The Siren of Paris (29 page)

“Hungry men would never leave food behind,” Marc said out loud to himself. “No, Marie, you do not need the board,” he said, looking at it on the mantel.

December, 1941
Paris, France

“My God, Marc, I love you,” Sylvia said to him as he came in through the door to the shop.

“I came as soon as I got the message. What can I do?” Marc said, looking around at the bookstore.

“Start taking the books upstairs as I unload them,” she said as she pulled books from the shelves.

“How much time do we have?”

“I have no idea. I just know not much. They could be back anytime,” she said in a rush of tears.

Within the hour, a few more of her friends arrived and the books began to make their way up the four flights of stairs to the attic. By morning, all of the books were gone, and Marc was helping a carpenter pull down the shelves. By noon, he had started to paint the empty walls.

“Sylvia, why couldn’t you have just sold him the book? I mean, all of this just because you crossed one German over a book?” Marc asked her.

“Marc, it is not that simple. My entire business is built by word of mouth. If I do that, then there will be more Germans and more books and, sooner or later, someone will complain about me selling Germans degenerate literature, and I will be the next book bonfire out in the street,” she said, dipping her paintbrush in the can.

“You don’t know that for sure. No one has complained yet, and they have been here for over a year and you have had other German customers. And you do not just sell degenerate books,” Marc said, wondering if the lack of food or warmth had finally caused her to crack.

She looked at him like a fool and then let out a snort. “Marc, it is that degenerate work that sells. It is time to wake up and see what is going to come. America is now in this war, and we have no idea how long we are going to be free to live in Paris.”

Marc dipped his brush into the can and started a new line on the wall. After a few minutes more, he said, “I have a chance to die officially, and then get a new name.”

Just then, the painter came back into the room with more paint. Sylvia put down her brush and moved over to Marc and took his arm. “Come with me,” and then said to the painter, “Maurice, we will be right back. I need to show him something upstairs.” Marc and Sylvia walked up to the fourth-floor attic where the books were stacked for storage.

“Are you?” she asked looking at him.

“I don’t know yet. I have to decide soon, though. We have an unknown and the doctor thinks it would be best that we take my name and use it for the death certificate,” Marc said to her quietly, shocked that he was even considering the idea.

“You should. Don’t be stupid. I would die in a heartbeat if I could, but look at all this. I am stuck, but you can do this and no one will know differently,” she said intently yet low.

“But what if word gets back to my parents? What then?” Marc eyes squinted.

“I have a sister, in California, and I can get a message through her to your parents and all will be fine. It is even better then, because they can officially report the death to the Americans and it will look all the more real.” Sylvia sat upon a pile of books.

“What about papers? I don’t know anyone,” Marc complained.

Sylvia’s eyes became wide and bright with excitement. She stood up and then drew close to him and clasped her hand over his ear in a whisper. Marc then drew back and looked at her face in near disbelief. He took a deep breath and his eyes again focused.

“I know him,” Marc said with a nod.

“Then do it! Don’t worry about the rest. I can take care of your parents and get what else you need,” she said, looking at him, confirming the agreement.

“Now, let’s get back so if they return, there is no more bookstore to sell any books.” They walked downstairs to finish painting the room.

That same afternoon, Marc rode his bicycle out to the Jackson home. The drapes were arranged in just the way to indicate it was safe to come inside.

May, 1944
Paris, France

In the hospital basement, near the laundry shoot, one of the agents said to the other, “How can we be so sure he will not change his routine?”

“What if he does? Then we will get him someplace else. There are only so many ways south. But, why should he leave today? Last night, instead of running out of town, he ran to a play,” the second agent said.

“I hope you are right.”

“Stop worrying. This will not take long.”

“Did you bring a gun?”

“What for?”

The younger agent looked up at the experienced agent and then down at the briefcase. “You don’t have a gun in there?”

“Oh God, no, of course not. Those are just the case files for the arrest.”

“What if he runs?”

“You will run after him.”

“What if I lose him?”

“We will just call ahead, and then pick him up later someplace else. Besides, they love it when they have a good chase.”

“I thought you had a gun. I thought they always give the senior ones a gun.”

“What for? They don’t have any more bullets, and they need to ration what ammunition they do have for more important matters. I used to have a gun, but that was sometime ago. If you know what you are doing, you do not need a gun. It is altogether unnecessary. I have made numerous arrests now just making sure I choose the right location.”

“What if he has a gun?”

“He won’t, and if he does, he will pull it on you first.”

“That is not funny.”

“I am not trying to be funny, just honest.”

Marc arrived through the back door of the hospital. Before he got started in the kitchen, an orderly came into the room.

“There is a basket below ready for your attention,” he said to Marc.

“Very well. I will get it later.”

“If you can now, that would be great because we are very low now on clean sheets.”

Marc nodded and then removed his apron. A strange peace came over him as he approached the door to the basement.
I wonder what new surprise I might find
, he thought to himself as he opened the door.

He walked through the door into the large room where three baskets were lined up along the wall.

Then he knew for certain. All the doubt and self-pity flew away. The door slammed behind him, and from the baskets arose a single agent dressed in a suit.

“Were you expecting someone else?” the agent asked.

“I was expecting no one at all. Who are you?” Marc asked but he already knew the answer. All the doubt evaporated in a single instant as the agent rose from the sheets.

“Mr. Rémy, or Tolbert, we thought you might be expecting an airman?” an older voice came from behind him near the door.

“No, I was expecting to find a lot of dirty sheets that need to go out to the cleaners. What is this all about?”

“That is why we are here. I need you to come with me to the station. We have a few questions to ask you about some visitors you have entertained. Perhaps you were not aware of their activities? It does happen.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now, unless you don’t feel like going?” the older agent said as he lifted up his briefcase and tapped his hand against it.

“Will this be long? They need me to prepare the lunch,” Marc said. He knew the answer would be a lie.

“No, not very long, but my assistant will let them know, so if it takes a bit longer, they will not be waiting for you,” the older agent said to Marc, maintaining constant eye contact.

“Will I need anything from my flat?”

“Don’t worry. We will send someone for you if it comes to that.”

“Well, you have everything covered. How thoughtful.”

“Thank you, and now, please, we have a car waiting,” the older agent said, as he gave a quick smile to the younger agent.

M
arc stared at the monstrously ugly painting that hung upon the wall just to the left of the agent: a peasant women knitting under a greenish-yellow light within the canvas. Marc could not tell by just looking at the painting if it truly was a drab, pea-soup green, or just required a cleaning.

“Who is R?” the agent demanded firmly. Marc remained silent. “Would you please be so kind to tell me who ‘R’ is?” the agent then repeated in a firm, yet polite, tone of voice.

“Are you French?” the agent then asked.

Marc simply nodded in agreement while still holding a captivated gaze upon the painting.

“I see. And are you an American?” the agent asked.

Marc shifted his body weight and his posture improved before he could stop himself. He then froze in a state of uncertainty if his movements had betrayed him.
If I answer yes, then it will lead to eventually confirming that my French identity is false,
Marc pondered.
If I deny my nationality, it appears no harm could come from this
, so he shook his head from side to side, in disagreement.

“Very interesting. I think you are an American. Are you sure you are not an American?” the agent pressed again while looking at Marc’s identity card and papers.

Marc held his face still, not letting any emotion reflect in his eyes or his mouth. He steadied the rudder of his heart until nothing deviated inside him.

“You are not Marc Tolbert then, born in Paris, raised in America, and returned to Paris for studies in 1939?” the agent calmly stated.

“I find it rather remarkable that Marc Tolbert died, just a few days after his country entered the war, and the death certificate was signed by none other than Dr. Sumner Jackson of the American Hospital here, while you have been working there. It is amazing, don’t you think?” the agent continued calmly, looking at a file. He looked up at Marc, checking to see if anything about his posture told him that he had a change of heart.

“Well, perhaps it is just an amazing miracle?” the agent said.

Marc held his silence as the agent continued to look through the file in front of him.

“Winoc Rémy is a very authentic name, after all. Britney? I think so. Winoc is some kind of saint, I believe,” the agent mused on, talking more to himself than to Marc.

“Marc, are you positive that your name is Winoc Rémy, and not Marc Tolbert after all?” the agent pressed again, almost in a fatherly tone.

After a few minutes of silence, the agent then turned back to his file and said softly, “Well, it appears he is French.”

Marc’s eyes fell away from the painting of the woman in the sickening green light, to the cribbage board and cards placed neatly upon the desk in front of the agent.

December, 1941
Paris, France

Marc walked up to the door and knocked twice. The door opened and there stood Torquette, a warm smile on her face. He sat down at the table across from Dr. Jackson.

“I think it is best, it is insurance. You hope never to use it, but if you need it, well, it is a good thing,” Dr. Jackson said to Marc.

“But they have not done anything yet, so how can we be so certain they will round us up?” Marc said. He still had not made the decision, even though Sylvia had certainly made him think hard about it.

“We can know nothing for certain, Marc, except we cannot trust everything will be in our favor,” Torquette said.

“Once you sign the certificate, you know it will be reported to the embassy, and the State Department, and then to my home. What if the message gets home before I can get word back?” Marc said.

“I can delay that process. We can forget to report something, or take some time on that part. Torquette has a sister in the States, and we can send a note requesting some supplies for our friend, passing along word to your parents,” Sumner offered as a solution, “and this is only during the war. Afterward, we will correct the records and they will understand due to the circumstances.”

“Sylvia offered the same,” Marc said distantly.

“Have you thought of a new name?” Torquette asked.

“Sort of, but I am open to suggestions,” Marc smiled.

“So, you have decided then,” Dr. Jackson asked, looking at Marc directly.

“Yes. I’ll do it, but on one condition. He is given a good burial and I pay for a marker. It is the least I can do since the fellow is giving me the opportunity to die and be reborn,” Marc said, looking at Sumner.

“I have a feeling that the dead are going to become very popular for the purpose of resurrection,” Sumner said as he looked at his wife. “Do you have a contact yet that can get you a new identity card?” Sumner asked next.

“Yes. I have a contact for papers. I actually know him from before the war.”

“Excellent, now a name. What shall we call you?” Torquette said with a smile.

“Winoc,” Marc said without hesitation. Torquette looked puzzled, and Sumner’s face held a blank stare.

“I rather liked Marc. I was thinking more of a last name,” Torquette said, looking at Marc with a motherly gesture.

“Oh no, Marc is so common. There are so many. I finally want a unique name. Winoc is it. I am certain,” Marc said proudly.

“Well, Winoc it is. How did you come by the name?” Sumner asked.

“I was reading about the early saints of France, and discovered the story of Saint Winoc of the northern region who took in refugees from the war. He is a forgotten saint, but one all the same, and I rather like what he is known for,” Marc said.

“I now like it as well. Winoc is beautiful. And I don’t know anyone else called Winoc,” Torquette said, looking at Sumner.

“Since you are choosing saints, can I recommend then a good French last name?” Torquette asked next.

“Please, I would be honored.” Marc said.

“Rémy, after Saint Rémy, who baptized and converted the king of the Franks to Christ,” she said.

“It appears you have a new name, Winoc Rémy. It certainly is unique,” Sumner said, amused.

May, 1944
Paris, France

“I am sure we can pull it off,” Marie said to the agent.

“I am listening. So far your catch has not said one single word.”

“The key is perception. If he perceives that I am getting the same treatment that he is, then half the battle is won. Once he knows, his own emotions will work against him until he has to confess to save me from his own crimes,” she said in a low, cold tone. “It works. We have done this before and you know it works. It is just we have never carried it this far before.”