Publisher: Independent
Pages: 352
Genre: Historical Fiction/Magical Realism
Formats: Paperback, Kindle, Audiobook, FREE with Kindle Unlimited
Journey through the dark, violent, and haunting landscape of World War II in Paris and beyond – Take on a harrowing tour through the depths of human depravity, exploring themes of love, loss, guilt, and redemption in this gripping historical tale.
Marc Tolbert, a young French-born man from a prominent American family, takes off to Paris for a fresh start after a breakup in 1939. Pursuing his dreams of attending a prestigious Parisian art school, he soon makes friends with some of history's most notable figures, including Sylvia Beach and William Bullitt. Falling in love with an art model from one of his classes, he is blinded to the escalating violence around them as the war inches closer to the City of Lights.
What started as an adventure quickly becomes a nightmare as the war worsens, and Marc is faced with choices that will change his life forever.
When he finally faces the reality that he must leave Paris, fate deals him a cruel hand. Surviving the sinking of the RMS Lancastria, Marc is haunted by the deaths of his friends and the regret of not leaving sooner.
Returning to Paris, Marc is drawn into the resistance movement, risking everything to help those trapped behind enemy lines. But after being betrayed, he is captured and sent away to face the horrors of war and the guilt of his past mistakes.
The Siren of Paris is a powerful and emotional story that will keep you on the edge of your seat. With its compelling plot-driven narrative, vivid scenes, and intense action, this novel will transport you to the heart of war-torn Paris and leave you contemplating the weight of human choices and their impact on others. Whether you're a fan of historical fiction, war stories, or symbolic themes, this novel will captivate and intrigue you from start to finish.
Excerpt
September, 1967—Saint-Nazaire, France
“May the Lord be with you,” the priest’s voice rang out to all gathered at Marc’s graveside. It was September 1967.
The cloaked man stood taller than all others gathered, self-luminous with the hood of his smock pulled over his head. In his right hand he held a staff with a round clock mounted on top.
Marc stood beyond the gathering, gazing back upon his grave. He saw his only sister, Elda, surrounded by all his other friends from France. The body of his soul beamed a reddish-golden light, as he anticipated the final moment he would leave in peace. He strained to see the face of the priest obscured from view under the hood.
“And also with you,” Marc whispered, looking toward the release from his life.
“Let us pray,” the priest said softly. With a rush, the first eleven souls appeared around him. They had come from the graveyards of Angoulins-sur-Mer, Les Fortes, Saint-Charles-de-Percy, Saint-Clément-des-Baleines, Saint-Palais-sur-Mer, Chatelaillon- Plage, Saint-Sever, Traize, Brest, Saint-Hilaire-de-Talmont and Saint Pancras. They wore drab olive-green uniforms, kit bags ready for war. They were soaked to the bone. Only a few had boots. The dial on the clock stopped as a moment of Marc’s life flashed before him.
“I no longer want to see you, Marc. It is finished. It's over,” Veronica stood shivering outside his dorm room. Winter, 1939. He dropped out of medical school after that. He decided to run. Marc’s soul turned a dark red. The pain came back, searing.
“O God, we pray you lead us to truth, deliver us all from violence, battle, and murder, and from dying suddenly and unprepared,” the priest said as he glanced up from under his hood, then down again before Marc could catch his face.
Twenty-two more souls gathered by the grave. They came from the graveyards of Bretignolles-sur-Mer, L’Aiguillon-sur-Mer, Port-Joinville, Les Sables-d’Olonne, Nantes Pont du Cens, Sainte Marie, Yves, Piriac-sur-Mer, Olonne-sur-Mer, Coulac and Charroux. Among the soldiers stood one woman dressed as a nurse, a Belgian boy and little girl, all with no name
Again, the clock stopped. Another memory surfaced.
“I can watch out for myself, you know. I am not small anymore. You should go,” Elda was only eight years old at the time. Marc could see she blamed herself. His soul constricted. The hands of the clock moved again. His light turned blue.
“O God, we pray for those who suffer in silence with guilt, and for those who suffer with shame, regret, and remorse.”
“I've seen enough,” Marc cried out to the priest. Thirty-three souls arrived from the graveyards of La Couarde-sur-Mer, La Turballe, Saint-Denis-D’oléron, Sainte-Marie-de-Ré, Olonnes, Bouin, Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie, Aytré and Barbatre. The clock stopped.
“One-way ticket, first class, June 14, crossing on the Normandie, please.” Marc’s soul recoiled from this moment. He knew why he had left. The hands on the clock resumed. His light turned a dark purple.
“Please, let this go, it is just the past,” Marc called out to keeper of the clock. The staff remained steady.
“O God, our time is in your hands. Look upon us with favor as we, your servants, begin another year of life.”
Sixty-five souls appeared in a flash from the graveyards of Le Bois-Plage-en-Ré, Château-d’Olonne, Saint-Hilaire-de-Riez, Ile d’Yeu, Beauvoir-sur-Mer, Saint-Georges-D’oléron, Ars-en-Ré, La-Barre-de-Mont, Dolus, Saint-Trojan, L’Épine, La Plaine-sur-Mer, Noirmoutier-en-l’Ile, L’Herbaudiere, and Le Clion-sur-Mer. Again Marc felt the weight of time pulling him backward.
“Happy birthday, young man. Better get a move on it. You have a ship to catch today,” his mother handed him his hat the morning he left for France. The words pierced him. She drank herself to death from worry in the spring of ’42.
“Why must you show me this? Is this my judgment?” he cried again. His light turned dark green. The clock bearer looked up briefly from under his hood. The clock began to move.
“O God, whose glory fills the whole of creation: Preserve and protect those who travel from every danger and bring them in safety to their journeys’ end,” the priest intoned.
233 souls, men, women, children and soldiers from the graveyards of Saint-Nazaire-sur-Charentes, Les Moutiers-en-Retz, Prefailles and La Baule-Escoublac gathered around Marc. Time compressed. The clock slowed to a stop. Dread replaced fear.
“When you get to Paris, let Ambassador Bullitt know you are in town. He would be glad to see you. We were classmates back in college before the war.” His father pulled the car up to the French Line Pier. The image flickered before Marc in the fading light. His father never took art school seriously. The pain of these last words to him before a heart attack killed him in ’44 brought Marc to his knees. Two eyes peered from under the hood as Marc’s face twisted in anguish. The clock dial started to spin.
“O God, we pray for those who have died. May your love and light keep them eternally yours in peace and life without end.” Everyone who had gathered whispered a name. Marc swallowed hard. 370 souls gathered from the graveyards of La Bernerie-en-Retz and Pornic to join the other souls. The clock stopped.
“You should have left Paris, Marc, and never returned,” she said before the Gestapo officer read the charges. Marc groaned under the weight of this most painful moment, feeling regret and shame. His light turned dark as obsidian and the clock began to run.
“Make this stop. I have forgiven her,” he pleaded. The priest removed his hood and bared his face. Marc recognized him instantly: the betrayed priest he had known during the war. Yves.
“O God, the Father of all, who commanded us to love our enemies: Lead us both from hatred and revenge and, in your good time, enable us all, who are known unto you to stand before you in eternal peace,” the priest looked directly at Marc. The words ripped through him in shock waves, fracturing him on his side three times, and once down the middle. The clock stopped spinning. Marc noticed that the second hand now moved steadily forward with temporal time.
An unknown number rose from the sea, the beaches, and ditches to join the 859. Marc, overwhelmed, stared in disbelief at the priest’s face before him. With all his strength, he strained to whisper, “Why?”
“Why, you ask?" the priest voice thundered through the sky in a quick response. "Your marker reads ‘Known unto God!’ That is why,” Yves voice reverberated back to Marc, his face staring back in shock. “Those are souls who died without last rites, final confession, or do not even realize that they are dead, just waiting in limbo until they can be found,” Yves said, his voice booming and vibrating with a strange undulation as he raised his eyes towards the assembly that had gathered.
“I am the soul collector of the lost and forgotten of this war. This is my calling. Behold the assembly of those ‘Known Unto God,’” Yves said, his voice clear, natural and crisp. His form glowed as he raised his arms towards the assembly that rose high into the sky, looking back upon Marc and the Priest. He struck his staff once on the ground.
“I will not treat you any differently than I have any one of them who now lie in wait until the time arrives to stand before the Lord,” Yves said as he stood in the center of a Dodecagon of souls of number unknown. He rapped his staff a second time on the ground. Marc's eyes snapped into focus on the staff with a nausea of anticipation.
“The life review is to examine your conscience for sin and prepare for your final confession,” Yves said with a stoic glare. Marc glanced at the clock on the staff to read the time. Yves struck the staff a third time. A shockwave emerged from the clock traveling in all four directions. “The clock is now set," he said, "May the Lord Be with you.”
The clock reached June 18, 1939, eight thirty at night. A fear greater than the judgment of hell filled Marc, as he realized he would now watch his life during the war all over again.
***
June 18, 1939—East Bound Atlantic Ocean
The S.S. Normandie’s bow parted the sea as she carried her passengers toward France that Sunday. Marc dressed for dinner in his finest tuxedo. Before taking the last dinner at sea, he entered the chapel of the ship for his evening prayers.
“And may you, my Father in heaven, keep my family in your protection. I pray for my mother, Lynette, my father, Eldon, and my little sister, Elda. Amen,” Marc knelt alone in the chapel. He made the sign of the cross as he rose to leave for dinner.
– Excerpted from The Siren of Paris by David LeRoy, David Dribble Publishing, 2012. Reprinted with permission.
Buy on Amazon Kindle | Audible | Paperback | Bookshop.org
