The Siren of Paris (17 page)

“I will call soon, soon, don’t worry,” a man mumbled to himself as Marc swam by.

“Can you swim?” he heard a panicked voice behind him.

“Ah! Ouch! These damn plates are hot,” said another as he ran down the side of the ship.

“Baby, baby, I have your baby, mother. He is safe and out of the water,” Marc heard about twenty yards away.

The Pekingese dog that was tied up at the hatch door when Marc came aboard swam in front of him, holding its head out of the water.

The officer and Marc got to an oar of a lifeboat and held on. Just then, the roar of a plane could be heard as it came in on the crowd of swimmers. Marc looked back at the ship and saw the water rising along the side and spray coming from the open, smashed portholes. The dressed officer at the back stood smoking his cigarette, as if nothing were wrong.

Stu, stu, stu
, Marc heard the approaching plane’s guns. A string of spurts came up out of the water, through the crowd of swimmers over a lifeboat. Marc saw two slumped down and another felled into the water, and then a stream of spray came straight toward the officer and him.

Marc dived down just before the spurts arrived and then came back up to the oar. He cleared his eyes of the oil.

“Are you all right?” Marc asked. “Are you all right, sir?” Marc saw a perfect hole in the officer’s forehead as he fell backwards from the oar into the sea. He took the oar and started to swim away.

Spring 1942
Paris, France

“You’re right, it is brilliant. It is not just a game, but a secret and a little mystery,” Torquette chimed in with a small chuckle.

Marc froze inside. He didn’t like the little chat about the board, but knew he needed to let them have their fun. His stomach churned with anxiety to get them off the topic of the railing.

“I am telling you. They would send the board to Hitler himself and proclaim they have cracked the resistance in Paris,” R said boldly, in a bragging tone.

“Let’s hope it never gets to that,” Marc said in a measured voice. R looked at Marc and then his eyes glanced down at his cards.

“So, there is someone I know who has been asking questions. The time has come to bring this up. His name is Georges. He is young, well, in fact, very young,” R paused, with an odd look on his face, then said, “I think he is seventeen years old. I have known him for a while, several years, in fact, and he works with the group called the Sons of Liberty.” Dr. Jackson looked into Marc’s eyes with doubt about the direction of the conversation. “They produce papers for information’s sake and distribute them.
Defense de la France
is the name of their track,” R finished.

“Papers are not something we can do, R. You know that by now,” Dr. Jackson said dismissively.

“Yes, I know, of course. I think it is reckless work as well, and if they should ever get caught, I am sure it would not be a happy ending.” Torquette looked pensively at the drapes. “But here is why I am bringing him up. They want to help with downed birdies,” R’s voice focused.

“Birdies?” Torquette snapped back, bewildered.

“I’ve never told him about what I am doing, but I think he knows by intuition that I am not giving tours of Paris. He asked me if I knew anyone with contacts in Paris with the ‘birdies.’”

“Do you trust him?” Marc asked R. It was odd but he had relaxed some after talking about real risks rather than imaginary heroism.

“Yes, I trust him and I know several of their group. They are cautious and careful. I don’t think we are dealing with another Vidal situation.” Marc had not heard about this now for over a year and cringed at the name. He’d pushed that memory to the back of his mind. Torquette looked again toward the window, and Dr. Jackson looked down at the board, taking in everything R told them.

“We need to take it slow, and careful. What has this Georges proposed?” Dr. Jackson then asked.

“Nothing yet. I told him that I have no idea how to help him. You know that I am completely dumb to such matters.” R shrugged his shoulders and smirked as he glanced at Marc.

“And what do you think? Do you think they can take them?” Marc asked next.

“Birdies and birdhouses are no easy thing, but we need the help. Think on it and let me know. And don’t worry, I am far more out on a limb than you, my friends,” R said to them.

“That’s it?” Torquette pushed him for more.

“Yes. They want to help. And frankly, I need the help and so will we all in time. It is not as if there are fewer air raids. If we are going to keep helping, we are going to need to secure some more resources,” R said.

“How many are in their group?” Marc asked.

“Quite a few. I’m not sure. They are careful, very careful. The Sons of Liberty are not a fly-by-night group of kids marking up the Metro after dark.”

Dr. Jackson then lowered his eyes toward the table as R continued. “They have multiple operations and cells and, from what I understand, much of it is compartmentalized so if one part is compromised, it does not compromise the whole.” He sipped his tea.

“Well, what is the next step?” Dr. Jackson asked as he took out a peg on the board and moved it forward toward Marc. “Is that okay, Marc?”

“Yes, of course. You may move a peg,” he said, smiling. “But I’m not sure about handoffs to ambitious kids just yet,” Marc said next.

“I think the next step is to meet with him. We can do it here or elsewhere. I think they are very trustworthy and can follow instructions.” R continued to sell the plan while he focused on Marc.

“Just one!” Torquette said. “We cannot have a bunch of new cribbage players all at once. It will draw attention. We don’t want to attract the wrong type of players,” she said, and then took a sip of her tea and nibbled a few blueberries.

“You said he is young,” Dr. Jackson asked.

“Yes, seventeen, but looks even younger,” R confirmed.

“Philip can bring him then,” Dr. Jackson said. Torquette glanced at him, surprised. “It is perfect. They’ll just think they’re boys,” Dr. Jackson finished. Torquette frowned but didn’t protest further.

“All right, I will make the arrangements. By the way, is that one ready yet?” R asked Dr. Jackson.

“Not quite yet, but soon. I’ll need a nest for this birdie, but he is still recovering right now,” Dr. Jackson said.

“I’ll see about gathering some twigs and string then,” R said with a joking smile.

“Don’t forget your scores,” Marc told them as he finished his tea.

“Oh yes, let’s not forget. Everyone put down some meaningless numbers,” Torquette said after carefully taking away the bowl of precious berries.

Marc took the board from the center of the table and placed it back into his bag.

June 17, 1940
Saint Nazaire, France

“May I?” a swimmer asked politely as he came over.

“Yes, but just the end,” Marc said with a nod. The older man took hold of the other end of the trunk.

“They should be coming back in soon,” the man said in an upper-class British accent.

“The Germans?” Marc asked.

“No, the cruisers. They were coming over but then turned around. It will not be long now until they come back in to pick us up,” the man said with a voice of entitlement.

Marc looked again out over the sea but lost track of time. Sure enough, a cruiser came back in to pick up some of the swimmers, but it was too far away and on the other side of the large, burning oil slick. There was no way he could swim through it and live. When he looked back, the man was gone. Did he drown or did he swim away, Marc wondered, but then took an interest in another man.

A dead soldier wearing a lifebelt floated past Marc. Marc left the trunk and swam toward the man who appeared to be fully dressed in his battle gear, a full kitbag still with him. The helmet chinstrap had cut a deep gash into his chin.

Marc struggled to get the cork lifebelt from the dead soldier. He pulled him down a bit and held him close, and was finally able to untie the belt. The man’s face, nothing but a blank stare, then fell back from Marc and into the sea. The soldier sank quickly into the water with all the weight of his clothes and gear pulling him down.

Ships came in and out, picking up swimmers. A dog yelped atop of an overturned lifeboat. It seemed like only a few minutes had passed and Marc waved his hand toward a boat in the dark. He woke up on the deck, crawling up from a pile of life jackets. Marc’s eyes focused upon the oil-stained faces of half-clothed men sitting around the deck, wrapped in blankets. He stumbled toward the galley. The light inside the cabin blinded him for a few moments.

“Oh, you’re not dead after all,” a young pregnant woman said to him.

Marc curled up in a ball in one corner of the cabin on a bench. The woman draped a blanket around his nude, oil-covered body.

“My name is Joan, and you are on the
Saint
Michelle
. Do you think you can drink some warm tea? I am a nurse, and it would do you some good to warm up.”

Marc nodded, and took the cup in his hands. The warmth radiated through his arms. After a gulp, he started to gag and cough.

“Careful now. You have taken in quite a bit of the sea, and a fair amount of oil,” she said. Marc doubled over and began to heave up his stomach.

Spring, 1942
Paris, France

“R
obert tells me you are looking for some birds for your birdhouse,” Marc said to Georges.

“It is true, I am,” Georges said. R was right. The boy looked as if he could be fourteen years old. He was small and thin, built like a horse jockey.

“Bird care is not easy. Lots of feeding and caring for them, and escorting them so they can fly again,” Marc said coolly. “Have you cared for birds before?” Marc studied Georges’ facial features and his responses, trying to judge if he was a kid, or a man.

“Some, but we can take more now. Besides, more birds are falling from the sky. They will need nests, you know,” Georges said. He looked like a young schoolboy, but it did not match the way he spoke or held himself.

“True, very true. Can you come for a game of cribbage?” Marc asked next, checking his expressions.

“Cribbage? You mean that game of cards with the funny board?” George asked, perplexed.

“Yes, that is the game.”

“I don’t know how to play,” Georges responded, shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I am the only one who does and, besides, it is never about the game but the company and tea,” Marc relaxed a bit and gazed past Georges toward the park. The serious tone of his voice put Marc at ease.

“Yes, then, of course,” Georges responded.

“Great, then. See that fellow over there?” Marc pointed to Philip, Dr. Jackson’s son.

“Yes.”

“I want you to meet him for a game of boules tomorrow afternoon about a quarter past three at the park. He is very nice. Play a bit and then he will bring you for a game of cribbage.” Philip made eye contact with Georges and smiled.

“Philip, Philip,” Marc called to him. Philip then walked over. “I want you to meet Georges. He likes to play boule. You are going to meet him tomorrow for a game in the park and then bring him back for some cribbage,” Marc said. Philip nodded.

“He needs to make some friends, Philip. Be nice to him.”

The following day, Georges met at the Jacksons. The conversation started to wind down over to the details of their next move.

“His name is Jean,” Georges said to Marc. “He is very important to the group and he should meet you.”

“Dr. Jackson has agreed. Can he come over tomorrow afternoon?” Marc asked Georges.

“Yes, but no boule and park business. Jean is very direct and busy,” Georges continued.

“Fair enough. Four then,” Torquette said to Georges and looked at R. R nodded with a smile of approval. Marc looked at Dr. Jackson who had just put down his phony score.

“Let’s not forget the numbers,” Dr. Jackson said.

“Oh, right,” R said.

Marc took the board and placed it back into his bag for the bike ride home. So far, everything felt right to him.

June 20, 1940
Saint-Nazaire, France

Marc awoke in what looked like the foyer of a hotel, though he was not sure. He was groggy and sick to his stomach. His joints ached and his hands were swollen. He looked to his right and left and could see other beds with other men in them. Across from him was another line of beds holding even more men. The sheets were stained with oil. He looked into his memory as to how he got here.

I was swimming. The life jacket, it was dark, the woman, the pregnant woman
, he thought to himself.

I must be dead, I feel dead
, Marc continued in a quasi-dream state. He was there, but not there. He was alive but not alive. There was pain, but at the same time the pain was in the background of his consciousness. Marc moved his arm, but it felt as if his body were not his own.

He could remember the nude dive into the sea to fetch the struggling swimmer.
Was I the swimmer
? The ship pulled to the side of an overturned lifeboat. The Pekingese dog was plucked from the small, overturned boat. Then all was still.

They are dead, too
, Marc looked around the room. He was sure of it.
I wonder when they are going to tell me
, he thought about the nurses. He was sure that he must be dead.
This must be the waiting room. They are letting us get better first before they tell us
, he thought to himself.

A German officer came to the front desk and talked with a nurse. She told him something and they talked for a few minutes. He was asking about some woman who was in charge.

He then walked down the row of beds and looked at each of the men. The German officer called over the nurse and asked about an empty bed. She cupped her hand and spoke into his ear. He nodded and looked up and around.

He pointed to Marc and asked the nurse about him. She nodded and walked away. The German officer took a chair and then sat next to Marc’s bed.

Marc thought,
Here it comes
.
The one who tells you are dead must be the one who killed you
. He felt an overwhelming sense of dread come over him. He scanned his memory and thought he must have been shot alongside the officer but did not know it yet.
Maybe it was not the officer who was killed but me, and I was looking at myself instead of the officer.
Marc’s mind raced as he tried to solve the mystery of when and how he must have died.