The Siren of Paris (8 page)

“David, Germany has enough war already, it will be safe,” Nigel said, trying to calm him. Dora sat silently and just observed.

Before Marc left that night, he cornered Dora. “Why is he so preoccupied by these absurd fears?” Dora looked down first and then back up at Marc.

“Some things never leave people,” she paused. “They are like eternal moments.” Marc stared at her. “David has a moment like that, and all we can do is just listen to him,” she said. Marc pondered her words. He knew she was holding something back about David out of a sense of protection.

The Italian Line advertised a sailing, but then canceled it. Eventually, they did both at the same time; they made an announcement that all voyages were canceled, and then released a poster that stated “Full Steam Ahead.” The confusion and frustration did not matter for most, because the price exceeded their means. David, however, rushed upon the opportunity.

David stood in the line that wrapped out of the Italian Line ticket office and down the street.

“Two thousand dollars?” David gasped.

“Yes, sir, that is correct,” the agent responded quickly.

“American dollars? I just want a standard cabin, not a suite,” David continued, his face blank.

“Sir, it is American dollars, and that is for a standard cabin,” the agent explained. David’s face then contorted in shock.

“That is insane. Why are these fares so outrageous?”

“Sir, there are no passengers going east, and the insurance is very high. We have to cover the expenses for the ship round-trip. So, I understand, I could never afford these rates myself, but there is nothing I can do about it.”

“How much is third?” David asked.

“Berths are seven hundred dollars,” the agent said quickly, while looking at the others in line.

“I will take it,” David paused and realized he did not even have this much money now left in his bank account. He would need to get a loan.

“Do you want a ticket, sir?” the agent asked. David just walked away without answering. He walked back to the Opera Metro station, and stood on the platform in disgust. The train came, the passengers boarded, and the train left with David standing on the platform. He climbed the stairs back to the street and made his way toward the Place de la Concorde and the American Embassy.

“They would never fire on the Italians,” David said over and over again to Marc. His eyes appeared to be looking past Marc, to someone behind him. He spoke quickly, with a tremble in his voice. “Is there any way that I could get a travel loan through—” He paused. “I know they would never fire on the Italians,” he repeated softer, and he appeared like a child.

“I tried to get a ticket, but the rates are too high,” David added.

“What was the date of their ship?” Marc asked.

“May 28. Not sure which ship. I think the
Rex
,” David said. Marc could tell by David’s behavior that he would starve himself and likely sleep on the streets to take this ship.

Marc took out his wallet and looked, then told the secretary he needed to run an errand. He walked to the bank and took out the money for David to get a ticket on the
Rex
. “You owe me nothing. Just try and slam some sense into the other two.” Outside the bank, David broke down in tears and then ran back to the Italian Line offices on Rue Auber.

Sunday came again, and Marc welcomed the break for dinner with the gang, but missed the jovial conversations of the past.

“Marc, those ships are floating targets. They have huge American flags on them, and they are stopping them at Gibraltar for hours. Sometimes even a few days,” Nigel said, dismissing him outright about taking David’s slot in July. “Don’t you think the British would like it if America would join the war? It does not have to be a German torpedo. Any torpedo could do it under the right circumstances.”

“I think you are …” Then Marc stopped. He had tried to keep this thought from his mind over the months as he directed Americans to Genoa or Lisbon. He knew there were risks, but did not take seriously that a ship would be fired upon.

“When are you leaving?” Dora asked David.

“Well, the ship leaves on the twenty-eighth, but I want to get down there sooner than that, so I am thinking of leaving May 15.” Marc did not know why, but the simple fact of having a ticket gave David a complete new sense of peace.

“And what about you?” Dora looked toward Nigel.

“I still have business with the bank. If things turn, they have assured me they will make the arrangements,” Nigel responded, shrugging his shoulders.

“I see. I heard you had a nice time with the LeRoy family,” Dora pressed.

“I did not realize you knew them. Are they …”

“Yes.”

“You mean the family involved with bauxite and aluminum production? Are you sure?”

“You have been a very busy boy running all about France for your bank,” Dora said, toasting her wine glass.

“Dora, I think you know why, and I am impressed. Next time I will clear my appointments with you.” Nigel smiled.

“They are very nice. I hope she is not wearing that silly perfume, Chypre, anymore. I got her some Shalimar last time I visited.”

“I believe that was her scent at dinner,” Nigel stared back into Dora’s eyes.

Marc began to feel a greater sense of disconnection with everyone around him. “This is not going to last forever, you know,” Marc said.

“Dinner?” Dora asked.

“No, this false peace. Soon, there will be no need to argue,” Marc said, and no one replied.

Marc took Marie’s hand from across the table during dinner that same week.

“But I do love you,” Marc pleaded with Marie.

“I know, but Marc, it is not right. We cannot do this just so I can leave with you. What about my family? What about my life?”

“Marie, they could come as well.”

“Marc, you are overreacting. France is in no danger. I will marry you when there is no threat of running away. Not just to run away.”

“Then, you accept. We are engaged.” Marc looked at her.

“Yes, of course I do. I love you, but I do not want to do this just to run away. After the war, like your parents,” she smiled at him. Marc cherished the promise. It pleased him to think that he had found her at last and now he knew eventually they would marry. He also took a certain pleasure that his life would follow, in a sense, his parents’ lives. “But, for now, we must tell no one. It is a promise, for later, Marc. For later, after this war.”

“I
t is a classic overreach,” Nigel said when Germany invaded Norway.

“I suspect they must have overlooked the country,” Dora said when Germany invaded Denmark.

“Thank you, Marc. You have no idea what this means for me,” David said as he left for Italy with the ticket Marc had bought for him.

“They have now taken on a fight they cannot win,” Allen said to Marc when Germany invaded Belgium on May 10, 1940.

“No, no, nothing serious. I want to see the Walt Disney parade. It seems like everyone has seen it now in Paris. Please, we can see something more serious next time,” Marie said, using just the right tone of voice that would win her case that Wednesday afternoon of May 15.

“If there is a bunch of kids cutting up in the theater, remember, I told you so. What about
Goodbye, Mr. Chips
? I hear it is very interesting, but it might be in English.”

“I can understand English. I have not heard of it before. You are just so stubborn about French.” She poked him and he leaned in to kiss her. “No, I want to see a cartoon.”

“Then let’s. It will be good for me, too,” he decided. They bought the tickets at the box office and walked inside for the show.

The theater had an art deco interior. People of various dress packed the rear part of the theater to take in the daily newsreels, which were free so long as the viewers did not sit down. One newsreel had just finished as Marc and Marie seated themselves in a pair of seats in the middle.

“I am looking forward to this weekend.” Marc took her hand and squeezed it.

“I have created a monster in you,” she whispered into his ear and nudged her nose against his earlobe.

“You have indeed,” he turned and gave her a long kiss, then said in a childish voice, “I love you.”

The screen of the theater came to life with the black-and-white headlines of the newsreel. People in the back of the theater jostled to see if the headlines were new or old.

“Militiamen follow in fathers footsteps” flashed over the screen as two lines of soldiers marched in the snow. “The twenty-ones have reached France. And on the snow-clad surfaces where their fathers once tread, they stride out with weary step.”

“My God, this is so old. I can’t believe they are still showing this one,” Marc complained to Marie. She had never seen this newsreel, because it was produced for the British. Her eyes took in the sight of the young, cocky British striding across snow-covered fields, rifles in hand.

“Roll out the barrel, we’ll have a barrel of fun! Roll out the barrel, we’ve got the blues on the run,” the men sang with hearty voices. Some in the audience joined in the chorus. “Zing, boom, tararrel, ring out a song of good cheer. Now’s the time to roll the barrel, for the gang’s all here.”

“The British sure love their songs,” Marie leaned over into Marc. He leaned into her closer, a smile on his face.

“That’s the song of this war, the song that these militiamen will be remembered by when they are veterans. They are a splendid type of fellow and it is funny to think that twenty-one years ago, they were called war babies.” Marc could not wait for this tired newsreel from February to be over. He never liked it and each time it played, he liked it even less. “People wondered if being born at the end of a long war, if their nerves would be affected.” Men crawled on the ground and made their way over the field with rifles at the ready.

Marc used the time to look at Marie. She stared religiously as the images flashed on the screen. Her face bore a serious frown. “Not much sign of that today as they bear arms in the defense of freedom against the Nazi war machine.”

“Even their news is kind of cocky,” she said to Marc.

“I like Allen, but when he gets with the rest of them, they can be a bit much,” he said as he looked back at the screen. It went black and then the lead started for another newsreel. Even more people now stood in the rear of the theater. “The British and French move into Belgium” flashed across the screen.

“I have seen this one,” Marie said, continuing to hold Marc’s hand.

“And now the advance of the British Expeditionary Force. These are the pictures that have a supreme sentimental interest for British audiences as the custom’s barriers rise on Franco-Belgian boundaries and the mechanized troops move forward.” Horizontal poles across the border road rose to allow trucks, tanks, and artillery through the town as people lined the streets. Silence fell in the theater as people studied the images. Marc held Marie’s hand in his lap.

“For long, the British solider had religiously avoided this dividing line, since to trespass on neutral soil meant internment. Now that the die is cast and the balloon has gone up, he is welcomed across the boundary like a savior, and this, of course, is the character in which the Belgian people know the British Army all along, remembering 1914 and 1918. It is no wonder that anxious folk of the invaded Low Countries give the British Tommy a heartfelt cheer as he passes.”

Old and young, men, women, and children lined the streets of villages, waving as the transports passed by. Marc stared longer at the screen and noticed details he had missed when he had caught this newsreel two days earlier. People shifted in their seats in the theater and the light from the doors at the rear became obscured by the people who poured in from the street to watch the news.

“It is the same gallant army with a difference. This time it flashes by in vehicles, tanks, armored carriers, lorries spaced out in regular intervals so as not to present a bomber target. There is evidence indeed that Nazi bombers have been feeling for the path by which the BEF will advance. Bomb craters in the road and demolished houses, these tell the story.”

The camera spanned a street where some of the houses had sustained heavy damage and where debris littered the street. “Of course, there is a different story sometimes in the relics of Nazi bombers brought down by the RAF.” Soldiers carried proudly the rear tail fin of an airplane emblazoned with the swastika.

“So, history repeats itself and the British Army for the third, fourth, and fifth time goes to fight in the Low Countries.” The last line irritated Marc, and he was sure Marie as well, because he recognized the over-the-top bragging in the statement.

“And history repeats the pitiable scenes of refugees streaming westward from the war area.” People streamed down a road in wagons, on foot, or with horses, a city in the background. Just then, the screen went bright white and the sound cut off. “Film, film,” called out several voices in the crowded theater as the lights flashed on.

“The film must have broken,” Marc said, as he looked back at the projector room. He could hear the film reel slapping against the projector. The lamp then went dark as an usher came to the front of the theater.

“It will be just a minute,” he said in both English and French.

The crowd stopped their chorus of complaints and the usher walked to the back of the theater. The screen came alive again. A cannon fired. “S.” A second fired, “C.” Then a third fired, “A.” “Service Cinémathèque Agencier” flashed over the screen. The newsreel was French.

“Eleventh of May, morning in France: Our civilian population count is already 150 deaths and almost 400 wounded from that dumping of bombs from planes as systematic as blind in its rage on a number of our cities and villages having no military value,” the voice spoke with a frantic speed.

A car rushed down a street. Men held a hose of water on the rubble of a burning building. A baby carriage rested on the edge of a second-floor flat where the wall had fallen away. A total silence fell over the theater. The film had sound but there was no narration. The sound of distant rifle shots rang out through the speakers.