Michael at the Invasion of France, 1943

by Laurie Calkhoven

  Charlotte walked down the hall then, followed by one of my rabbits. She was always sneaking off to play with them, trying to turn them into pets. Uncle Henri said she’d never make a good farmer’s wife. That’s when it hit me—Uncle Henri would know what to do.

  He made no secret of his hatred for the boches; he had hated them ever since the last war. If there was a resistance group in Jouy, then Uncle Henri was at the center of it. And if there wasn’t one already, he would start one. There had to be more than one underground escape line in France, and it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if Uncle Henri knew exactly how I could get Mack to Spain.

  The more I thought about it, the more I believed he was our answer. “Uncle Henri,” I said to Maman. “Uncle Henri will help us.”

  “Yes, he will,” she said, “but to involve him . . .”

  “He would want us to come. I’m sure of it.”

  Maman hesitated.

  “He’s our best choice,” I said.

  “All right,” Maman agreed. “We’ll go. If nothing else, they can take Charlotte if—”

  She couldn’t finish the sentence, but I knew what she meant. If we get arrested.

  Mack looked from one to the other of us, waiting for an explanation.

  “My uncle in the country—a farmer,” I explained. “I’m sure he’s in the Resistance.”

  We quickly packed a few things in our rucksacks. Maman hid her money and jewelry in the false bottom of her shopping bag, and we wore extra clothes. We would be overly warm, but winter would come soon enough. And where would we be then? I wondered.

  The Hippo had once told me about a hotel that didn’t ask for identity cards. It was near the Gare du Nord, and he thought I might need it for an aviator one day. We decided to spend the night there, rather than in our apartment, and catch the morning train to the country.

  It was Monday. Five days until Maman had to register at the police station. The Gestapo would come looking for us then, if not before. I’m sure the Nazis knew Papa had a brother in the country. They seemed to know everything. Was there a way to make them believe we had gone somewhere else?

  Only one solution came to mind. When Maman, Charlotte, and Mack got on the train to Uncle Henri’s, I would have to stay behind, and leave a false trail for the Nazis.

  I didn’t tell Maman. The next morning we all went to the Gare du Nord together. When I bought the tickets, I only paid for three. When the train pulled into the station, I told Maman my plan. “I’m going south,” I said. “I’ll mail a postcard to the concierge from somewhere and tell her our plans changed and we decided to stay with our cousins for a few weeks. I’ll ask her to take care of the rabbits,” I told her. “It might delay the Nazis by a day or two.”

  “No!” Maman grabbed my arm and tried to pull me onto the train, but I pulled back.

  Charlotte started to cry and that drew some attention to us.

  Maman couldn’t yell. She couldn’t force me to board. Too much attention could lead to our arrest. And she couldn’t stay with me. She had to get Charlotte and Mack to the country.

  I took another step backward and waved happily for the benefit of anyone who was watching. “I’ll see you soon,” I said. “Don’t cry, Charlotte. I’ll see you soon.”

  Mack couldn’t say anything without giving himself away, but he put one hand on Maman’s shoulder and wrapped the other around Charlotte. He was letting me know he would take care of them. I watched the train chug away, and tried not to think that I might never see them again.

  I walked through the café to leave the train station, as I had so many times with the aviators. Then I took the métro to the Gare d’Austerlitz and bought a ticket on the first train going south. I got off at Orléans.

  The Orléans train station was swarming with Nazis. There were checkpoints at every turn. Was my name on a list? Were they already looking for me? There was nothing to do but hand over my papers. My hands were shaking, but the soldier didn’t notice. He gave my identity card a quick glance and nodded to me to go on.

  I got away from the train station as quickly as possible. Orléans wasn’t as big as Paris, but it was a busy city. I stopped at a café and asked for directions to the nearest post office. I bought a postcard and a stamp and wrote a note to Madame Cassou:

  We have decided to stay with my cousin in Orléans for a few weeks. Please take care of my rabbits.

  Sincerely,

  Michael Durand

  I knew her well enough to know that Madame Cassou would eat a few and sell a few as her payment for watching them. I couldn’t return to our apartment in Paris until after the war was over and the Nazis were gone.

  Was an Orléans postmark enough to throw them off our trail?

  I wandered around the city for a few hours. I didn’t want to go back to the train station and all those Nazis, but eventually I had to. I made the return trip, arriving in Paris just before curfew.

  I stepped out onto the street with no idea of where to go. Jacques had been arrested. My home wasn’t safe. I didn’t have money to go back to the hotel. I couldn’t be caught on the street after curfew, and a night in the train station would only lead to questions from the police.

  I expected to find the Gestapo lying in wait at every corner. The streetlamps, painted blue because of the blackout, cast an creepy glow, but they also made me less visible in the dark. Finally, about halfway between the two train stations, I huddled in a dark doorway. I was hungry and cold, and I felt completely alone in the world. Even so, I knew I was lucky. Wherever Jacques was right now, he was much more frightened and much more alone than I was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Uncle Henri

  Each time I dropped off to sleep, a nightmare woke me. I was awake when I heard Nazi boots stomping down the street. At least you can always count on the Nazis to be loud, I thought. I huddled into an even tighter ball and prayed they wouldn’t see me. The noise got closer and closer. My head was buried in my knees and I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming.

  I waited for one of them to shout and the others to come running. But after a few minutes the noise moved farther away again. I spent the rest of the night sitting bolt upright, holding my eyelids open with my fingers whenever I felt myself dropping off to sleep.

  As soon as it was light, I ran to the Gare du Nord and bought my train ticket, then I made my way to the café and bought a coffee with the few francs I had left. I didn’t like coffee, especially the fake acorn coffee that was served since the war began. Today I thought it might wake me up. The waiter did a double take when he saw me. Was my picture on a wanted poster? I steeled myself to run, but he only brought me a piece of fake, straw-filled bread to go with my fake coffee. I guess I looked as hungry as I felt.

  When I finished, I hid in the bathroom until it was time for the train.

  My eyes darted all over the platform, waiting for someone to yell, “There he is! Arrest him!” I had spent a lot of time on this platform waiting for aviators. I had always been lucky, always managed to get my men safely to their next stop on the escape line. Would my luck hold out today?

  I kept checking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being watched. Jacques would tell me to stop, that I was being too obvious. But I couldn’t help myself. Everyone looked German, pretending to be French.

  Was the man at the other end of the platform watching me over the top of his newspaper? What about the bored-looking farmer? Or the woman in the blue hat? The train pulled in and I waited until the very last moment to jump on board. Then I slumped into a seat and said a silent good-bye to Paris.

  I wanted to stay awake, but the motion of the train rocked me to sleep. My nightmares returned. The conductor jiggled my arm to wake me, and I jumped to my feet, screaming.

  “Your stop is next,” he told me.

  I took
deep gulps of air and nodded my thanks. In my dream, Jacques had been in front of a firing squad, staring into the barrel of a rifle.

  I wandered through the village, trying to look as if I belonged there and be invisible at the same time. It was a crisp fall day and the air smelled of hay and sunshine. I strolled past the hotel and the tobacco store, the grocery, the bakery, the butcher, the church. It looked much like it would have before the war—if you didn’t look at the store shelves and notice they were mostly bare. And the flag flying over the town hall was Nazi, not French.

  I walked in the direction of Uncle Henri’s farm. I considered circling around and approaching the farmhouse through the fields, just in case the Nazis were lying in wait. But I was too tired, and too sad about Jacques and François and everyone else—all those people whose names I didn’t know who worked together in secret to battle the Nazis and save American and British aviators.

  I thought I was doing the right thing for France, but I had put my family in danger. I listened for Papa’s voice in my head, but it was silent. Perhaps I was beyond even Papa’s disapproval now.

  That ladder I had built, rung by rung, to win his respect had come toppling down like matchsticks in the wind.

  I trudged up the lane to the farmhouse. The farm smelled just like it always had—like wheat and hay and rabbits. Charlotte was in the yard, feeding the chickens and singing a song. I was about to call to her when Uncle Henri ran out of the barn.

  “He’s here!” he shouted. “Louise, he’s here.”

  Mack was right behind him.

  Maman and Aunt Jeanne ran out of the house.

  We all came together in the yard. Maman and Aunt Jeanne were hugging me and crying. Charlotte threw her arms around my legs. Uncle Henri kept patting me on the back and saying, “You’re here. You made it. That’s good.”

  “Thank goodness, you’re safe,” Maman said, wiping away tears.

  Mack stood back and took it all in, blinking away tears. I’m sure he had no idea what anyone was saying.

  “You must be hungry,” Aunt Jeanne said. She pulled me into the kitchen and sat me at the table before filling a bowl with a thick and delicious chicken stew. There was bread, and real butter. Butter! I hadn’t seen real butter in a very long time.

  I told them my story between bites—about going to Orléans and spending the night in Paris before catching the train this morning.

  “Have you heard anything about what happened in Paris?” I asked Uncle Henri.

  He shook his head. “Only that there were many arrests. The boches are coming down hard on us. They’re losing the war, and that makes them angry.”

  I noticed that he said us. I knew my uncle would be one of us—one of the Resistance. He didn’t seem at all surprised that I was working with the Resistance either, or that I was helping American and English aviators.

  “Mack has to get to Spain somehow,” I said. “And Maman, Charlotte, and I will need new identity papers and a place to stay. The boches will look for us here when they realize we’ve left Paris. We need to be gone before they come.”

  Uncle Henri nodded seriously. “All will be taken care of. Your friend”—he nodded in Mack’s direction—“can leave by plane tomorrow night.”

  My jaw dropped. Could it possibly be that easy? “By plane?”

  “If all goes well, the English will fly in on Thursday. There are three operatives coming in from England, and two spies who must go back. It’s rare they pick up aviators, but there’s a spot on the plane.”

  I sat back, stunned. There were parts of the Resistance I knew nothing about. “What about forged papers for the rest of us?”

  “That will be harder,” my uncle told me. “The Germans are watching everything very carefully. Paper, ink, even typewriter ribbons. It may take time, but we’ll get them.”

  “But the Gestapo—”

  “Don’t worry about the Gestapo now,” Aunt Jeanne told me. “Eat. And rest. Tomorrow we will worry about the Gestapo.”

  Uncle Henri must have hidden other résistants on the farm. Mack and I slept in the hayloft, where my uncle had created a secret compartment under the floorboards. We could scoot in there pretty easily if the Nazis showed up. It was dark and cramped, but it would do. For Maman and Charlotte, there was a secret spot in the cellar. We’d survive a search, as long as it wasn’t too thorough.

  The next morning, my uncle’s friend came to go over the details of the plane landing. He was much younger than Uncle Henri—young enough to be picked up by a German patrol and forced to work in a war factory. But everything about him said “farmer,” from the sunburn on his face to the manure on his shoes. In these hungry times, farmers were just as important to the German cause as bullets.

  He explained that everything had to go just right. “You are very lucky, mon ami,” he said to Mack in a mixture of English and French. “There is room on the plane for one more man. You came at just the right time.”

  “I’m grateful,” Mack said.

  “Go back to your plane and drop bombs on the Germans,” my uncle said, asking me to translate. “Tell the Allies that they have to hurry and invade France. The woods are full of young men who are hiding from the Germans. We’re ready to fight, but we can’t do it alone.”

  Mack promised to do what he could.

  Then I asked Uncle Henri’s contact about false papers for Maman, Charlotte, and me. He said the same thing as Uncle Henri. “We can get them, but it will take time.”

  Time was something we didn’t have. In two days, the police would alert the Gestapo that Maman had not come in to register—that is if Jacques and François didn’t turn us in before then.

  Was my friend being tortured? If Jacques was in enough pain, would he say anything to get them to stop?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Night Flight

  I began to formulate a plan of my own—a plan to get Maman and Charlotte to a safe place where they wouldn’t need false papers. I shared it with Mack and waited for him to agree. I couldn’t do it without him. He thought about it for a long time before he said yes. I knew it was a hard thing, but it had to be done. Maman would never agree. It had to be secret until the very last moment.

  Uncle Henri taught me what to do for the plane landing, and then we waited. If the mission was going to go ahead, the British would send us a coded message on the radio. That evening we tuned to the BBC. The Germans couldn’t block the radio signals in the country as easily as they did in Paris. It was a clear, dry evening, and we could hear the announcer above the static. At 7:15 they played the notes that made up the Morse code for the letter V.

  Then we heard a French voice.

  “Ici Londres. This is London. Today is the one thousand two hundred and twenty-third day of the struggle of the French people for its liberation.”

  We listened to the war news, and waited for the messages for the Resistance. They came in the final minutes of the program. Most of them made no sense, but the radio operator for Uncle Henri’s resistance cell had gotten our message earlier in the day.

  “Pierre needs a new pair of pants.”

  “The cows in Belgium are yellow.”

  “Colette loves Philippe.”

  Finally, at the very end, we heard what we were waiting for: “The green bicycle has a flat tire.”

  That was our message. If it was repeated during the 9:15 broadcast, our operation was a go.

  Mack got his things ready. I did the same, slipping a rucksack on my back. One of Uncle Henri’s friends was going to take in Maman, Charlotte, and me. We were supposed to meet him at the landing strip, and go home with him after the plane had taken off. We would hide with him until the Resistance could provide us with false identity cards—or so Uncle Henri thought. I had other plans.

  At 9:15 Uncle Henri turned on the radio
again. The war news hadn’t changed in the past two hours, but that wasn’t what we tuned in to hear. We needed to hear our message.

  Once again, we heard a string of nonsense messages. The cows in Belgium were still yellow, but Colette had fallen out of love with Philippe. Someone’s mission was off. Would ours be canceled as well? Then we heard it: “The green bicycle has a flat tire.”

  The plane had already taken off from England and was on its way. It was time for us to do our jobs.

  “Let’s go,” my uncle said.

  Mack caught my eye and nodded. I ran over the details of our secret plan in my head. Everything had to go perfectly.

  Maman and Aunt Jeanne hugged good-bye. Aunt Jeanne gave Charlotte a big squeeze too, and wrapped her arms around me for a moment.

  My uncle pulled her away. “There’s no time,” he hissed.

  He grabbed his flashlight and handed an extra one to me. “Remember to do it how we practiced,” he said.

  “I will,” I assured him.

  We crept out into the night. The moon was nearly full.

  “A perfect night for flying,” Mack said.

  I wondered how the pilot would know where to find us, but my uncle had explained that the location had been radioed to London days ago. The RAF flew over, photographed the area, and gave it a code name. The pilot had to fly low to avoid German radar. That meant his radar equipment didn’t work, and so a full moon and clear sky were the most important things. The pilot found his way by following landmarks.

  “No landing site can be used twice,” my uncle had said. “The boches turn up if you do that. They’re like cockroaches, turning up everywhere.”

  We set off in a sprint across the fields. Mack carried Charlotte. Then we crossed a road, listening hard for German patrols, and dashed into the next field. About fifteen minutes later, we were in the tree line next to another field—the makeshift landing strip. I saw other shadowy figures in the trees.

  “Green!” one of them said in a harsh whisper.