The Siren of Paris (7 page)

“He can speak English as well as you or I, but he spoke only German to make a point,” Wells explained, “and he is the one who refused to let anyone have a copy of the notes from Munich. That is why I requested that I bring a secretary. I told Ribbentrop that I could not take notes and carry on a conversation in German at the same time,” he said. Marc pondered if Ribbentrop’s rant was an attempt to draw out some emotion from Sumner. He then realized that Sumner knew all along he’d be meeting Ribbentrop.

“I see. Whom are you meeting tomorrow?” Marc asked coolly.

“I have no idea. This may be it. We might be back on a train to Belgium. But if there are more meetings, he will inform me in the morning,” Sumner said as he took a glass of wine.

“This diplomacy business is a lot like prostitution. You just show up and turn on the light,” Marc said, looking directly at Sumner as he drank his wine.

“Marc, you might have a future,” Sumner said. He smiled and raised his glass for a toast.

Marc and Sumner found the powdered wigs odd at the Reich chancellery. Marc swallowed hard and fidgeted in his chair, waiting with Sumner Wells in the hallway. “Whom are we meeting again?” he pressed.

“Someone. I have not been told. They just gave me this appointment and nothing else was said,” Sumner said, a slight quiver in his voice. Marc continued to ponder his remark about prostitution the night before and what an unusually successful career Mr. Wells has had, given his dry personality.

The door opened to the office and a medium-height man with slick, dark hair walked out and shook both Sumner’s and Marc’s hands. He then eagerly invited them in to take a seat in his massive office. Marc at first believed he would wait in the hall, but the man insisted that he join the meeting and take notes. He was warm and friendly, which was a complete turn from Ribbentrop. He spoke evenly and without any dramatic ranting and raving of the previous meeting a few days prior with Ribbentrop. His voice had a rhythmic cadence at times, and Marc felt uncomfortable that he found himself attracted to this voice when compared to Sumner’s monotonous German shuffle.

Hitler then turned directly to Marc and asked in German, “Do you believe the people of France and Germany can know peace?”

Marc glanced at Sumner Wells, confused by the question.

“Marc is my secretary. He has no diplomatic post with France,” Mr. Wells answered.

“I know that, but he was born in France, and is French, and I am asking him as a Frenchman: does he believe France and Germany can know peace?” Marc’s stomach fell and he suddenly realized Dora was right.

“Marc, I believe he wants to know how you feel personally,” Sumner said.

“Yes, exactly correct.” Hitler then turned to a tablet of paper. “It says here you were born at the American Hospital in Paris, on June 14, 1919. I know you are an American, but you are also French.” Marc’s mind turned blank. “Do you believe the French and German people can know peace?”

Dora came to his mind, when he danced with her back on the
Normandie
, and then he said, “I believe it is always a hope, like the sun rising.”

His answer pleased Hitler. “When you return to Paris, I hope you share that hope with whomever you meet in the government,” and then he continued on for another forty-five minutes, confessing that he never wanted this war that had been thrust upon him. He never again asked Marc a direct question, and Marc resumed his note-taking duties.

Once outside the Reich chancellery, Mr. Wells spoke. “You did very well in there. I am sorry that you may have felt you were put on the spot.” However, the complete lack of any emotion gave Marc serious doubts about Mr. Well’s sincerity. Marc resolved in himself to not share this meeting with anyone when he returned to Paris. The meeting with Rudolf Hess seemed anticlimactic after Hitler. However, the meeting with Goering, Marc found disconcerting.

Goering’s entire appearance countered everything in Marc’s mind of the stereotypical Nazi. His hands looked like the claws of a swollen badger that had raided a pirate’s treasure trove of elaborate jewelry. On one hand he wore an emerald that was at least an inch wide. His uniform was white, unlike any other official uniform Marc had seen while in Berlin. Marc took notice of the artwork that he had placed on the walls of his badger den. Goering stopped mid-sentence with Mr. Wells and walked towards Marc.

“Marc, it is amazing, but I must confess to you that I don’t believe it is an original,” Goering said to him in the hallway.

“How can you tell?”

“It is too clean and neat. Over in America you may not know this but, in Europe, art students would study by copying originals. Often, their work exceeded that of the artist.”

“I had no idea.”

“Do you think there is anything you can do about the situation?” Mr. Wells said, attempting to recapture Goering’s attention.

“There is nothing that can be done. Our air power is superior to all of Europe combined. They are lunatics you know.”

“They are just attempting to defend themselves from what they perceive as an aggressor.”

“I was not referring to the French or British. Marc, there are several artists living in Paris you should take note of and, if you can, try to collect. Have you met Picasso yet? I know his work is degenerate, but it is superbly degenerate and that must be admired. I would smuggle some, but you must understand my circumstances.”

T
he train approached the border of Belgium and, after customs, it continued on toward France. Marc felt a wave of relaxation come over him as the train left Germany. Sumner Wells barely spoke on the train to Paris. He did not pore over notes or obsess over details. Marc’s mind gradually reflected upon the trip.

“It is strange,” Marc said, staring out the window.

“What?”

“In Italy, we only had to meet one person, and that person was the head of state.”

“Yes.”

“But in Germany, we met four, including Hitler.”

“You are very observant, Marc.”

“And, I am still uncertain of who exactly is in charge of Germany.”

“You have read my thoughts,” Sumner Wells said as he turned back to Marc from the window. “You should return with me to America. When we get back into Paris, call the Italian Line and let them know,” Sumner Wells said casually.

“I see, just like that? Who will run the travel desk at the embassy?”

Sumner Wells did not respond. He continued to look out the window as the landscape passed by. The train steward came by and offered drinks.

“Yes, please,” Wells grunted. “Make it two,” as he looked at Marc. “I just believe it is a good idea to leave. Have you thought about working in diplomacy? You did very well,” he said, his voice even, without ever looking at Marc.

“Has this been helpful to you?” He turned to Sumner as he stared out the window, lost in his Scotch. “Mr. Wells, was it helpful to have me along, as a citizen of both France and the United States, in these meetings?”

“Yes, of course, but Marc,” and after a long pause Sumner said, “they are beyond all help.”

An hour later, Sumner had several drinks down. “Is there anything else that I should know about before we get back to Paris?” Marc asked.

“Only that you had met several assembly members and the premier before the trip, and will meet them privately after this trip,” he said, his words somewhat slurred, “but don’t worry. It does not matter. It is just the story we floated. But …” He paused and then never finished his sentence.

“What about others? Do you think I could call the Italian Line and get passage for others?” Marc asked.

“You can try, but I doubt it. I think I have played my cards and lost. Actually, they are the ones who have lost,” he said.

Marc had to help him walk when they arrived in Paris.

“There he is,” Marc heard as he reached the platform with Sumner.

“Grandpa, Grandpa! You are so ill,” the man said dramatically, and Marc recognized him as Bullitt—in disguise.

“So good to see you, my son.” The nun kissed Marc on his head and drew in close to him, taking the cane away to hide in her smock. “His fever is very high, so very sick.” She spoke loudly for others to hear. Mr. Wells looked on the surface just like any other middle-aged man; however, his cane set him apart and had become his calling card to the press. Without the cane, he could pass unnoticed through the curtain of doubt.

“Make clear, my father is very ill, please,” Bullitt said, as the four of them walked past the reporters looking for Sumner Wells’ arrival from Germany.

“We will take him directly to the hospital, do not worry, my son,” the nun said.

No one spoke of the smell of hard alcohol that wafted through the car. Marc held his mind in check as the silence in the car built into an uncomfortable roar.

“I should have told you he drinks,” Bullitt said as the car drove through the darkened Paris streets. “I thought you would know, but, well, I am sorry.”

“How did you know?” Marc asked, still shocked by the ruse at the station.

“He told a porter on the train in Belgium, who called ahead,” Bullitt said. “When did he start?”

“Before the train left Berlin,” Marc said coldly, understanding just how much a failure Sumner Wells felt the trip had been.

The trip accomplished nothing and Marc realized there would be no peace. He did not follow Sumner Wells to Britain, but instead stayed behind in Paris. He focused upon the travel logs. Sunday came, and Marc joined his friends for dinner.

“When are you leaving?” he asked Dora.

“I am not. I don’t need to get back to America, that is David and Nigel’s problem,” she waved her hand dismissively and snorted.

“It is your problem, Dora. This is not going to end with any peace agreement,” he said. She looked out the window at the street. Marc became frustrated at her denial over the danger of the war.

“Marc, they have to have peace. They have no choice,” Nigel said in a strong direct voice. “The first meeting is always a failure. This is just the start of the process,” he continued to preach. “Mr. Wells always gets drunk on trains and you are reading too much into it.”

“What is he like?” David asked meekly.

“Dry as dust, and just about as much life,” Marc said, believing he was asking about Mr. Wells.

“Odd, he speaks well enough on the wireless,” David said next, obviously referring to Hitler. Marc froze for a second inside. He weighed the consequences of his friend’s reaction if they knew he had met Hitler.

“I never met him. I just waited outside,” Marc lied. “At the hotel, in fact.” Marc regretted that, wondering if they believed his lie. “I have a problem,” he said, trying to get Dora’s attention.

“What is it?”

“Mr. Wells met with Leon Blum, and I have now close to three thousand of the most vile and nasty letters I have ever read in my life,” Marc said, hoping that she would see that the same anti-Semitic attitudes in Germany were now in France.

“Are they addressed to him?”

“Yes, of course,” Marc said, wondering where this would end up next.

“Then he should read them. He should read every single one of them. Your job is not to hide his eyes,” she said with near disgust in her voice.

“Dora, are you the least bit worried about these kinds of attitudes?”

“Marc, if I was to move every time someone said or wrote something anti-Semitic, I would be living at the bottom of the sea.”

Monday morning, Marc approached the ambassador regarding the letters.

“This is not South America, and he wanted to come over here. Therefore, they are his to read. He needs to understand the significance of meeting with certain individuals,” Bullitt said. “He would not listen to me, so let him live and learn.”

Sumner surprised Marc as he started to read the letters. Marc did not think he would pay much attention to them and would just brush them aside. He read for nearly two hours straight without saying a word. Marc noticed that he had stopped and closed his eyes. Marc recognized the same emotional storm of frustration and despair in himself. Sumner then said out loud to no one, except to himself and maybe Marc, “I am amazed that this poison of the mind knows no border.”

Roosevelt spoke in glowing terms of the diplomatic trip. Marc’s routine returned, but every time someone would stall or delay booking on the American ships, Ribbentrop’s raging fit, that Germany would never accept anything but a full surrender, haunted him. Finland settled with Russia.

Marie found the meeting with Leon Blum more troubling than with Adolf Hitler, which hurt Marc’s feelings. Sumner was back in America by March 30, and Marie could not meet Marc that night for dinner. He spent Wednesday evening with Allen and his British friends from the British Expeditionary Force at an English pub in Paris.

The warm tone of the tube radio filled the room. The men echoed back to the radio like a church choir, “Germany calling, Germany calling,” laughing out loud, with shouts and hollers. The voice told of the important papers found in Poland that proved that America was anything but a neutral power. Lord Haw Haw’s thick British accent sickened Marc, as it scolded America for attempting to drive a wedge between Germany and Italy.

But it was the next bomb blast of words that hit Marc the hardest.

“Ambassador Bullitt in these papers is quoted that he considers the French the first line of defense of the United States.”

Marc walked to the bar and said, “Double Scotch, straight up.”

Then, not long after that, Marc ordered another round. Allen stopped joking with Marc, and then he had to walk him home that night to his flat.

D
avid did not hear Lord Haw Haw that night on the radio, but he did read the papers. “America No Longer Welcomed at the Peace Table,” flashed across papers in both French and English.

“Do you think this means they might target our ships?” David asked Marc over Sunday dinner.

“No, absolutely not. It just means they are rubbing our noses in it to make themselves look big.”

“But, Marc, if they say we are not neutral, then those flags on the ship mean nothing.”