The Siren of Paris by David Leroy Page A

cared for another bandaged woman covered in a bed. She was wearing smart clothes, as if she had been at the bombed-out church.
    Five eternal minutes passed before a single voice was heard over the speakers. The march of raw footage across the screen had become too much for many of the parents and children in the theater. A few tried to calm down their children, but even some of the adults struggled to hold back their emotions. Marie got up and started for the aisle. Marc followed her out through the people standing three deep at the rear doors.
    “They lied to us,” Marie said to Marc in the lobby. “They lied in the papers. They tell us what we want to hear.” She started to cry.
    “I am sure the truth is someplace between the two. They don’t tell us everything, because they don’t want people to panic, but it looks like they hold back too much,” Marc said, as he realized he could not sugarcoat what he had just experienced. He wanted to comfort Marie, but was not even sure if it was wise.
    “We are going to lose. We are going to become those people on the screen,” Marie continued to cry.
    Marc tried to calm her down as they left behind a mother with two young children.
    “That will not happen, Marie, please.”
    “Marc, how can you promise that?”

Chapter 12
    O n the morning of May 20, the ambassador called the staff together. “This is not a solution to our problem and it is not meant to cause a panic.” The staff stared at him stoically.
    “We need to do something to give people confidence, and I know you may believe this absurd, but,” he went on as the morning light filled the room, “if they are insistent they must stay, then this will give at least some identification to them.”
    The staff stood silently looking at the table in front of them. Stacked were bundles of red tickets.
    “Take their names, businesses, locations, everything you can get about them on these forms,” the ambassador said. “Then copy the key information onto one of the red certificates and give this to them, and they are to put it on their door fronts.” The ambassador scanned the faces of the staff to discern their morale.
    He watched them as they looked at the forms with total silence. He closed his eyes for a moment.
    “Does anyone have any questions?” he asked the staff.
    “Do we have any assurance from them?” Marc’s voice cracked with emotion.
    “What do you mean?” the ambassador responded.
    “Is there any diplomatic assurance that these certificates will be respected?” he asked in a quiet and low tone.
    “I am not going to lie. We have nothing, but this. We are remaining open. If it comes to the point that they arrive here in Paris, I will be in a position to directly communicate the meaning of the certificates,” the ambassador’s voice stammered. “I cannot force Americans to leave, but I cannot abandon this post, either, so this is a solution that helps me to know who is left in Paris, and gives me some ability to identify and represent them to the occupying forces.”
    “When does this start?” Marc choked out another question.
    “This morning. I put the notice out to the papers last night. I expect they will find their way here over the next few days, but we should be ready this morning,” the ambassador finished.
    Marc went with the secretary to unlock the doors. To his surprise, there were already forty to fifty people outside waiting to come in.
    “Take this and then place it on your door,” Marc said to Nigel after filling out the form. Nigel took the certificate in his hand and looked it over with an odd expression. He then took something from his pocket and pressed it into Marc’s hand.
    “What is this?”
    “It is yours if you need a place to go. The rent is paid up for the year,” Nigel said to Marc without any smile. “Do you have the latest on travel?”
    “Wait here.” Marc went back to his desk and looked through the notices. “Genoa, June 2, but that is far away. If