The Inspiration Behind ‘The Siren of Paris’
In 2010, I traveled to France on vacation and launched a search for a missing family member. By 2011, my search exposed buried accounts of the war. Ordinary people risked their lives to save others. The Luftwaffe bombed a traveling circus. Officials hid the sinking of ships from the public. These events shape my story of the Fall of France.
My research led me into Gestapo arrest files. A deeper darkness emerged. I uncovered accounts of lovers who betrayed men to the authorities. These betrayals appeared again and again. They formed a clear, calculated strategy the Nazis used in Paris to crush the Resistance.
The war reshaped my understanding of the Fall of France.
I chose a novel over a memoir. I created Marc Tolbert, a fictional protagonist who carries the story. I faced a steep learning curve, but coaching sharpened my craft and drove me to complete the manuscript. At the time, agents chased the next Fifty Shades of Grey. Marc stands as a codependent, passive man who falls for a narcissistic, dominant woman. Their volatile, abusive bond mirrors the war’s violence and moral collapse.
Magical realism had not yet gained wide traction. I wove dreams, nightmares, and visions of the dead into the narrative. Factual animal scenes expose the war’s ruthless destruction of innocence.
After repeated rejections, I self-published the novel. Agents dismissed its magical realism and condemned its anti-romantic arc. The market demanded heroic love stories. I’m glad I chose to self-publish the novel. Readers who discover The Siren of Paris often carry their own families’ unanswered war stories.
Joan Rodes’s heroism stunned her family. They contacted me after learning how she rescued men lost at sea. They had never known the scope of her actions. Had I followed New York’s demands, these lives and stories would have vanished.
The Siren of Paris confronts a single question: can a soul claim peace after enduring a war that turns the world into hell? Marc faces love’s betrayal and the deaths it unleashes.
In the opening scene, he stands before the priest of time and judgment. The war dead rise and form a jury. A grave marked “Known unto God” bears his name, the mark of an unknown victim.
Chapters 2 through 47 replay the war as a relentless life review. Chapters 1 and 48 frame the story with stark, mystical visions of the assembly of the “Known unto God.” A priest, broken by betrayal from his own congregation at Buchenwald, summons this assembly.
Had we stood in France in 1939, we likely would have joined the war dead.
Title: The Siren of Paris
Author: David LeRoy
Publisher: Independent
Pages: 352
Genre: Historical Fiction/Magical Realism
Formats: Paperback, Kindle,
Audiobook, FREE with Kindle Unlimited
The Siren of Paris is available at Amazon.
BLURB
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.
BOOK 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.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David LeRoy is an author and avid explorer of the intersection of philosophy, psychology, and art. His debut novel, The Siren of Paris, is a poignant work that emerged from personal family research he undertook in 2010 to locate missing persons of WWII.
LeRoy's fluency in French and two-year sojourn in France afforded him unique insights into the French culture he deftly weaves into his literary work. With a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy and Religion, an MBA from California State University Sacramento, and an MSc. Applied Data Science from Paris, France, LeRoy is a polymath with diverse interests and an insatiable curiosity for knowledge.
He currently resides in California, where he continues to write and pursue his creative passions.
Connect with him on social media at:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thesirenofparis
