The Siren of Paris by David Leroy Page B

you miss that one, they are sending the
George Washington
to Lisbon and Bordeaux.” He then looked at the other dates on the paper. “Well, you can afford it, I am sure, so May 28 out of Genoa, the
Rex
is leaving, along with the Conte.” He then looked up. “Bet you wish you’d gone with David now.”
    “Yes, I feel like an idiot for not going with him.” Nigel’s face squinted as if he had swallowed a lemon.
    “Look, that is not going to help you now. Do you think you could get to Genoa in eight days?” Marc asked him next.
    “It is tricky, Marc. I’m not sure. The train station is a mob right now, and there is no petrol, but I might be able to make it,” Nigel said.
    “Well, I just think Genoa is a good bet, because there is the Italian Line and the United States Line running, so, if you are going to get stuck someplace—” Marc stopped and looked further.
    “Look. Bordeaux is just for Americans. At least that is what we believe right now. But that is not until June 10. What about the
Clipper
?” Marc asked him next.
    “Well, I don’t know. Lisbon is damn far away and through Spain. I guess I am just going to start out and see how bad it is out there and wherever I am closest, I will choose at that time.” Nigel then left the embassy, but before leaving Paris, he stopped off at his flat to nail the red certificate to his door.
    That night, Marc put the keys in a bowl of colored glass from Biot he bought in the summer of ’39.
    “Which side of the doorway?” Dora asked Marc the morning of June 1.
    “Whichever. It doesn’t matter.”
    “Well, I want to make sure I do this right. I have not ever had to do this before in all my years here, so I figure I have only one chance to get this right.”
    “Dora, I wish this was a time for jokes, but, you know.”
    “Oh, I know. I know all too well.” She then took out an envelope and gave it to Marc.
    “What is this?” He opened it and looked at the bundle of francs. “Oh God, what is this for?”
    “In case you need it for anything, because these are yours.” She then passed him the keys to her apartment in one of the exceedingly nice districts of town off of Foch Street.
    “So all that talk of staying to the end and fighting off the Germans was just talk?” Marc balked.
    “Oh, damn right, it was. This is no place for me. I am smart enough to know better, and I sure wish some other stubborn Jews would see the same now.” She then looked up. “This Goldilocks is ditching the Three Bears and heading south.”
    “Do you have a plan?” Marc asked next.
    “Lisbon. It is too late for Genoa,” she said. “I think I would miss it, but Lisbon, at least, has options. Yes. So, I would leave you the car but I need it, even though I am not sure where I am going to get petrol yet. There is more than enough money for anything the apartment might need, and you, my friend.” She kissed him goodbye and she left the morning of June 1.
    That night, Marc locked up the francs in his dresser drawer and put the keys with Nigel’s in the glass bowl.
    “Stay here, and try to act American,” Marc said to Marie as she reached the line for the red certificates. He returned then from his desk with a completed form. “Here, sign this,” Marc pushed the form across to her.
    “But my name is not Elda?” Marie asked, perplexed.
    “Miss, these certificates are for Americans only, so please do not share them with your French neighbors,” Marc said with an official tone.
    “Absolutely not. I would never do that,” Marie said, trying to sound convincing.
    Later that afternoon, the ambassador said to Marc, “I do hope Elda will be safe here in Paris.” Marc froze, searching for words to explain.
    “How many have taken up the certificates?”
    “Just over five thousand Americans, sir.”
    “That we know of, and if a few French have need, well, who is to judge? It is war, after all.”
    “Yes, I think I understand.”
    “Marc, don’t forget.”
    “Forget what,