The Siren of Paris Read online

  Marc started to draw, sketching out a hand, a foot, but then never having enough time to sketch out the full body. His frustration grew over not drawing fast enough. How in the world was he going to do this? What was he learning? He studied Marie, and noticed her smile as her gaze passed him. He wondered if anyone knew in the room. Then he let go of his thoughts, and dunked the pen into the bottle of ink. He decided to focus on the hands.

  Marie changed her hands each time she broke her pose and moved to another position. It was the most expressive thing of the entire dance. Each pose seemed to end with her fingers in a certain position. Marc would then sketch out some trunk movements and legs, but most of his drawing focused on positions of her arms and hands. He released his thoughts, stopped thinking of how he was going to draw her hands, and allowed the pen and his hand to draw what was before him.

  Marie’s legs danced over the platform and her hands undulated in the air like a bird. She seemed like liquefied crystal, brought to life. None of the poses were static. She never stopped moving the entire time as each position of her hands only lasted for a few seconds.

  “Stop. Thank you, Marie. Now, let’s take a look,” the professor called out after five minutes had passed, the students’ faces trancelike after trying to follow Marie.

  “Yes, this is good,” he said as he passed one table. “Very nice. You’re learning to let go and not to worry about details,” as he passed another student’s sheet of paper. “You are just getting down the basis of the core shape,” he said to another.

  “Oh, this is incredible,” he said as he came to Marc’s table. “Everyone come over to Marc’s table. I want to talk about this.” As the students gathered, Marie pulled on her robe. “See. This is what I am talking about. See how he has captured the core movements in these expressive lines? And, look, the only details are these small little movements for her hands. His entire focus has been on what was truly moving, which were her hands, and the core is sketched, but does not change much. The only way Marc could have done this was by letting go of the need to be perfect, letting go of the need to draw everything.” The professor continued, excited, “And once he let that happen, the separation between what the eye sees and what the hand draws falls away.”

  “Marc, you need to keep this drawing. It is fantastic,” the professor said. “This is the reason you came to Paris.”

  Marc returned with a glass of wine for Marie as she stood near the entrance of the embassy’s grand ballroom. Garland hung over the windows; partygoers commented about the large, decorated tree.

  “Are you all right?” Marc asked.

  “Yes, of course, just a bit nervous. I had no idea you were so well connected.”

  “Underneath all the masks, they are just like you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “If you don’t want to talk with someone, just say you only speak French,” Marc said, turning to look at her smile.

  “And if they speak French better than I can?” she volleyed.

  “That is an unlikely problem with this crowd.” Marc rolled his eyes.

  Ambassador Bullitt came over to him. “Marc, there is someone I would like to introduce you to. Marie, you look beautiful, by the way. Can you come over here for a minute?” he asked before walking toward the center of the room. “Dr. Jackson, I would like you to meet Marc Tolbert. You may recall his father, Eldon, during the war. Marc, Dr. Jackson works at the American Hospital in Paris. I believe you were born there.”

  The man towered above the other party guests. His stoic face searched the past for this name Eldon, until he said, “Oh yes, your father went to Yale with Mr. Bullitt. This is my wife, Torquette, and my son, Philip.” He introduced a far shorter woman and a young boy of about fifteen.

  “Yes, that is correct. He met my mother here in Paris in ’17,” Marc said. “And, this is my girlfriend Marie. We are both students at the university.”

  “Well, you are taking after your father now, and myself. What are you studying?” Dr. Jackson asked.

  “Art. It is a break for me. To be honest, I was enrolled as a premed student back home, but I needed a break,” Marc said.

  “Is that so? And there are no art schools in America? You had to come to Paris, now of all times?” Dr. Jackson countered.

  “I had no idea all of this would happen. Seemed like a great idea at the time, and I have no regrets. After all, I would not have met Marie.” She smiled at him.

  Torquette took Marie’s hand. Marc overheard her whisper in Marie’s ear in French, “You need to kidnap him. Hold him ransom until the Americans join the war. I know just the place to hide him.” Marie laughed out loud.

  “You may think you are now an art student, but I have news for you, young man. You will be back in med school before you know it,” Dr. Jackson said, after glancing at his wife.

  “I am not so sure. Maybe you are right. Are you staying in Paris or going back to the States?” Marc said. Talk of returning to medical school made him uncomfortable.

  “We cannot go back. It is not even a question. I know they are telling Americans to leave, but how? Even if we could get a ship, I am afraid that will not work out for us.” He looked at his wife.

  “I know what you mean. Do you think we will join the war soon?”

  “I sure hope so. I don’t know what the holdup is now,” he responded. “But that is not going to save you, Marc,” he said, smiling. Marc looked perplexed. “You are heading to med school regardless. I took a break, too, you know,” Dr. Jackson continued, charming Marc with his humble attitude, more in keeping with a farmer from Maine than a doctor in Paris. Marie and Torquette continued to speak in French, gesturing at the large Christmas tree and the various guests in the embassy ballroom.

  Marc felt a tug on his jacket. He turned expecting to see Marie, but he met Dora’s smile. “Excuse me, sir, but do you know where I can get a room?” Dora asked, in a dry, nasally tone.

  “Dora, Merry Christmas. Yes, of course, and you will not even have to close my bank,” Marc said with a smile, not missing a beat in the conversation.

  “You know this woman? Marc, she is notorious. Your father would be so proud,” Dr. Jackson, grinning.

  “Yes, I know Dora. We met coming over last summer,” Marc said.

  “Marc, Nigel and David are going to be here for New Year’s and we have a tradition, well, sort of. Actually, we have never done it before. But, would you like to join us for Mass at Notre Dame on New Year’s Day?” she asked, stealing a look at Marie.

  “Dora, I had no idea you were Catholic,” Marc said.

  “Of course, if you already have plans with someone,” she said, nodding.

  “Oh, excuse me. How rude. Marie, this is my friend Dora whom I told you about. Dora, this is Marie,” he said.

  “Marie, you are even more beautiful than Marc described,” Dora said with a refined French accent. Marie blushed.

  “Well, I hope to see you on New Year’s,” Marie, said, while leaning into Marc.

  “Surrender, she has you cornered and there is no way out,” Dora whispered and left with a warm look in her eyes.

  Chapter 6

  “Marc, do you have that announcement translated yet?” the staffer asked him, leaning over his desk.

  “Yes, the rush job this morning? I am just finishing it now.”

  “Great. The ambassador has requested to speak with you once you have it ready. You may go in now.”

  Marc thought this was odd and wondered why the ambassador wanted to see him about a simple translation job.

  “Marc, please take a seat,” Ambassador Bullitt asked him. He then took the sheet of paper with the translation in his hand and studied it. “Very good. This reads well, and I think it does the job. I need to speak with you about something else,” he said, removing his glasses. “I am asking each staff member if they would like to go or stay. I will not make the decision for you, but I think it is important to consider and I want every staff member to know that I do not expec
t you to stay on here, given these circumstances.”

  He had never considered the fact that the minute the sheet of paper he had just translated reached the papers in France, there would be a rush of Americans making arrangements.

  “I have decided to stay. I understand you do not expect it, but I want to. I would rather work here than go back home and just read about it in the papers.” Marc’s face was set, eyes meeting the ambassador’s.

  “Have you spoken with your family?” the ambassador said.

  “Yes, and they know,” he lied outright, nearly resenting the question since it implied he could not make his own decisions.

  “Very well. I am glad to have you and I absolutely will need the help. Not all the staff will be staying. I will be rearranging the workload shortly,” he finished.

  That morning, Marc delivered sealed envelopes to the papers containing carbon copies of the announcement to be printed in the following day’s edition.

  “Americans seeking to evacuate the war region are to proceed to Genova, Italy, to embark upon the George Washington or Manhattan commencing in January. Valid passport required or 1040 United States tax form. The State Department encourages all Americans without urgent business to leave immediately.”

  “Marc, it is great to see you. Happy New Year, friend,” Allen said to him as he entered the crammed nightclub. “Where is Marie?”

  “She had something going on with her family and is exhausted. It has been nonstop parties. She gives her regards,” Marc said with some embarrassment.

  “Ah, it is because I am British!”

  “You know how the French are.”

  “Of course I do. Well, I am glad you are here, my friend. That is a smart ad you placed in the papers,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Oh, yes. Once that hit, things went through the roof. The ambassador put me in charge of it all. If someone calls with questions, I am the one on the spot. Frankly, I had no idea how many people are trying to get home.”

  “Ahh … it is foolish. This is not going to last much longer,” Allen said, his tone dismissive.

  “What do you mean?” Marc asked, trying to listen to him over the loud partygoers.

  “The war is over, friend. It is at a standstill now. Look, Germany only wants sure fights. Just the quick wins, but with the British and French up along Belgium to the north and the Maginot Line to the south, where are they going to go?” he said, Marc listening intently. “And another thing—did you see those photographs of what the Finns did to the Russians? They are amazing.” Allen looked excited and confident.

  “No, I have not had a chance. In today’s papers?” Marc asked.

  “Not sure, but, Marc, they stopped the army dead. Soldiers were frozen dead throwing grenades and firing shots. The Finns slaughtered them. The entire army, frozen in place.”

  “Well, the Americans who want to go are mostly the ones who had their plans canceled in the first place, and I suppose that is a good thing. All my other friends here in Paris have no intention of going anywhere.”

  “Are you going?” Allen asked.

  “No. I am staying. I agree with you that the war is over and it is just a matter of time before some agreement is reached. By the time I get home, I will be turning back,” Marc said.

  “How many Americans are over here?”

  “In Paris, thirty thousand, and I suspect at least that number spread throughout the rest of the country. They are just sending two ships, so even though they tell people to leave, well, it’s not practical,” Marc said, looking over the crowd toward the front of the room.

  “Thirty thousand. Who would have known? Could you imagine if they all wanted to leave at once?” Allen said. A voice rang through the crowded nightclub full of British soldiers.

  “One minute till midnight!” the speakers boomed. Men and women cheered and started raising their glasses.

  “Here, get a glass,” Allen gestured to Marc.

  “Ten, nine, eight, seven,” the partiers counted. “Six…five…four… three… two… one! Happy New Year!” The crowd went wild.

  “Victory in ’40!” a bellowing voice called out, and nearly everyone around said in response, “Victory in ’40!”

  On New Year’s Day, Marc and Marie met Dora, Nigel, and David outside the Notre Dame Cathedral. David smiled and nudged Nigel when he saw Marie. They sat in the pews facing the South Rose Window. Marc reflected upon everything in ’39, upon how much had changed. Only a year ago, he was with Veronica at just such a New Year’s service back home in the States. Now, he was in Paris, his whole life changed. Marie wore a decidedly fashionable dress suit with matching jacket. Marc beamed with pride over her sense of style as he watched her next to him.

  The usher reached his row and he stood to join the line for the sacrament. Dora did not stand. A wind chilled Marc as it passed through the empty windows. Nearly all the stained glass windows in the cathedral had been removed just after the start of the war. As he reached the altar, the howl of the air raid sirens filled the morning air outside the walls of the cathedral. He left his gas mask canister back at the pew. David and Nigel stood in front of them. All the other people seemed unfazed by the sirens. Marc took Marie’s hand at the altar, before the priest came with the sacrament.

  “The body of Christ, the bread of Heaven.” One priest passed, giving the host to the kneeling believers, their palms raised.

  “The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation.” The second priest followed with the wine. Marc relished the intimacy of sharing the morning service with Marie and his friends. He looked up and noticed the last of the Rose Window still had not been removed.

  He rose to return to his pew. Some of the people in the line wore their gas masks. Dora had donned her own mask while Marc took communion. The minute he saw her, the seriousness of the air raid disappeared.

  “You look very stylish,” Marie said to Dora in French as she removed her mask from the canister and put it on.

  Marc watched the scene play out before him as people negotiated between the demands of their faith and the demands of the alarms. When it was time for the final collect, Marc surrendered to the unusual service and put on his mask. Above and beyond the joke of it, and the sirens, the entire time Marc stared at the single window remaining on the south façade, wondering why it was so remarkable that it should be left in place.

  “Sir, that window, does it have a name?” he asked the usher as they left the cathedral.

  “Yes. It is called the Descent into Hell,” the usher said.

  “Good God, why is it still in the church when they have removed all the other windows?”

  “They tried, but the workers want nothing to do with it. People, you know, can be superstitious.”

  Chapter 7

  Dora looked up from her plate and directly at David. “You should be thankful, and I think you are being a bit dramatic,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “I am thankful. July is just six months away,” he answered back, looking surprised by her tone.

  “I wish I could do better, but you must understand, David, there are a lot of people trying to get home,” Marc said and sipped his wine.

  “I understand and this is not about you, Marc. I am just weary and anxious,” David said quietly.

  “Maybe Lord Haw Haw can advise you on a ship?” Dora smirked.

  “Germany calling, Germany calling,” Nigel said in a thick, mocking tone. Dora laughed out loud and then placed her finger in front of her mouth, feigning embarrassment.

  “Who is Lord Haw Haw?” Marc asked.

  “You don’t know? How can you not know?” Dora blurted out. “He is better informed on the British than the BBC.”

  “Dora, Marc has Marie. Only we single fuddy-duddies need Lord Haw Haw to warm us up at night,” Nigel said next. “Lord Haw Haw is broadcasted from Bremen, Marc, and just over 25 percent of the British public tune into him nightly.”

  “Yes, and just fewer than 75 percent of the British public li
e about it each night,” Dora said next.

  David picked at his food. “I wish I could be so light about it. The waiting is a burden.”

  “Stay busy, David. I have all kinds of work now with the bank. Just look at this as an opportunity. Besides, by the time your date comes up, this could be over, and we will be back on a ship together returning to America,” Nigel continued. “They’re going to sue for peace. They have to. They stumbled into this war and I am sure they are looking for a way out of it.” He cut into the plate of duck. “In spite of the high-pitched rhetoric for the newspapers and the speeches on the wireless.”

  “Marc, they don’t want to have France,” Dora said.

  “Germany calling, Germany calling,” Nigel said with a low voice.

  “Stop it, stop it. Some more, please,” Dora begged, laughing.

  By January, the Sunday evening dinners had become routine. Marc’s job as travel liaison to Americans in France eclipsed any casual study of art he continued during the evenings. There were only two ships per month, and a horrible backlog of passengers from September waiting to leave back for the States.

  Marc walked into Ambassador Bullitt’s office the morning of Tuesday, February 6, 1940, and sat down in the chair opposite him. The ambassador appeared to be deep in thought as he read a memo.

  “Sir, you asked to speak with me?” Marc finally said, wondering if Bullitt had noticed him enter.

  “Yes, sorry.” He looked up at Marc and took a deep breath. “How are you doing? I know you are very busy with the ship list.”

  “I am well. It is coming together now and overall. There are those who believe they should be an exception to everyone, and be placed first, of course. Everyone has a special story as to why they need to …”

  “There is something I need to ask you,” Bullitt interrupted, “and before I say anything else, please understand that this is not my idea.” Marc fell silent. “I understand you know Arnold Wells from Harvard who is Sumner Wells, son—I believe you roomed together and are friends.”