“Yes, of course. Absolutely, I had no idea your apartment got hit. I almost got hit last week, too. Maybe it was the same plane that got your apartment?” The ambassador looked down again at his papers. “Have you spoken to your father?” he asked as Marc was leaving.
“No.”
“You should. Call him on our lines if you need to. Oh, and ask him for his prayers,” Bullitt said as he ransacked his desk.
The streets that afternoon began to fill with cars and carts. People began to leave the city en masse. The shelling now could be heard during the day and night. The softest of the bombs were as loud as the loudest ones only a week ago.
Marc tried the bank, but the line wrapped around the street corner, and he gave up trying to wait, instead counting the only money he had left. The francs from Dora he almost turned away became all-important to him. The Germans had been broadcasting into France that they would confiscate savings accounts as their first action in occupation. Every bank through the city had huge lines of desperate people who now believed German radio more than their own nation’s official news.
Marie surprised Marc when she came to the embassy that day.
“What are these for?” Marc asked.
“My father said you can stay there if you need to,” she said, holding back tears. “I have to go with them. I have to go, I cannot stay,” her eyes watered. “The government is leaving and he needs to follow them, to help set up the new assembly, but it won’t be long, and then I can come back, Marc. But if you need a place.”
“Marc, you need to go. Don’t stay,” she then pleaded.
“Marie, we are the only ones left. In about an hour, Bullitt becomes mayor of the city. I cannot …” He paused, trying to find his emotions.
“You can. It was a promise, Marc, for after the war. Bullitt’s problem is not your own. You can go, and should. I am not staying here for you, and it is unfair for you to stay here for me.” She then quickly kissed him, and walked out of the embassy.
“Marc, Marc,” Bullitt called from his office. Marc quickly walked in to see what he needed.
“Can you do a cable? Have you done it before?” he asked him and gathered papers from his desk.
“Yes, I have done them. What do you need sent?”
“Here, this,” he handed Marc a single sheet. “Send it to Hull and Roosevelt. I have to go meet with the police and fire departments.”
Marc went into the cable room and checked the line to make sure it was still live. He then sat down to the table and started to type out the message on the secure cable typewriter.
“Start: Hull; Roosevelt; This embassy is the only official organization still functioning in the city of Paris except the headquarters of the military forces, Governor and the Prefecture of Police. Phones still on. Stop.”
Morning of June 10, 1940
Paris, France
M
arc drove the car as they passed street after street filled with people piling their belongings into carts and cars, preparing to leave the city.
“They said that they would wait. Did you get the cable out?” Bullitt asked Marc.
“Yes, I tested the line before sending. I got a confirmation it was received,” Marc said as they pulled near Notre Dame.
“You should leave today,” Bullitt said as they walked inside. Marc thought it was an odd statement because it seemed pointless to him. Marc already knew the details of travel for leaving the war zone, and the window to leave had already past.
Inside the walls of Notre Dame Cathedral, Ambassador Bullitt knelt in front of the priest as he held his hand on his head and gave prayers. It was a horrible scene for Marc to behold, filled with bitterness for all who were present. Bullitt sobbed as the responsibility now rested on his head. The French government had left during the night and the only solution that seemed reasonable was to give Bullitt the duty as honoree mayor.
Marc returned to the embassy with the ambassador after the ceremony at Notre Dame.
“Allen, I thought the British Embassy had left?” Marc stood in front of his desk, across from Allen.
“We are. This afternoon. When will you be back to the YMCA?” Allen quickly responded.
“Do you need to leave your keys?”
“No, Marc, you are coming with us.”
“Allen, I can’t. Bullitt is now the mayor. We are the only officials left. Look, I would help you, but I can’t. It would be like abandoning a post.”
“Look, Marc, I need your help. The nuns and staff are coming and so are the Belgians. We are going east to Saint-Nazaire and the government is sending an evacuation armada of ships,” Allen said as Bullitt came into the room.
“You can land in Britain and then over to America through Ireland, but this is it. We have to leave today, and I need your help with the others,” Allen pleaded.
“Go,” Bullitt said to Marc. “I have the official French police and fire to help. As soon as I am done here, I am leaving south.”
“But,” Marc hesitated, thinking.
“We cannot wait another day. In a few more hours, Marc, it is going to be impossible to leave the city,” Allen said.
Marc then took out of his desk drawer the wad of francs from Dora and put them in his jacket. “I should make a call,” he said next. Marc took up the phone and started to dial the number, using the direct line. “This will be just a minute.”
“Can you call England?” Allen asked Marc. “Is it a direct line?”
“Yes, but wait,” Marc said as he rang for the operator.
“I want to let my family know if I can get out on a line. What is wrong?” Allen asked him, looking at the phone.
“I think it’s dead.” Marc hit the button a few times and listened, then gave it to Allen.
“They cut the lines. They are dead now,” he yelled back to Bullitt.
“Goddamn them! I told them to wait. What am I supposed to do without any phone lines? I told them I would give them the go-ahead, and now this!” Bullitt’s voice roared.
“Time to go,” Allen said, and they left out into the morning streets. A herd of cattle crossed in front of the Place de la Concorde, taking the same route south Marc and Allen were going to take to the other side of the river.
“We are leaving with a company of the BEF. I think on trucks. By following with them, we are sure to get aboard a ship,” Allen said breathlessly as they neared the YMCA building.
Inside the YMCA, the refugees put together their belongings, preparing to meet up with the soldiers.
“When will the trucks be here?” Marc asked Allen.
“There has been a change of plans, I will be right back,” he said as he ran back over to speak with the commander of the unit.
“Only what you can carry,” Allen said to the refugees. “This is too much.”
“It is the food, we need to bring some food,” Sister Clayton said to him.
“Then Sister, let’s break it apart and put it in different bags. We need to make sure that everything is distributed in case we get separated,” Allen said, sorting through the bags of bread, cheeses and vegetables.
“Here, this is yours. Put this in your bags,” the nun said to one group.
“Be careful. Pack it so you don’t lose it. We don’t know when we will get more,” Allen said to the president of the airplane company, as the little Belgian boy hung close with the other children.
“Here, hold my hand,” Marc said to the small young Belgian boy as he held his sister’s hand, with the dogs following. “Gardez, don’t let go, and watch out,” Marc continued in French.
“What is your name?” Marc asked the boy.
“Cricket, because I chirp,” the boy said with a bright smile.
“What an odd little name, but what is your real name?” Marc pressed.
“Look, it is beautiful,” the boy said, pointing in front of them as they walked down the street with the others toward the south Montparnasse train station.
As they approached the rail station, Marc looked up, and his face changed. Between trucks and simple cars, he saw terribly expensive cars with doors open, just abandoned in the streets surrounding the station.
“Someone is going to get lucky if they snatch this one,” Marc said as they passed a white Silver Cloud Rolls Royce.
“No one wants it, Marc. Besides, it is probably not from Paris but out of town,” Allen said.
Allen focused as he walked quickly among the people. Marc’s anxiety increased as the party approached the sea of refugees. He was not sure if everyone would stay together and, even if they could, if this was exactly the best idea.
People crowded the train station to board various trains. Others camped out waiting in hopes of getting on a train. In every direction, Marc could see lost eyes. Some were looking for a train, some were looking for a relative, and some were simply set inside, looking for no place at all. Marc could feel his own eyes become just like everyone else’s: helpless, lost, and scared.
“Sir, sir, can you help me? I have lost,” a man said to Marc.
“Maurice, Maurice, where are you?” a woman’s voice screamed above all others.
“Attention, attention, please! The train for Tours is departing in ten minutes,” came across the station speakers.
“Please, please, I need to get to Lyons! Please, I will pay you,” a woman begged Allen just in front of Marc.
“We are taking the 81. Stay close. Many of the staff should already be there,” Allen said to Marc as they moved through the crowds of men, women, children and soldiers on the bustling platforms as they boarded the trains. Some had bags. Some looked as if they had fled with nothing. The station felt like an anthill that had been dusted up.
Just before noon, all of the people from their group made it to Train eighty-one. The third car back appeared to have some staff already on board. All of the train cars were totally overcrowded. There were maybe nine passenger cars in all, and several boxcars, and every one of them was standing room only. Cars one and two held soldiers from the BEF on top of the roofs.
Mr. Lugoux’s heart nearly stopped at the sight. He had already experienced the loss of his airplane factory in Belgium, and the trauma of fleeing by road with his family to Paris. He quickly thought that he could ride on top with his older son, while his wife and daughter could ride inside the car with the other children.
Inside the car, Sister Clayton’s eyes took a minute to adjust to the scene. At first, she saw no seats available for her staff of the Church Army, and the YMCA traveling with them. She pushed through the middle aisle to the front of the car, as the others followed. Some moved a bit to let the younger children sit down. Everyone else accepted they would need to stand.
Grabbing the boarding rails of car three, Marc and Allen made for the roof via the ladder. On top of the train car were already about twenty men and two women. A young man took Marc’s hand and helped him up. Marc could see all through the train station and just about every train he saw had people on top of it. Marc started to reconsider his decision to leave with Allen. He was no longer sure it was safer to leave Paris than to hold his ground and stay in the city.
Engine eighty-one’s whistle blew loud and long.
“Welcome aboard, young man,” an older man in uniform said to Marc as he sat down and looked for something to hold onto.
“Here, hold this. Right under the inner window line, you can hold there,” he said, studying Marc’s features.
Allen sat down next to Marc and said hello to the man and apparently knew him, but did not introduce Marc.
Across the rail station, a train pulled out slowly. Marc stared, mesmerized, as the overcrowded train left the station with every car piled with men, women, and children on top. For most of the week, he had stayed away from the station. He had interacted with other Americans and people who were traveling, but he had no idea exactly what it felt to be as desperate now as everyone else to leave Paris.
The June 3 bombing raid had shaken him up; the one on the night of June 9 made him numb to the world. The whistle blew a second time, the train lurched forward just a bit, and then stopped.
“What is your name?” the man asked.
“Marc,” he said, “and this is my friend from the British Embassy, Allen.”
“Nice to meet you, Marc. Yes, I know Mr. Lee well. Are you an American?” the man asked in a thick accent.
“Yes, sir. New York. I was here as a student when the war broke out and have been working for the American Embassy.”
“Good for you. What were you studying?” His conversational tone was a pleasant relief to the hectic station.
“Art, drawing, some painting. When I came to Paris, it seemed like a good idea. Now, not so sure,” Marc said, looking out again and taking in the panorama of the station’s bustle.
“Excellent. I wish I had studied art more,” the older man said.
“What do you do?” Marc asked.
The whistle blew now three short times and the cars began to move forward ever so slowly. Train eighty-one was the next to depart. Marc grabbed the top of the windows hard, making sure to hold steady to the train’s roof. After looking forward through two other car roofs full of people, he glanced around the entire train station at the surreal drama that was playing out in what was once such a stuffy environment.
“I am in between jobs now, so to speak,” the man said.
“Sorry to hear that. A lot of people are in the same boat, including me. What did you do before you lost your job?” Marc asked, trying to focus upon not losing his grip.
“Oh, I did diplomatic business for the United Kingdom,” the man said in a voice of defeat, just as Engine 81 cleared the roof of the Paris station.
June 10, 1940
SS Manhattan, At Sea
David awoke on the deck chair where he’d spent the night. Passengers gathered on the rail as the ship passed the Nantucket lighthouse. It would not be much longer, he thought. He gave up his cot to a woman who did not want to stay below in her cabin. Larry was still asleep next to him, and Robert as well. The girls were inside, but the woman had a daughter and an older mother. It seemed like the right thing to do. It was not that cold out.
It had been the strangest trip ever. There was no class distinction on the ship at all. People were exceptionally polite to each other, but somber. Most had not removed their life jackets since Gibraltar. No one complained about any inconvenience. There was none of the drama he had seen during all of his previous thirty-two Atlantic crossings. Everyone aboard seemed to be of one mind, and that was thankful to be heading home. David mused to himself that he was only nine months late getting home, but that was better than never.