“But what?”
“I am not ready yet. Is there another time?”
“Look, I cannot promise another time. Don’t be a fool. If you want to go, then be at the dock at 6 a.m.”
Officer Sean could not keep himself from glancing at Marc during the funeral the following day. He studied him closely as the prayers were given for the coffins in the church.
“Your American pet is still tied to his chain,” a German joked with Officer Sean at the pub in town that evening. “How long are you going to keep your pet?” they poked and prodded him.
“I already have tried once to let him go. I sent one of the fishermen to set up a ride for him north,” the officer said after sipping his beer.
“What a fool. He just keeps digging those graves,” they joked and laughed. Officer Sean glanced down at his mug, and then up at his friends.
“I don’t think it is that at all.” He paused. “I think he can’t go,” he finished, raising his eyebrows.
“Why?” another asked.
“Fear.”
“I bet you rounds for a week you are wrong,” someone else said to the officer.
“Oh, what do you propose?”
“I will set up another boat for him, a sure thing, and if he takes it, and what fool would not, you are buying the rounds for a whole week.”
“And if he stays?”
“Then, your round is on us for the week.”
Officer Sean thought to himself and considered carefully what he had seen, and then said, “Make it a month. If he goes, I buy for a month, and if he stays, you buy me for a month.” The officer then pointed his finger at them and said, “And no scaring him off or any funny business. Leave him alone and let him decide.”
“You’re a fool. Your American pet has just cost you rounds for a month.”
“I hope you are right. He needs to go, but don’t count on those rounds just yet.”
March, 1943
Lyons, France
“I
need you to wrap this up,” the officer said to Marie.
“I am trying. I think if we give it a little more time, we can get other names,” she said.
“I am sure we can as well, but that is not the problem. I need you for another assignment.”
“Where?” she asked.
“I need you in Paris. The problem is growing there, even more than it is here in Lyons, and they can use your skills. Plus, you know Paris.”
“And some in Paris know me, as well. It will be a little more dangerous.”
“Francs are not a problem. You will be taken care of,” he said with some irritation in his voice.
“That is not the problem. The problem is that I did live there, and people do know me, but maybe things have changed a bit,” Marie answered back. There was a tension around the entire idea but she shrugged it off.
“Oh, they have. There are very few people right now living there compared to before we liberated it from the previous filth,” Marie listened to him, trying to imagine Paris now compared to when she lived there in 1940. “I would be shocked if you just happen across someone. Besides, if you do, that might be a benefit to your work.”
“Yes, it could be. You’re right.”
But it also could be a problem,
she thought silently to herself.
“We need to get on top of it better. The usual methods are not working so well. We need someone on the inside to help, and you are ideal. You know Paris, but you have not been living there for a few years now. The old becomes new again. So, we need to wrap this up,” the officer finished and looked down at some papers on his desk.
“When am I leaving?” she asked.
“Soon, very soon. I will let you know as soon as we have it worked out.” He then noticed something else on his desk. “Oh, and one more thing. Don’t take this the wrong way. There is no doubt as to your loyalties. But, you said your family is now living in Bordeaux.” Everything froze inside her as he went on. “But we have not been able to locate them. Do you know more specifics?” he looked up and studied her face.
“Well, yes, I did say they live in Bordeaux, but they have moved since. I did not realize you would need to contact them,” Marie said while observing her own voice for nervousness that would hint at betrayal.
“Well, we do not need to contact them, but I do need to confirm relatives of our operatives. Is there something wrong?” he pressed.
“They have moved since. They are now in Tours,” Marie said, taking a seat across from the agent.
“Do you have their address?” then she leaned in toward him.
“Maybe you can help me? I have been trying to reach them myself and when they moved to Tours, they have not sent their address yet. Do you have some contacts that might be able to search for them? I do want to get them some money. If not, I understand. I think I know possibly where to look,” Marie looked at the officer with a slightly pathetic look of dignified desperation.
“I will see what I can do. It is not my job to track down the lost, but at the same time, I value your work,” he said. He inhaled deeply and looked back at the forms.
Marie reached over and touched the top of his hand. “I would be very grateful to you,” just before she left.
March, 1943
Paris, France
Marc walked up and down the aisle of empty market tables looking for anything he could buy for supplies but, as usual, everything was gone. People were selling “vegetables,” but they were crude-looking oddities for tea or soups. A sign posted warned people of the dangers of eating cats.
Leaving the market, he rode his bicycle down the streets heading back to his apartment, but decided to take a detour instead and headed over to the Metro where, from time to time, people sold goods at the station. He found a vendor who actually had some crude cheese to sell. Marc paid the francs quickly and then stuffed the cheese into his bag.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw in the distance a woman he knew but could not place exactly. He looked for a few more minutes and thought,
Is that Marie
? He took his bike and started to move toward where she was standing but she turned and started to walk away with a man. The man was tall and French. Marc had never seen him before.
He decided to hold back and watch. It looked like her but he could not be certain. Her hair was a different style, as was her clothing. But the curves of her body appeared the same to him. He decided to move in closer.
Just then the woman and man stopped talking and started walking toward the front of the station. Marc decided to take a risk.
“Marie, Marie!” he called, but the woman did not turn and look back. Maybe he was too far away or his voice did not carry? He was still uncertain and felt like it was her, but she did not turn and look at him. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. He watched them walk away toward the Metro and decided not to call out again.
Marc scrubbed the skins of the potatoes. They were small, and more than a few were shriveled. Dr. Jackson entered the kitchen and picked up one of the larger potatoes, turning it carefully.
“This is a nice one. Downstairs there is some dirty laundry that needs to go out. When you get a chance, take a run.” Marc then waited until Dr. Jackson left the room and after a few more minutes, he removed his apron and went to the basement.
He took a large basket in the corner that was filled with linens and rolled it through the basement toward the large doors and then out to a German truck that was waiting. The driver helped him lift the basket into the back. They put in a second basket of linens behind the first, and then closed the doors.
Marc got into the truck and then the driver took off. The trip was not long, just a few streets, until they came to the back of a store. They backed up the van and then unloaded the two carts of laundry. After the truck took off, Marc waited a few minutes with the baskets.
Soon Georges and Jean came through the rear door, both carrying satchels. Marc moved the baskets over to the large washers and had started to unload the sheets until the top of the heads of two men could be seen underneath.
“It’s time,” Marc said.
Both men rose from the front basket and climbed out. From the second basket, a single man got out.
“Can you take another?” Marc asked.
“We only have clothes for two,” Georges said to Marc.
“Well, we thought it would be a chance. If not, he can come home with me tonight, or maybe over to Sylvia’s place. But, he cannot go back to the hospital.”
“We can take him, just not wearing what he has on,” Jean said, shrugging his shoulders. Marc looked at the man, an American. They were about the same size.
“What about this?” Marc said, pointing to what he was wearing.
Georges and Jean looked at each other and nodded.
“Fine, we will swap clothes. But I need you to send Dr. Jackson, or maybe Philip, to my apartment and get a change. I cannot go out looking like that, either. They will not care where I work or anything. They’ll just see the clothes and arrest me.”
Marc quickly stripped and passed his pants and shirt to the man. The man peeled off his flight suit and took off his boots. He was putting on his boots after stepping into Marc’s trousers when Marc said, “No. No boots. If you are stopped, they will see that.”
Marc took off his shoes. They were a bit big for the flyer, but he stuffed his socks into the front and then they fit fine.
“Don’t forget I am here,” Marc told Jean.
“Don’t worry. I will go right after we drop them off,” Jean said.
“Good luck to you guys. Nice of you to visit Paris and, next time, we will give you a better tour,” Marc said with a little chuckle.
“No problem, friend, and thanks for the lift,” one of the airmen said sheepishly.
“Do as they tell you. And do not talk much. Remember the French I taught you. Speak low and mumble, and only a few words at a time. Nothing more.” Marc’s tone became so serious; it sounded like he was scolding him. “Mumble when you talk, and low. Do not pronounce your words like you are in high school. If you are stopped and questioned in French, pretend not to understand and just keep asking for a cigarette.”
“Cigarette? I don’t think I want a smoke from some German if I am stopped,” one of the airmen said in a cocky tone.
Marc glared at him. “Only a Frenchman would ask a German with a gun for a cigarette. It is not a joke. You need to act French if you want to get home.” The flyer looked slightly embarrassed, realizing the real danger.
Eventually, Jean returned with a change of clothes for Marc and, after returning to the hospital, he rode his bicycle home. It was close to dark, and a new curfew had been implemented. The apartment stood cold when he arrived. He turned on the lights and did double-check through the flat to make sure everything was secure. He then glanced at the board on the mantel.
August, 1940
Saint-Nazaire, France
“We need to leave soon! Are you coming aboard?” the fisherman asked Marc. “What is the problem? Is there a girl you want to bring?” he then said mockingly.
Marc stood frozen on the dock, his chest tense and throbbing, his breathing shallow and fast. His skin itched as if it had caught fire. His stomach churned and threatened to spill out into the sea, just like the oil had done.
“Come along now, come along, it will be fine. No one will give any attention to such a small fishing boat,” the fisherman said next, trying to coax Marc onto the boat. “In just a bit, you’ll be over in England, so don’t worry.”
The fisherman’s words struck a cord of fear so strongly in Marc’s body that he could not find anything inside of him to override the overpowering need he had to leave the dock.
“Look at him. He is afraid of it,” one shipmate said to another.
“He will get over it. He just needs to get into the boat first,” the German agent spy said to the other shipmate. “My bud needs those rounds,” he whispered to himself.
The German spy, dressed as a fisherman, left the boat and walked up to Marc on the dock. “It will be fine. I know it is hard, but you just need to take one step at a time and then you are on the boat,” he said, trying to move Marc forward. “Once you are in the boat, you will see there is nothing to fear.”
Marc took a step forward into what felt like a wall of mud. He then took a second step forward. The tension grew inside him and the fear churned. Then he took a few more steps until he was within just a few feet of the boat’s ramp. A shock wave of mortal fear rose up from the sea and swept over him. Marc dropped to the dock, violently heaving the food he’d eaten that morning, and then the air inside of his stomach. His body trembled as if all his bones had shattered.
The German spy had never seen anything like it before and stopped trying to coax him aboard. When Marc was not looking, he shook his head from side to side for the German officer, watching from a distance, to see.
Marc crawled backward on all fours, away from the gangplank and made his way slowly off the dock like a crab that had escaped a basket. His entire body took over his mind and forced him to move away from the invisible wall that he had hit on the dock.
A few days later, Officer Sean saw Marc on the street walking. He crossed over to catch up with him.
“Have you thought of a plan yet for getting back home?” Officer Sean asked him casually.
“No. I’m not sure right now. Any ideas?” Marc asked, not glancing at the officer’s eyes.
“France is a very nice country, and can be hard to let go of,” the officer said. He was pleased he upped the bet to a month, but felt a bit of guilt inside about it each day.
“I believe I have secured enough land for the problem,” Marc said.
“Excellent. I am impressed. It is always a good thing to be a solution to a problem, rather than be the cause.”
“I will make sure, as they come in, that they are put to rest quickly.”
“Well, Marc, I am glad to hear that. So, you plan to be staying for a while, it appears. Since you will be around, maybe you can join me for cribbage games? The practice with my English will be good.”
“I don’t know how to play cribbage.”
“Not a problem. I will teach you.”