by Cyrus Fisher
Monsieur Simonis was shooting at me!
13
LE JOUR DE LA FÊTE
Maybe he shot again, I don’t know. The avion was going too fast, leaving la montagne too far behind for me to hear. By now, I was getting somewhat accustomed to riding along through le ciel in an avion. I recognized at least for a little while I was tolerably safe. That little wheel in front of me moved again as the avion tilted into the wind and gently rocked back on even keel.
I saw the wheel move every time the avion did. I remembered a little of what mon oncle had told me. I took hold of the wheel, and in a way, it was like riding a bicycle. I mean, I sat astraddle the canvas sling, my legs dangling below the avion, holding on to the little wooden steering wheel as if it was a pair of bicycle handle-bars. I pushed the wheel forward to see what would happen. I considered I’d given it a gentle push—but whoosh! I thought the whole bottom of my stomach was going to cave in as the avion suddenly stuck its nose down and dived.
I let go that wheel as if it was a hot iron. I clung to the frame. Well, mon oncle had been right. The avion tilted upwards again, even and smooth, the way a horse does when you’ve accidentally raked it with spurs, jumping suddenly, then quieting down again after teaching you not to be too impetuous. I suppose by now we’d been voler-ing five or six minutes. Maybe less—it’s hard to judge when seconds seemed to last half an hour.
We were coming down in a long flat slant. A mile or so ahead of me, I could see le village unfolding, like a tiny flower growing and opening up in the middle of a crumpled green sheet. The rush of wind was so strong in my face, my eyes watered. I had to keep blinking them. I tried the wheel again. This time I was careful not to shove it forward more than half an inch.
The avion now was docile as an old mare. It dropped its head a trifle; it merely picked up more speed. Next, I hauled back on the wheel. The avion lifted upwards, its speed slacking off. If it hadn’t been for the fact that those men had mon oncle and the Meilhac twins back on the meadow, perhaps right now shooting them, or making them dig for the stored treasure, I might have enjoyed that ride as I gradually lost my fear. I turned the wheel to the left—the avion swung toward the left, with no trouble at all. When I twisted the wheel to the right, the avion did the same thing, although the wind came more from this direction, and we rocked a little, the great wings rippling, the wires stretching tighter, the humming noise coming more sharply.
Of course, without a motor we didn’t voler nearly as fast as an avion hauled along by an engine and a propeller, but it seemed to me we were traveling a lot faster than I’d realized. When I looked down the next time, I saw that le village had opened up. It was closer to me. The church steeple looked about a foot high. I could see people swarming out in la rue. Off in the distance, men working in the vineyards and fields had dropped their rakes and hoes and were looking up, shading their eyes. In that clear air, I heard their shouts—every noise distinct, but far away. I had the impression of being a giant, walking hundreds of feet above le village and checkerboard fields and meadows and streams, with a crowd of tiny human beings way down below me, everything in reduced size, the voices reduced in volume, a cow about an inch long making a lowing sound that came up to my ears almost as a squeak.
I heard a faint put-putting, very much as if a little model airplane motor was traveling along somewhere a couple of feet below me. I peered across the other side; I saw a little automobile colored green, the size of those pressed iron toy automobiles which kids half my age buy in toy stores. As I watched, I saw the smallest arm imaginable lift up from that little figure in the toy green automobile. It was Dr. Guereton’s green automobile. Probably he’d had an early call and, returning to St. Chamant, saw the avion, thought mon oncle was in it, and believed he was waving to him. I tried to shout down at him, “Hey! Stop. Reste là!” wanting him to wait there until I could get this thing to terre—to earth. An automobile could get back up la montagne in a hurry—almost to the top.
But it wasn’t any use to shout. I was too high. By now, I must have been voler-ing nearly eight minutes or more. I began to be worried. The avion had been too well designed. It wasn’t coming vers la terre—toward the earth fast enough to suit me. I didn’t dare think of what might be happening all this time back there on the meadow behind me. When I peered over on the other side, I saw the avion was now passing directly above le village. I could hear the tiny cries of people below me but they couldn’t hear my shouts at all. It’s a funny thing, that noise will travel upwards a lot better than down. I saw the oxcart and the ox, plain as could be, right in the middle of la rue where le forgeron was starting toward la montagne. Le forgeron was standing up in the oxcart, jumping up and down, waving both hands. He probably thought mon oncle was in this avion, too, just as Dr. Guereton did—just as everybody else no doubt did. At least, one thing was proved: le village could see mon oncle hadn’t been a muddlehead when he boasted about his avion.
But the thing wouldn’t stop. It kept on, sailing away as if it enjoyed the experience. Le village slipped behind me. The avion crossed the stream, about four hundred feet high, the cows now larger in the field, their frightened moos coming more loudly. I became desperate. I could see myself going around all morning in this avion, giving all the time in the world to Monsieur Simonis and his gang on that montagne. I shoved the wheel forward; I shoved it forward as far as it would go. The avion gave a sickening lurch. I shut my eyes. The wind roared in my ears. I clenched my teeth, determined to keep the wheel shoved forward until we were a few feet above the ground.
But just as mon oncle had told me, his avion wouldn’t continue diving. It lurched downwards ten or twenty feet, speed increasing—brought up its head with a kind of thump, the wings trembling, the wires screaming with the strain—and flattened out, shaking itself, the wheel jerking in my hands as if it was attempting to inform me I was to let it go. Now we sailed over the bridge, the long stone fence unreeling under me. I shoved harder on the wheel. Once more the avion lurched down—came up—lurched down again—wallowed—the wood groaning, the linen covering drumming loudly from the pressure of air.
We passed over the cow field and I twisted the wheel. The avion wheeled around and came back toward the cow field, low and lower, in a series of jerky dives and leaps, fighting to keep clear of the ground as if it was alive. That avion may have been built only of wood and wire and cloth, but mon oncle’s brain had gone into it; and right now, in the air, that contraption had twice the sense I had. It knew it wasn’t supposed to fling itself headfirst on the ground. It did all it could to coast down gently, despite my fever of impatience to reach earth—la terre—and find help in a hurry.
A tree appeared. It got bigger. Cows enlarged. They ran. The tree increased in size and shot up from the ground. The avion faltered. A gust of wind hit it. The avion tilted and seemed to give out a sigh and headed straight for that tree. I twisted the wheel to the right. As though it was making its final effort, the avion awkwardly wheeled a little to the right—hesitated about fifteen feet off the terre—dropped—slammed into the tree with one wing and after that there was an almighty crash and thunder. Somewhere a cow was mooing very loudly and for the next few seconds or minutes I didn’t know what was happening at all.
When I opened my eyes, at first I thought I was out of my mind. You remember that blind peddler—well, I thought I saw him bending over me, asking me questions in French, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses! I must have given a kind of yell. I shut my eyes. Next, when I opened them, Dr. Guereton was kneeling before me. The peddler wasn’t anywhere around. I’d been dreaming. I saw a blur of more people and found I was sitting propped against the trunk of the oak tree. Near me was one wing, tipped upwards, like the sail of a boat. Half of the other wing was wrapped around the oak tree and lower branches, the torn cloth snapping in the wind. When I attempted to move, pain sheared me from my left shoulder to my elbow. Now I noticed my left arm was crooked, bent out of shape. Dr. Guereton touched it. I yelped. He said gently, “C
’est cassé. Cassé.” He was telling me it was broken. Broken. My arm was broken.
People were crowding around me. Men were running from the fields, climbing the stone wall. They were lifting up parts of the avion, exclaiming to themselves. Dr. Guereton was asking me a whole string of French words I didn’t understand. Right then, le forgeron came leaping across the field, his black beard fanning out in the breeze. His big arms cleared a way through that crowd. He got to me. I was never so glad to see anybody in my life as I was to see Monsieur Niort.
I wriggled away from Dr. Guereton. I didn’t care if my arm was cassé. I didn’t care about anything but to make it clear to Monsieur Niort that mon oncle and the Meilhac twins were in mortal danger. He shoved closer to me. He was the first one in all that crowd who had enough wits in his head to realize mon oncle never would have allowed me to make this first flying attempt with the avion. He roared, “Où est ton oncle?”
I cried, “Mon oncle est sur la montagne avec le Nazi!”
“Quoi?” bellowed Monsieur Niort.
“Oui!” I said. “Le Nazi est sur la montagne! Aussi!”
He started back, making a noise like thunder. There wasn’t an instant when he didn’t believe me. He realized I’d never have taken off in that avion if something grave wasn’t taking place right now up there sur la montagne. He jumped up. He spread out his arms, calling tout le monde to attention. He shouted. He bellowed. He got the facts across to them, too, this time.
“Mon automobile!” yelled Dr. Guereton, starting to run, forgetting all about me.
“Hey!” I said, as the men streamed away from the tree, toward the road and the automobile. It wasn’t my idea to be left behind. I managed to get to my feet, feeling dizzy and weak. Women of le village took hold of me. I shook free of them. I started running, the excitement pounding through my blood. I saw men piling into Dr. Guereton’s green automobile. “Hey!” I yelled with all my breath. “Hey!”
It was like hearing thunder again when my name, “JEAN!” was shouted. Le forgeron jumped from the automobile. He grabbed me and he said, “Je ne laisse pas Jean!”—I will not leave Jean! His arms were big around as small barrels. He cleared that wall, carrying me with him, in one leap. I know it’s hard to believe. All I can say, I know he did, because I was there. He laid me gently on a man’s lap and stepped on the running board, and off we drove toward la montagne.
We rocketed through la rue de St. Chamant, careening at the crossroads, past the church, past the cemetery, past la maison de Monsieur Capedulocque, the donkeys braying at us, the chickens and ducks clacking and screeching. In the rear, all the men de St. Chamant trailed after us, on foot, on horse, in carriages, in carts, with muskets they’d picked up from their homes, or with pitchforks and rakes and clubs.
“Vite! Vite!” thundered le forgeron, leaning over, holding me against the man sitting in the seat, as the automobile pounded up the narrow road.
Dr. Guereton turned it into the montagne path. After that, the automobile labored. It groaned. Finally, it stopped. I hadn’t paid any attention to who was riding along with us, but as the men jumped out—for a second, I was startled. Plain as life, I saw that blind peddler get out, too, and go hurrying up the montagne ahead of all the rest, as if his life depended on it. And he wasn’t wearing the dark glasses. I began yelling! That blind peddler wasn’t blind. He was a fraud.
Le forgeron thought I was telling him not to leave me behind. I was afraid that blind peddler was one of Monsieur Simonis’ gang and I kept trying to tell le forgeron, but it wasn’t any use. I didn’t have the French to do it. Le forgeron hoisted me to his shoulders—épaules. I wrapped my legs around and under his arms, with the one hand clinging to the black bushy beard. I was in a sweat to reach mon oncle. I was dead certain the peddler had streaked up there to help Monsieur Simonis. You can’t imagine what terror I had as le forgeron carried me up that path on his épaules.
Halfway there, we heard somebody above us shouting in mortal fear. Next moment, out from around a turn leaped Albert, running as if a pack of tigers were after him. He saw us—dug his feet into the terre in an attempt to stop—and mon oncle appeared, right behind him. Mon oncle gave one leap. He landed on Albert’s épaules. He slung him to the ground, slammed him on the head a couple of times, jumped off, picked him up, hit him, and let him loose. Albert slumped to terre, eyes streaming tears, all the dye leaking from his moustache. It was the most awful, cowardly spectacle you ever saw.
Mon oncle noticed us. “Hola!” he said.
Le forgeron advanced, with me riding high on his épaules. “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?” asked le forgeron, the doctor and the other men from the car following. Two of the men picked up Albert and held him.
“Where’s Monsieur Simonis?” I asked. “Did that peddler try to hurt you? Where’s Suzanne? Where’s Charles? The Meilhac twins aren’t dead—are they?”
“No. The Meilhac twins—they—” he said, with peculiar emphasis, “they are very much alive. They are all right. Where is mon avion?”
“Ton avion,” said le forgeron, “est cassé.”
“Cassé?” said mon oncle, not a muscle moving on his dark face. He glanced up at me. He told me, “Never mind. I shall make another one. Are you hurt?”
By now, more people from le village were arriving.
Mon oncle was explaining to them in French. I saw the men holding Albert grip on to him more tightly. Albert was shouting, “Kamerad! Ich bin ein guter Mann!” which wasn’t French at all—I knew that much—but German. Mon oncle wanted to take me, but at that le forgeron laughed. You see, of all those people, mon oncle was the smallest. I still don’t see how he had the courage to leap on Albert who was nearly twice his size, or why Albert didn’t stand and face him instead of running away. I guess that is the difference between someone who’s brave, as mon oncle is, and someone like Albert who gives up and quits the minute he knows his game is ended.
The blacksmith—le forgeron, I mean, he told mon oncle, “Jean reste ici, sur mes épaules!” and he held me on his shoulders. Mon oncle half smiled. “Viens!” he told tout le monde, proud and fierce, as if he’d elected himself the general of them all. In about ten more minutes we reached the meadow.
Charles was sitting on le maire’s head. Every time le maire moved, Charles thumped him and told him, “Silence, traître!” Standing in front of le maire was Suzanne, holding the ax.
And over to one side, leaning on the wooden framework of the runway was—the peddler. He was smoking a cigarette, hands in pockets, and seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. Monsieur Simonis wasn’t anywhere in sight. I was perfectly dumbfounded. I was overcome.
“Voici, Jean,” said Suzanne cheerfully when we arrived.
I yelled at mon oncle, warning him that the peddler was a fraud and dangerous and to take him quick. Mon oncle didn’t appear to hear me. He stood in the center of the crowd and made a little speech in French. Then he called to that peddler who came forward, easy and careless. He said, “Monsieur Joubert—” and more words in French, as if he was introducing the fellow.
Mon oncle caught sight of me. He called, “Oh, Jean. Meet Monsieur Joubert. He is the detective. He stayed at the hotel, perhaps you saw him?”
Perhaps I saw him?
Monsieur Joubert waved at me. “Ah, Jean,” said the detective. “Bon jour! Ça va?” He laughed.
Things were coming too fast for me. I simply stayed where I was and gawked and tried to listen.
The detective pulled Albert free from the men holding him. Albert staggered forth and saw le maire, who had been lifted off the ground. The detective prodded Albert, evidently ordering him to talk and to talk quickly, if he knew what was good for him.
Albert began accusing le maire. I gathered he was claiming le maire had worked in cahoots with him and Monsieur Simonis, the German who had been the local governor of this part of France during the war. I wanted to ask mon oncle why they wasted time here, questioning the two men, instead of hunting for Mons
ieur Simonis—but mon oncle was too busy to hear me.
Le maire didn’t have any more heart left in him than a chicken might have. To save his neck, he was willing to confess everything. Of course, I didn’t understand more than every tenth word, but I knew enough of what had gone on to obtain the general drift.
With fifty or sixty of the men from le village around him, more coming sur la montagne every minute, le Maire Capedulocque confessed all he’d done. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been quite so eager, but every time he hesitated Charles sort of stepped toward him, grinning—and, I noticed now, somehow, Charles had in his hand the ax that Suzanne had been holding. At the sight of that sharp ax le maire would shudder. He’d choke. He’d step back, lifting his hands. He’d blurt out more of what he and Monsieur Simonis had schemed to do.
During the time the Germans took over this part of France, le maire stayed here in le village, pretending to be a patriot. In secret, he had worked with Simonis. The German had raided the banks of St. Chamant and the nearby town, Argenta, getting all the gold and silver the people had stored there, all the money that had belonged to the Meilhacs, to Dr. Guereton, and to anyone else who had attempted to do any saving. However, that Simonis had been disloyal to his own people, just as le maire was to France. Between them, they’d kept the money, Simonis making some sort of excuse to his German superiors in France that the local banks hadn’t had any gold.
Then, Simonis and Capedulocque had packed up the gold one night, getting Albert to do the real work. Albert had been an orderly—that is, a German soldier assigned to act as Simonis’ servant. With Albert helping, they’d taken the gold and silver in a cart up to the Langres maison, dug a place to hide it in the cellar, and to conceal what they’d done, deliberately blown up the cellar, setting fire to the maison. They planned to lie low until the war was ended and everything was peaceful. Afterwards, Albert and Monsieur Simonis were to return, disguised as Frenchmen, just as they’d done.