“Marc, Marc, I had to. I had no place to go. I needed someplace, I am sorry,” she pleaded.
“How did you get in here?” he asked again, completely stunned and unable to process this new surprise.
The airman came out and said, “She pleaded at the door, and was banging and banging, until it was so loud, I thought it would draw others. I know you told me not to let anyone in, but she said she knew you and told me that she …” He then stopped, as if he was pretending to have done something bad, like a dog that had crapped on the carpet.
Marc stood in silence. His guard was up but, at the same time, there was now nothing he could do.
Who had followed her? How long would it take to find her, and then all of them?
he thought. His mind raced through a number of problems.
“Marc, Marc, listen to me. I have a plan. I need to get out of town, and so does he. We can pose as husband and wife, and no one will know. I know this looks bad now, but it can work out. And you can come, too. We can meet up once we get out of town.”
“I need to think,” Marc said, sitting down and closing his eyes.
“She has a good point, Marc,” the airman said. Just then, Jacques flashed across his mind and his stomach felt uneasy. The airman’s voice had a confidence in it that betrayed him. It lacked any fear.
“Marc, I know we can do it, but we need to know how to get past the checkpoints,” Marie said. Marc’s mind went blank, and then he thought of the dream. He opened his eyes and looked at Marie and the airman. They appeared to expect him to actually have a plan for this. As if all Marc had to do was say, “Oh, yes, no problem, you will be escorted at eight tonight. Want some tea until then?”
He went to the bathroom and started to wash his face in the basin, and then looked up through the mirror into the room and saw Marie looking at the airman. He continued to then wash his face, with the nausea worsening by the moment. Marc fought off the nervous need to wash his arms.
“Marie, what happened?” Marc whispered when he went back into the front room.
“They came for them. They took everyone. I missed the meeting and they were all gone, Marc. Everyone. And I don’t know if they will talk, but I am sure some will. I should have seen it. You were right and you told me, but I did not listen.”
The airman appeared to just listen and act as if he was embarrassed by everything. Marc noticed his silence.
“So, they’re coming, Marie. You know that, right? You know they will find you if you stay here.”
“Yes, I know. I am sorry to put you in danger, and him. I had no place else to go, Marc. I am so sorry.” Marc could no longer pretend not to hear the lie in her voice. She was lying to him, and he realized that the airman was in on it all. His stomach grew still as he could see that they were not coming at all—they were already here in his apartment.
“I have a plan,” Marc said as he walked back into his bedroom. He searched through drawers, opening and then slamming them shut. His mind spun furiously to develop some kind of new plot for his guests. Then he remembered the night before and the questions the airman had about cards and the board.
“Where are they?” he complained.
“Where is what, Marc? What are you looking for?” Marie said, standing in the hallway.
“The cards, the cards! I forgot the damn cards. They must have them,” he said. He then turned and looked at her. “Do you have something to write on?” he said, desperation in his voice.
“Yes, I have something. I have some scraps.” She pulled paper from her purse. It was a small, nearly brand new tablet of precious paper. Marc smiled as he looked in her eyes.
“Excellent,” he took it to the table and then started to draw. “Now, listen to me. This is very important.” He held up the paper that now held a small drawing of an animal. “Show this card, and when they ask at the border, tell them, ‘I am the weasel.’ They will let you pass. I would give you the real card but it is lost, so this will have to do.” Marc couldn’t believe his own act. He had somehow plunged himself into her lying and just mirrored it back to her. “They will know who you are and let you pass. But, Marie, don’t tell anyone else, and if you are captured, it is important that you eat the paper, or destroy it. You can never tell them you know me. Understand? It would put so many others at risk. You have no idea.”
She stared at him with wide eyes. The airman looked as if he believed every word from Marc. “I love you, Marie, and I want to be with you and the only way I know is by giving you this card. It is the only hope. But remember, if they catch you, tell them nothing,” Marc finished.
She took the card and said, “What do I do?”
“Hold the card down in such a way that no one can see. When the border guard asks for your papers and identification, give them this card and look straight at him and say, ‘I am the weasel.’ It is that simple. Once you say that, everything will go as agreed. It is the secret code, Marie. Tell no one.” Everything in him went cold. He knew now that he was playing her game, but there was no way for him to win.
She never loved him. She was false. Everything was false and a lie. Marc now just wondered when the Gestapo would come through the door, because he was sure they were waiting.
“When do we go, Marc?” she asked.
“Now. You cannot stay here or waste a moment. If you hurry tonight, you can make it out. I so want you to stay, Marie. I love you and I wish I could go, but it would only make it more dangerous.”
As they got up to go to the door, Marc took Marie and kissed her, and said, “Be careful. They are everywhere. If you see me again in prison, remember we do not know each other. It is for your own safety, Marie.”
“Marc, I love you. I will, I promise, I will.”
Marc turned to the airman. “Be careful. Take care of her, and say nothing with that accent,” Marc said. The airman nodded in agreement. He seemed almost as if he was lured into a trance of believing everything Marc had said.
“Marc, do we need the board?” Marie asked. Marc said, “No, the board always stays with me. Without the board, all is lost.”
And Marc was then alone in his apartment but for how long, he was not sure. His mind raced with fear of the possibilities. And then doubt began to creep in.
Maybe Marie was being honest. Maybe he had just sent her and that airman to their deaths with his stunt. But everything inside him, his full intuition told him that the voices lied. There was such a lack of sincerity in them he thought, as he closed his eyes. It was remarkable how well the trick worked. No wonder Jacques was in charge of recruiting.
Again, doubt crept back into his mind, and with the worry, came fear. Eventually, it all seemed hopeless. But still, never before had an airman known his name, and Marie seemed to show up just in time.
Marc left the apartment and walked to Notre Dame. He sat in the empty cathedral. There was no service, and no priest present. Marc struggled to find inside himself some faith that his prayers would be heard, but there was nothing inside him that said yes. He noticed that the window had finally been removed. Maybe the workmen believed by taking down the little window of hell, heaven would someday reappear?
At first he was going to return to his apartment, but instead decided to take a walk. He checked to make sure he had his papers with him, just in case he should be stopped.
The play
Elois
had some tickets, which was rare in those days when it seemed like everyone sought the theater to escape the hunger and fear of the war. The characters came and went on the stage. Their miniature lives seemed to pass in front of him. One loved another who did not see the love. Another wanted someone else who wanted someone else. As he sat alone in the packed theater, he thought that hell is not a place underground, or a window in a cathedral, but other people.
Marc walked aimlessly through the streets back to his apartment, lost in thought. Did he make a mistake? Or did he just not want to accept the truth, that it was he who was led to his own death by such a simple love?
“Halt,” he heard from behind. He stopped in his tracks, thinking,
This is it, the moment where they finally find me.
“Papers. It is past curfew. What are you doing out here?” the guard asked him sternly.
“Walking to my apartment after seeing a play,” Marc responded, wondering when others would spring out.
“These papers are excellent. I am sure they are a forgery,” the guard said in dry, dispassionate French.
“But that name, it is authentic, so perhaps the people who make the fake papers are so good, we now use them ourselves. Which play?” the guard asked as he looked at Marc’s fake identity card.
“
Elois
, over at the Temberea,” Marc answered obediently.
“Ugh, horrible play. Depressing,” the guard grumbled. “Why are you so late?”
Marc looked at him, perplexed.
Is he going to arrest me or talk about the nightlife?
he wondered. “My girlfriend left with another man,” he said with a monotone voice.
“And you saw that play? Why?” the guard looked at him, shocked.
“I didn’t know what it was about,” Marc said, and then realized that the guard was going to let him go as he handed back his identity card.
“Get inside. I don’t want to see you again out tonight. Go find something to drink like a decent Frenchman,” and the guard then walked away, leaving Marc in the street just a few doors down from his apartment building.
M
arc stood in the hallway on the landing, just outside his door. He stared at the threshold for any hint of movement inside of the apartment, but it was darkly silent. Decision after decision rushed through his mind as he stared at the doorknob. He thought how odd it all seemed, like a surprise birthday party, except it would be instead for his arrest and execution. After the wave of past decisions leading to this door washed by, another wave of should-haves rose up inside him, but there was no time left.
Marc stepped forward and took his key, turning to the left four times, until the door unlocked. He closed his eyes and then opened it. Marc then walked across the threshold, but still only silence. He shut the door behind him loudly to challenge the darkness.
After standing in the dark for a few moments, hearing nothing but the echo of the empty room, he hit the light button on the wall next to the door, and there was nothing.
There were no Gestapo agents waiting for him, or German soldiers to take him away. There was no one in the back room, or bathroom or kitchen. He walked into the front room and saw the cribbage board, which stirred a storm of doubt up inside his soul.
December, 1941
Paris, France
“I have no idea who he is,” Dr. Jackson said to Marc as he sat across from him at the hospital. “I’m sure he is one of the thousands of soldiers left behind, who hid in the woods after Dunkirk, but who knows. He probably stripped his papers and identity disk so, if he was ever caught, they would not know he was British.”
“How do you know he’s British? He could just be some kid, and some family is looking for him now.” While the sadness of death still troubled him, he was growing ambivalent, as it had become so common.
“He is British. The lady who brought him said he spoke only English and no French, and she only found him in her barn a week ago,” Dr. Jackson said, looking back at Marc.
“How did he die?” Marc asked quietly.
“Blood poisoning. Something bit him, probably a few weeks back, and he never healed. Either that, or he got a bad cut someplace. Being weak, the body just did not fight off the infection. If he had got here maybe a few days ago, he would’ve had a chance,” Dr. Jackson said, looking over Marc’s back to make sure no one could hear them in the basement morgue.
Marc looked up at Dr. Jackson, without any emotion. “Why are you telling me about this?”
“Because I think you should give him your name for burial,” Dr. Jackson said in a low whisper.
Marc’s eyes suddenly widened, and he looked down at the dead man on the slab.
“I would if I could, but I am a doctor here,” Dr. Jackson said, “and I cannot so easily just die. But you can die, and be ‘reborn’ so to speak. That way, if someone should come for us Americans, at least you have a chance,” Dr. Jackson said softly yet intently.
“I don’t know. When do you need to know?” Marc asked next. His mind started to work out the details of what could happen, how he would get word back home that he was alive yet dead at the same time.
“Tomorrow, my place, depending on the drapes, of course,” Dr. Jackson said, and then walked out of the morgue, leaving Marc to think.
May, 1944
Paris, France
Marc laid in his bed listening to the silence of the room close in around him. He played in his mind every possibility of escape, but each one ended with someone likely paying a price for his flight. He thought what would happen to innocents and the people at the hospital, yet they had no idea of his activities. He checked and rechecked in his mind if there was any way he could be traced back to other safe houses.
What if I was wrong, and Marie and the airman were real?
How arrogant of me,
he thought, to condemn and judge someone based purely upon the tone of a voice. He considered the possibility that the reason no one was in his apartment to arrest him was because they were being tortured themselves while protecting his name.
Between the dreams of doubt and the fears of escape, Marc fell asleep early that morning.
Marc woke with a jolt. He was surprised to still be free. It was morning. He stayed in bed for an hour and then finally got up. It was too late to go to the north or south. Running seemed pointless to him. He bathed in the cold water, dressed, and went to the hospital on his bike. He looked around the apartment before he left with the same strange feeling he had back in June 1940, before he and Allen left the embassy for the train station. He noticed that the airman had left the supplies. Marc took some of the bread and cheese for breakfast.