The Caged Bird Sings: A Young Man’s Untold War Chronicles

By James Channing Shaw and Cal Orey

World War II, 1940, in the Nazi-occupied city of Rouen, France: Despite Germany’s stranglehold on the French, Benjamin Cohen, an introverted but musically talented adolescent, defies his father to study the carillon in the Catholic cathedral, a huge instrument of fifty-five bells. Though impeded by the German threat and his perceived dismissal by family, his confidence grows with the help of his new “family” at the cathedral and his pet cockatiel, Frère Jacques. This coming-of-age epistolary novel tells of wartime dynamics between Catholic and Jewish, boy and girl, father and son, and two estranged brothers on their journeys through war, love, and tragedy. Can Benjamin’s mastery of the carillon and his love affair with the troubled nun-in-training, Marie-Noëlle, give him le courage he needs to perform the one act that can save his people from Nazi arrest and earn back his father’s respect? Or will it doom them all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665538411

James Channing Shaw

JAMES CHANNING SHAW, doctor, writer, and musician, often considered his first language to be music. With an MD degree from Boston University School of Medicine, he eventually entered academic medicine, where he assumed leadership positions at the University of Chicago and the University of Toronto. He cared for patients, published numerous scientific articles and essays and received awards for his teaching while continuing his musical interests that centered around jazz piano and composition. In 2012 he published a memoir of his medical career, Room for Examination. His other titles include City of Destiny: Short Fiction, More or Less; and a literary collection, The Quotable Robertson Davies. Dr. Shaw is married and lives in Toronto, though half his time is spent in San Francisco near to children and young grandchildren. His website is jameschanningshaw.com. CAL OREY, M.A., is a bestselling accomplished author-journalist and gifted storyteller. She has a master's degree in English from San Francisco State University. Her books include the hugely popular Healing Powers book series translated in more than two dozen languages. She has written more than 25 books (fiction and non-fiction), and has been featured in hundreds of national publications including Huffington Post and New York Daily. A native of California, Orey is a versatile novelist, and a Catholic. Visit her website at www.calorey.com.

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© 2021 James Channing Shaw & Cal Orey. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/07/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-3842-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-3840-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-3841-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021919160

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Prologue

Part I: Dear Diary

Chapter 1 Call of the Bells

Chapter 2 Proposal

Chapter 3 M. deTarot, Carillonneur

Chapter 4 Benjamin Simone

Chapter 5 Jacques-Milan

Chapter 6 Marie-Noëlle

Chapter 7 King of his Castle

Part II: More Journal Entries

Chapter 8 Émile

Chapter 9 Émile, part 2

Chapter 10 Miriam

Chapter 11 Disappearance

Chapter 12 Résistance

Chapter 13 Résistance, part 2

Chapter 14 Doctor Decree

Chapter 15 M. deTarot’s Diagnosis

Chapter 16 Monsieur’s Journey

Chapter 17 A Leather Coat with a Title

Chapter 18 Shiva

Chapter 19 First Concert

Part III: Secret Sessions

Chapter 20 Resistance, part 3

Chapter 21 Émile Visits Benjamin

Chapter 22 Do You Have Jewish Friends?

Chapter 23 Bombs Over Rouen

Chapter 24 Assault on Benjamin

Chapter 25 Safe House

Chapter 26 Résistance, part 4

Part IV: To Final Notes

Chapter 27 The Unraveling

Chapter 28 Love and Farewell

Chapter 29 Inspired

Chapter 30 Endings . . . and beginnings

Afterword

Acknowledgments

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my wife and her extended family. She exposed me to cultural Judaism in ways few gentiles experience. I would never have appreciated the ambitions, successes, and foibles of a culture outside my own without having the privilege of living within one. I would also have never learned of the horrific tragedies that befell members of my wife’s family during World War II. That understanding forever changed my perspective on Germany, on the Holocaust, Israel, and world Jewry.

IN THIS WORK OF FICTION, THE STORY, LOCALES, DATES, NAMES, AND CHARACTERS EITHER ARE THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY FOR PURPOSES OF HISTORICAL REFERENCE. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL EVENTS OR PEOPLE IS COINCIDENTAL.

PROLOGUE

TO FLEE OR DIE

September 27, 1942; Paris, France

Émile Cohen held in his hand a forged travel pass that, for several months, had allowed him to cross between the free zone and occupied France without incident. Always the astute observer, he suspected that his reddish goatee may have helped him get through the security checks as much as the pass. This trip, in addition to copies of Franc-Tireur, the underground newspaper in Lyon, he was smuggling two engraved photographic plates to publish in Résistance, the Paris version. The photographs, taken from the seat of a city tram, were his best ever, though probably the last for a while, and he was eager to see them in print. But what excited him most about his return to Paris was the possibility of seeing Jeanne d’Arc. While in Lyon, he concluded that he’d fallen in love with her and couldn’t wait much longer to let her in on the secret. The train eased into the Paris Gare de Lyon station as he secured the bundle of contraband tightly against his chest.

Émile exited the train, retrieved his bicycle, and started pedaling at a calculated pace along his usual route through the 5th arrondissement on streets less likely to be patrolled by Germans. He hoped the fog and drizzle might provide good cover while inhibiting bored German sentries from doing their jobs.

The cobblestones rattled Émile’s fenders and chain as he pedaled up Rue Mouffetard, with its shuttered butcher shops and bakeries. He thought, maybe Jeanne d’Arc will be at the print shop and we can try for a bite of dinner, or better yet, a sip of brandy again at my place, or—well I can hope, can’t I? At the top of the hill, where streets converged at Place de la Contrescarpe, the fog thinned, exposing a large black sedan and two German soldiers, machine guns slung over their shoulders, leaning against the car. Émile’s breath stopped short: There was no way he could turn his bicycle around without being stopped, and he could not afford to be searched, so he sped up as he had done many times throughout Paris.

Halt! he heard from behind. He pedaled faster over the cobblestones, gripping the handlebar with one hand, steadying the package against his chest with the other. Halt! He was almost out of their range, meters from safety, when he swerved right to avoid the raised edge of a manhole cover. In that split second, his front wheel slipped on wet leaves and jolted left, flipping him forward with such force he had no time to break the fall and his head hit the cobblestones with a thump.

When he came to, the two Germans were looking over newspapers they had pulled from under his jacket. He lay there straddling his vélo, excruciating pain in his head and ankle. He sensed the warmth of blood on his neck. This is the end, he thought. But within seconds, with the acute realization that the end meant he would soon be standing on the wrong side of a firing squad, he knew he had only two options: to flee or to die. With that, a sudden rush of adrenaline enlisted every nerve and muscle in his body and gave him a surge of surprising strength, sharpened his sensory perception, and eliminated all pain. He waited until he saw the soldiers become distracted by some onlookers and then made his move. He picked up the bike, jumped onto the seat, and began pedaling down the hill, cranking the pedals as fast as he possibly could—to flee or to die.

The younger German shouted, Halt! Halt! He laid Émile’s contraband down on the street, shoved the small crowd to the side, and rotated his machine gun into position.

Émile raced at top speed, high on adrenaline, knowing that the probability that he’d be dead soon was close to certain, but also knowing that he was euphoric in love. His mind was in crystalline focus and his body free of pain, more hyperalert than he had ever been in his life. But then it happened.

At half a block, a short burst of gunshots filled the narrow street. Bullets pierced the headlight and front grille of a parked car. Glass shattered as he sped past. His heart raced, but he wasn’t hit and pedaled faster. After a second burst, a searing heat in his right chest took his breath away and he felt himself losing control. No longer able to pedal, he floated along on a pillow of rushing noise, unable to take a breath, cobblestones passing below in slow motion. His vision narrowed down to three images—his lover, Jeanne d’Arc; his brother, Benjamin; and his father—all looking up at him with great expectations, expectations he had every intention of meeting. Just when he felt confident that he would survive, his bicycle careened off into the brick siding of a building, sending the vélo, with him on it, crashing onto the street in a crumpled heap.

PART I

DEAR DIARY

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CHAPTER 1

CALL OF THE BELLS

Two Years Earlier

May 10, 1940; Rouen, France

Dear Diary,

The Germans are Coming!

This morning I woke up to baby birds chirping outside my bedroom window. Before the storm of the German invasion, this would be a significant event. Today, it was put on the back burner. My name is Benjamin Cohen. I am thirteen. Just had my bar mitzvah. My parents think I’m too eccentric for my age. They talk about sending me to a psychotherapist for therapy sessions because my mom is worried about my lack of traditional direction. The doctor’s advice? I should start writing down my feelings in a diary. I like the word journal. It sounds more masculine, more grown-up. Then he will analyze me, my thoughts, to resolve if I’m crazy. Sure, he is the doctor. I’m just a kid. What do I know? So I follow the doctor’s orders.

At 7:00 a.m., in the kitchen, I crouched down in my chair, hiding. I was in my world with one ear against the speaker of a radio receiver. I had resurrected this one only a few days ago. I know radios. Now I wish it had died like my goldfish, Sam. With one hand, I flipped the knob in search of a signal. With the other, I stroked peach fuzz on my upper lip. Still a half-grown man. I jumped up off the chair when I heard a voice from Radio International Fécamp, eighty kilometers to the west on the Normandy coast. Porridge from my breakfast cup splashed onto the table. I didn’t care. After months of near radio silence since the Blitzkrieg, this signal had plenty of strength, more than I’d heard in a long time. Today, what I heard terrified me. And it was only the beginning:

We interrupt to bring you this special bulletin from the BBC: The German Army invaded Holland and Belgium early this morning by land and . . . [indistinct chatter] . . . from parachutes. The armies of the low countries are actively resisting.

The broadcast went on to report that the German Wehrmacht had already advanced its Panzer tank divisions with alarming speed in the direction of France’s northern borders. There is no question about it now; we are being dragged into war. I don’t know what to do.

"Mon Dieu! Merde! I whispered. What now? Will Germany take over France? Will we all be shot?" But before I imagined more horrific scenarios for my home in Rouen, a city on the River Seine in Northern France, I left the kitchen and escaped to my room. Ugh, I slumped onto the made bed, my private place, an oasis where I ponder my present thoughts. What difference does it make? Papa won’t change. He won’t give me any credit.

I looked up at my white-colored parrot in a cage. The cockatiel was my bar mitzvah gift. His eyes met mine. We are both alone. Sigh. I opened the cage door and put birdseed into a small bowl for the furry white-and-black creature without a name. The pet-shop man said my parrot (the size of a large squirrel) can mimic a human’s talk, songs, and sounds. The bird can live decades! I feel separated from my family. Maybe this bird with potential talent will acknowledge me.

I recall overhearing Papa’s words to Rabbi Margoles at my bar mitzvah: I’d cut off my right arm for Émile. But Benjamin, I doubt if he’ll ever amount to much of anything. I wanted to lash back and say something. But I didn’t.

Words like that stay with you forever. He was referring to Émile, my brother, eight years my senior, a medical student at the university and the holy grail (burning bush in my case) of my parents’ adulation. At that particular moment, there was no time for sulking. But I did not forget the insensitive words. I felt like the black sheep of the family. I always tried to get attention for my awareness of the world. And now, it was the invasions! Interruptions. Interlopers.

Thrilled with fright, I ran down the hallway and into the kitchen. Mama! I just picked up news on my receiver that German tanks have invaded Belgium and the Netherlands! They said it’s only a matter of time before they invade France! I have to tell Papa! Mama’s ten sugar-coated fingertips shot up from the rolled-out pie crust to her forehead, and I turned to run out the front door and down the stairs.

Maybe I’ll be able to impress Papa, I thought as I took the stairs, two at a time, down the five stories to his medical office. And where the hell is Émile now? He’s the next Messiah, but I’m the one who discovered we’re being attacked! I heard no words of approval.

Where’s Papa? I said before I was through the door.

Oh, bonjour, Benjamin, said Lucey the receptionist. He’s in consultation but should be finished soon. Is anything the matter, love? May I help you with something?

I glared at Lucey. "Germany just invaded Belgium, and France is next. Can you help me with that?"

My father, Dr. Abraham Cohen, stepped out from his private office. He stood, framed in the doorway, not a tall man, elegant in his suit and tie, a trimmed mustache, and spectacles, saying to the world, I am learned. I am a doctor.

What is it, son?

I tried to present myself with maturity, the expected product of yesterday’s bar mitzvah.

Papa, Germany invaded the Netherlands and Belgium this morning. I heard the very first bulletin from Radio Normandie IBC on the receiver I repaired.

Well, Benjamin, it looks as if your expertise in reconditioning those radios has been of some use after all. Give me two minutes.

Aha! I thought. I stepped out to the front steps, where pedestrians scurried like ants from a fire. I yelled to some passersby, Germany attacked Belgium! but my boy-man voice cracked and they kept scurrying. I waited for Papa. We raced up to the family apartment, where Mama was already speaking to Émile on the telephone: Call back in twenty minutes, dear, she said. Papa just arrived.

At thirteen, the youngest in the family, I gathered in our living room with my sister, Miriam, age seventeen; my grandad, Zayde Isaac, in his early eighties; and my mother, Lena. Papa pulled a chair away from the piano and sat.

I know we’re all frightened, he said. Who knows what will happen next? At least it’s not bombs dropping from the sky. I’ve never been one to act hastily, and I don’t think we need to now. How long has it been since Germany invaded Poland? Ten months? There’s no doubt France will put up a fight. They always have. Besides, what is there to do? Where would we go?

Still buoyed by the radio coup, I made the mistake of answering his rhetorical question: Somewhere south? The Germans are coming down from the north.

Benjamin, you may have had your bar mitzvah, but ‘Today I Am a Man’ does not mean you can be insolent. This is our house, our home. Everything we have is here. Zayde can’t travel. Your mother, not as much as she used to. I actually think it would be foolish to think about fleeing. We are respected here in Rouen, even by the goyim. I get steady referrals from doctors, which alone might be the most important thing. Don’t forget we just had Léon Blum as prime minister. France will not abandon us. Trust me on this.

I slumped back into my chair, thinking there was no way Papa would have shut Émile up like that if he had suggested fleeing to the south. He probably would have said, Great idea, son!

Papa paused to think before he sat back down. So what I plan to do is this—I plan to be a responsible French citizen and expect you all to do the same. I will go to work every day. We will get through this war. We can hope that the invasion is unsuccessful or at least loses momentum. Dear, you and Miriam should probably put some food and water aside. Use the wine cellar if you need.

Zayde Isaac propped himself up and said, At least we won’t run out of wine!

I love my Zayde Isaac. He always finds enjoyment in life. He is the only one in the family who supports everything I say or do. And in spite of his stroke a few months ago, he still can find humor, even on a terrible day like this. While the rest of the family failed to see the humor, I couldn’t hold back a smile, which he noticed and returned.

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July 12, Midnight

For weeks, memories of my bar mitzvah never surfaced. More urgent things deserved fretting about: Rouen had surrendered in less than one month of fighting; the inept French Army fled south, demolishing bridges as they left; and a huge fire swept through the center of town. With time, though, we all came to accept that the sun still rose in the morning and set every evening; the old market, Vieux-Marché, still sold fresh foodstuffs; and the cathedral bells (miraculously spared by the fire), continued to ring hourly every day. But when I did dare to think back to the bar mitzvah, my own recitation of Today I Am a Man had felt more like Today I am adrift. And Papa’s words from scripture that day—Blessed is He who has released me from the responsibility of this child—had only added to the adrift part. What’s more, my skin has flared up. I have eczema. I have it on my arms and legs and every doctor says stress makes it worse.

By five months, food rationing coupons were in place and the Nazi occupiers outlawed ownership of all radio receivers and transmitters. My father, of course, obeyed the edict and I was forced to relinquish my prized possessions. At the time, other than the radios, my life had consisted mostly of Jewish school and music. I already had five years of violin under my belt and was better than those two and three years older. My teacher, M. Bodenheim, had told me, You have talent, young man. Don’t waste it, and my zayde would say, This boy can do anything! the way grandparents do. I would have welcomed some of that from Mama or Papa, especially Papa, who played violin himself. But regardless, having no more radios on which to perform surgery, I redirected my energies back to working on the violin. A doctor once told me that having eczema meant I was intelligent and had ambition. All I know is that my skin has been worse lately.

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October 15, Afternoon after Practice

Today, a cramp forced me to drop the instrument onto the bed. You imbecile, I exclaimed to myself, knowing the importance of a slow warm-up. I massaged my hand while wind gusts drew smoke from rooftop chimneys all the way to the Rouen Cathedral. Every time I looked from that window down onto Rue Montaigne, the image that came to mind was the mud-caked Nazi gunner—his hun-ugly face looking up at me in the window!—inside his mud-caked Panzer as it sped through town, grinding its steel tracks against the cobblestones.

Into my second hour, I heard, Benjamin, supper is on the table! and smelled the oniony-sweet aroma of leeks. Coming from my mother, the announcement meant I had at least half an hour before dinner was actually served, so . . . back to my Kreutzer etude. After a few bars, the sound of bells drowned out my violin. Winds coming from the east could sweep the full sound of the cathedral bells into my room. I opened the window wide for full effect and recognized the piece, with its complicated melody and high flourishes.

Bells had a way of transporting me to far-off lands, to collapsing Roman columns, bearded men, battle scenes, and war, real war, not this German occupation, the annoyance ever since France surrendered in June.

Benjamin, do you know we are halfway through supper? Mama called again from down the hall.

I loosened the hairs of my bow, laid the violin on the bed with a caress, and headed down the dark corridor, through the kitchen, and into the dining room, fully expecting them to ignore my arrival.

Sorry I’m late. I need to memorize a piece tonight.

They didn’t even register what I said.

I was used to being ignored. But I was hoping that maybe this was the night I might announce my interest in learning to play those bells. I figured a carillon couldn’t be that difficult. I knew the piano keyboard and could sight-read, and there wouldn’t be that many notes, or so I thought. The problem would be getting Papa’s approval, especially now, with Germans everywhere.

You sound good tonight, Benjamin, Zayde said with his lopsided smile. We hear you from the kitchen.

"I wish you could hear me occasionally, said Mama. I called up to you half an hour ago. What on earth have you been doing?"

Practicing, Mama. You know that. And it was only fifteen minutes ago.

I take it back, but this is not a soup that tastes good cold.

I was busy sopping up the last dregs of potato-leek soup with a crust of bread when the bell chime from the cathedral heralded the nine o’clock hour and my ears perked up.

There, do you hear that? I said, listening to the captivating sound. None of them were listening. Did you hear the bells? I waited for a response. Not a word. "That’s just the automatic clock chime. The lowest bell, a low C."

I should have stopped there, but not having an overabundance of self-control at thirteen, and before anyone really registered what I was talking about, I sat up straight and blurted out my declaration: I’ve been thinking lately. I want to learn to play those bells. I want to learn to play the carillon in the cathedral.

It was weak, I know. I should have rehearsed it.

Carillon. Hmmm, Papa muttered and returned to his soup and newspaper. "I see they are now printing daily reports from the local German feldkommandant in the paper. How delightful."

I’m serious, Papa. I’d like to learn how to play the carillon. That’s what the instrument is called, the collection of bells in the tower. The leeks in the soup smelled a bit off and distracted me for a moment from the frustration I felt from my family’s responses.

"We all know what a carillon