I see will be the eyes of God?”

“What a gift, Marc, to see God. It takes a special sort of sight. Why can you see God just now?” Yves asked.

“Because I am not dead, but I am not alive. I think it is because I am between the two,” Marc said.

“I understand. I feel the same way. Do you think after we leave, we will return to just the sight of the living?” Yves asked.

“No. I don’t think we will, nor do I believe that we can,” Marc said.

The soldiers began to stack crates of supplies near the camp’s front gate. No one rushed the food. A new spiritual order came over the men, with a certain kind of air to it that could not be smelled, but could be felt.

April 19, 1945
Buchenwald, Germany

“F
orward, march!” the leader called out. Marc stood with Jacques and Yves as the group moved forward. Jacques held Marc’s shoulder for guidance. The French flag flew over the men.

Another group of men had the flag of Poland, and yet another the flag of Russia. The entire camp changed over the short course of just eight days.

Blockhouses had signs outside of them detailing what can happen to Hitler. Men’s attitudes changed about survival. A tall, wooden obelisk stood on the quad, as Marc’s group paid their respects. Fifty-one thousand stood out, written in black paint against the whitewashed wooden structure.

Later that evening, Marc, Jacques, and Yves walked around the camp, upon Jacques’ insistence.

“I want to remember this sound, the sound that came after we became free again.”

“Does freedom have a sound, Jacques? How is it different from before? Men are still dying, you know, the ones who are beyond the point of recovery,” Yves said.

“Yes, I know that. But the sounds have changed. There is no resistance in their voices.”

“The ones who are still dying?” Marc asked.

“No, all of us. The resistance in our voices is now gone. I forgot how, when the occupation began in Paris, this strange anguish emerged in the voice of my friends. I had never known or heard such a collective anxiety before Paris fell.”

“And now you no longer hear it?” Marc asked, as he searched his own memory for some voice of innocence before the war.

“Yes, it has left. I hear pain and sorrow. I am not telling you all is now healed, but now I can hear freedom,” Jacques said.

“Things have changed. Men now have hope,” Yves said.

“It is remarkable how quickly the men have changed from prisoners to comrades,” Marc said as they passed one of the blockhouses with a group of Russians dancing inside.

“Freedom was all I had known before, but I could not hear it, because I had nothing to compare the sound of freedom to. Now I know how to recognize this sound, because I now know the sound of resistance, not just from the voices of others but from within my own voice. Where is the music?” Jacques asked a man passing by.

“The small camp, in the theater,” he answered him as he walked past the blockhouse.

“I want to hear the concert. What do you say, Marc?” Jacques asked.

“Yes, it will be nice. It has been a while,” Marc said after pondering the opportunity for a moment.

They walked together, Marc leading the way for Jacques and Yves down toward the small camp, where they used to keep the Jews before the Liberation. Then they came to the doors of the small theater across from the camp brothel.

A large ensemble took the stage, and the tune
Dipsy Doodle
played. The theater stood packed full of Americans from Patton’s Third Army. Marc, Jacques, and Yves found a seat near the back, as the band played
Solitude
, and then
In the Mood
.

Then the band played
Bugle Call Rag
, and the men went wild with shouts, hollers and whistles.

“Why don’t they like it?” Jacques tugged at Marc’s striped uniform sleeve.

“They do like it, Jacques. In America whistling means you like the performance, not like France at all.”

A smaller ensemble then took the stage. They played
Honeysuckle Rose
, and then
Confession
. The mood shifted and became more relaxed. The music shifted Marc’s mood, and he thought,
When was the last time I just enjoyed music without any fear
?

The band continued with a minor swing. Jacques listened to the music, smiling, his face tilted upward. Yves sat with his legs crossed. Marc thought about his friend Dr. Jackson and his family. He hoped that they were still alive.

Then they started to play
Les Yeux Noirs
. It was sweet to Marc’s ears. He thought of Paris, and when he first arrived there back in 1939.

A young Frenchman took the stage and began to sing in a wonderful voice. The first number was
Ménilomontant
, and it brought so much happiness to Jacques as he tapped his foot. Then he sang
La Polka du Roi
. The men of the Third Army listened and gave thundering applause after each number.
Joseph, Joseph
followed after that number, and then
Zafouket Na Klarinet
.

The young Frenchman sang the song
A Tisket, A Tasket
, and the men found it hysterical. Smiles and laughter filled the small theater, which had been a place of such horrible sorrow. Marc then remembered this was the place where Jacques and Yves found him and Georges.
Georges and Jean should be here
, Marc thought. Then he changed his mind and decided he was wrong.