Michael at the Invasion of France, 1943

by Laurie Calkhoven

  I put mine on. They were big, but they would certainly be quieter and easier to walk in than my wooden sabots. Florentino hung a second pair around my neck with a nod. I smiled at him with relief. He wasn’t going to leave me behind. But it turned out that Florentino wasn’t the one to worry about.

  “Wait,” Jerry said. “You think you’re coming with us?”

  “Of course he’s coming with us,” Mack said. “His family’s in England.”

  “Don’t you think a kid is going to slow us down?” Jerry asked. “I haven’t come all this way to get arrested because of a kid.”

  “A kid saved your neck on that bridge this morning,” Mack said. “He’s been risking his life for months to get people like you and me back to England, and now the Gestapo’s after him.”

  Jerry looked away and grumbled something under his breath to David.

  Mack slammed the table. He remembered to use my new name, not the name of the boy the Gestapo was searching for. “Étienne and I are going with Florentino. You two can wait and go another night. But I don’t know who will save your life the next time you do something stupid.”

  David shook Jerry off. “I’m with you,” he said to Mack.

  Jerry glared at us, but he sat down to strap on his alpargatas.

  “No trouble,” Florentino growled in French. He stepped out into the night.

  Tante Liberty gave us each a walking stick and our instructions. “Single file,” she said. “Don’t talk. Don’t make any noise at all. Stay close. If you fall behind, you’ll be left behind,” she warned.

  Jerry looked at me with a satisfied expression. It was like he wanted me to be left behind.

  “There could be Germans anywhere,” Tante Liberty continued. “Follow Florentino’s orders. I’ll see you after the war.”

  She kissed all of us on both cheeks and then we stepped out into the night.

  Florentino walked quickly up a hill and across the main road. Jerry followed. Then David. Mack motioned me to go next. He would bring up the rear.

  The night was damp and chilly, and soon it started to rain. We followed a country lane through winding hills. We skirted a small village and I smelled suppers cooking over kitchen hearths and listened to goats in a nearby meadow. Soon we climbed over a livestock fence and the route got steeper. We inched along a path that seemed to lie between two vineyards. I could see only the faintest of shadows in front of me, and I learned to rely on my ears to find my way—the slap of a branch against a face or an arm, the clank of a goat’s bell, a stumbling foot.

  My clothes were completely soaked. The alpargatas didn’t slip and slide on the wet path the way my sabots would have, but the pair around my neck got heavier and heavier. I could feel a shoelace digging into my neck. My soggy rucksack weighed me down too, and I considered leaving it on the path for someone else to find. I was afraid if I slowed down to take it off, I would lose track of the others. The night was so black I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed.

  All the while we were climbing, climbing, climbing. I wasn’t used to the thin air at such a high altitude. It seemed like I couldn’t fill my lungs. I huffed and puffed, afraid my loud breathing would give us away to a Nazi patrol.

  Sometimes we’d reach what seemed like the top of a peak, and I’d breathe a sigh of relief, thinking we were halfway there. But then we’d round a hairpin turn and the track would get even steeper. Sometimes the path edged along sheer cliffs. I was grateful for my walking stick, but I often had to use my other hand to grab the cliff’s side and pull myself up. Once I grabbed a rock and it came loose under my grip. It plunged off the side of the track and I nearly went with it. It was a long time before I heard it hit the ground. I got down onto my knees and crawled until the path widened again.

  My legs were so tired that all I could think about was putting one foot in front of the other. I think I might have fallen asleep on my feet. I guess I slowed down, because suddenly Mack was behind me. He lifted my rucksack and my spare alpargatas off my back and added them to his burden. For a few minutes there was sweet relief, but then the pain set in again. My soggy pants chafed against my thighs and they burned with each step.

  Finally, we reached the top. I nearly banged into Florentino. Jerry and David were sprawled on the wet ground. I joined them and waited for Mack.

  David patted me on the shoulder. “Good job,” he said.

  “Shush!” Florentino warned in a harsh whisper.

  It was a shock to see the lights of Spain below us. France had been in blackout since the war began. I had forgotten that there were places in the world where people could turn on their lights without having to worry about bombs dropping on them.

  When Mack joined us, our guide passed around bread, cheese, and milk. We accepted it silently until Jerry suddenly swore. “Goat’s milk,” he said, spitting it out.

  That earned a harsh curse from Florentino. “Leave behind,” he warned in French.

  I didn’t bother to translate. I plugged my nose and drank. I didn’t like goat’s milk either, but my body needed fuel to keep going.

  We didn’t rest for long. Florentino gave us each a couple of sugar cubes to suck on for energy and checked our shoes. We changed into our spare alpargatas, and then we set out again.

  I dreaded what was coming next. Crossing the river into Spain would be the most dangerous part of our journey.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Lights of Spain

  I kept my eyes trained on the lights of Spain. The trek downhill was so steep that often we found ourselves jogging. I would have fallen many times without my walking stick to slow me down. Every once in a while the clouds lifted and the moon came out. It made the path easier to follow, but I was scared to cross the river in the moonlight.

  The hike to the bottom was faster than the hike up had been. Suddenly I heard rushing water. The Bidossa River! My feet were blistered and I thought the cold water would feel good. I was about to step forward when Florentino signaled us to stop. He crouched in the underbrush a few feet from the river, listening.

  A few seconds later, over the sound of the river, I heard voices. German voices coming from the Spanish side. In the moonlight I saw a patrol march across a bridge not too far away. Their voices carried in the cold air. A car followed them across the bridge, its lights shining on trees. Nazi swastikas fluttered from either side of the hood.

  We waited until the sounds were long gone.

  Finally, Florentino crept down to the riverbank and waded into the center of the rushing water. The water came up to his waist, and I realized that for me it would be chest-high. When he came back to us, his expression was grim.

  “Too high,” he whispered in French. “Current strong.”

  I translated for the others.

  “Is there another way to cross?” Mack asked. “A bridge?”

  Florentino shook his head. “Patrols.” He took off his pants, tied the legs together, and slipped them over his head. “Do like this,” he said.

  “He wants us to make a chain,” I explained.

  The rest of us tied our pant legs the way Florentino had, slipped them over our heads, and held on to the trousers of the man in front of us. David held on to Florentino’s pants. I was linked to Jerry. Mack was linked to me.

  The moon and the clouds must have been on our side, because just then it went dark again. Florentino started toward the riverbank.

  When it was my turn, I stepped into the water. I was wrong about it feeling good on my feet. It was icy torture. The water reached my knees, my waist, and then my chest. The current was tugging at me, trying to pull me downstream, and the rocks underfoot were slippery. I used my walking stick to keep my balance, but the current seemed to be pushing harder and harder. I needed to go slow, but Jerry was rushing. He banged into David, and David slipped w
ith a noisy splash.

  We all stopped for a moment while David found his footing, and then started again. I stepped into a hole and suddenly I was under the water. My stick was ripped out of my hand, but I tried hold on to Jerry’s pants while the water crashed around me. I hoped he would be able to pull me up. Instead, there was a violent tug in the other direction. Jerry had ripped himself out of my grip. I fell backward, deeper into the water.

  I tried to swim to the surface. My head was above water for a second. I gasped for air. I wanted to yell for help, but I was afraid that would draw the Germans to us. Seconds later I was pulled under again. I could feel the water dragging me downriver. I fought against it, trying to get my footing. My arms flailed around, searching for something to hold on to. My lungs were ready to explode The pants against my neck were strangling me. And then they weren’t. Mack had lost his hold on me.

  I was alone. I was exhausted. I didn’t know which way was up. Fighting the current seemed to make things worse. For one second I thought about letting go completely. My limbs went limp. I felt peaceful, resigned. Then I remembered my promise to Jacques to keep the flame alive. I even thought I heard someone whistle our V-for-Victory signal—three short toots and one long whistle. I was too close to freedom to give up now.

  I dug my feet into the riverbed and pushed myself up with a rush of energy. Mack was there to catch me. He held on to the back of my jacket. The water was chest height. Together we fought to stay upright in the middle of the river while I gasped for breath.

  A few minutes later Mack put his walking stick in my hand and we took careful side-by-side steps. I don’t know how we made it, but soon the water was around my knees again, and then my ankles, and finally I reached the Spanish side of the riverbank where Florentino was waiting. I collapsed into his arms and he lowered me to the sand. David crouched next to me and rubbed my arms and legs, trying to warm them.

  Mack flew at Jerry. “You left him to drown!” He remembered to whisper, but I could tell he wanted to yell.

  Jerry edged away. “What was I supposed to do? Let him pull me under too?”

  “You should have helped him,” Mack spat. “Coward.”

  Florentino came between them. He put his hand to his lips to indicate quiet and then pulled Mack away, over toward me. They ran their hands up and down my arms and legs to make sure I was okay. I had scrapes from the rocks in the riverbed, but I hadn’t broken anything. I was cold and sore, but I was alive.

  We rested for a few minutes and then tugged our wet pants over our wet legs.

  There was a faint light nearby—a Spanish guard shack. Florentino used hand signals to tell us to stay away from it. He passed around hunks of cheese. Then—too soon—he set off again. One by one we crawled through the bushes and then up an embankment to a set of railroad tracks. Florentino crossed them, crouching to stay low. Jerry was next. He stumbled over the tracks and fell hard, hitting his face. His angry curse was as loud as a gunshot.

  Dogs barked in the distance and a bright light suddenly illuminated the tracks. A door opened, and I heard running.

  Florentino froze, then slipped into the darkness on the other side of the tracks. He might as well have been on the other side of the mountains. There was no way to reach him without being seen.

  I lay flat in the bushes, silently cursing Jerry. He got to his feet and tried to run, yelling for Florentino. A shot flew over my head, and then another. And then I heard a scream. Jerry had been hit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A Final Decision

  Jerry clutched his leg and rolled from side to side on the tracks just above me, cursing. I hugged the embankment.

  Two Spanish guards ran right past me and stood over Jerry. One move and I would be spotted. I heard what sounded like a kick and Jerry screamed again. They shouted questions at him in Spanish while he shouted at them in English.

  “I have American money,” he said over and over again. “I can pay.”

  I clamped my teeth together to stop their chattering and pressed my face into the dirt while I tried to flatten myself against the ground. I was sure that the guards would see me. Instead they had some kind of an argument. My Spanish wasn’t all that good, but it seemed like one of them wanted to search for more Americans, while the other said they couldn’t leave Jerry alone or he would escape.

  Then, the very thing that had made our hike and the river crossing so difficult saved us. A light drizzle turned into a steady downpour. After another burst of conversation, the guards made a decision. One of them took Jerry’s feet, and the other his shoulders. Carrying him between them, they walked back toward their guardhouse.

  A minute later, the light went out and Florentino was at my side. “Quickly,” he whispered. “Quickly.” He led us over the railroad tracks, and we set off at a slow run. I put Jerry out of my mind and focused on keeping up with the others.

  The river had given us the cruel idea that we were nearly at our destination, but the rest of the journey seemed to take hours—up a cliff, up and down foothills, around some ruins, and finally, at daybreak, we staggered down a hill toward a Spanish farmhouse.

  There was smoke coming from the chimney and I could smell food. The promise of safety was one thing, but food—food! I would have broken into a run if my legs could do such a thing after hiking all night. Instead I hobbled into the kitchen with the others. An old woman greeted us—her face melted into a mass of wrinkles when she smiled.

  There were basins of warm water to soak our feet . . . and food. Such food! I hadn’t seen so much in one place since before the war—sausage and ham and eggs and cheese and mouthwatering corn bread and hot milk. Goat’s milk, which I drank only to be polite, but all of the other delicious flavors wiped the taste from my mouth.

  The old woman smiled, watching us eat. The men of the farm came in and watched us too, all grinning. There was a little boy, around Charlotte’s age. He peered into my face, laughing, and flapped his arms like a bird. “Pilot?” he asked in English.

  I laughed too. “No,” I said. I was about to say I was just a boy, but instead I told him what I really was. “Soldier,” I said.

  Mack caught my eye and nodded.

  I sat a little straighter. I was a soldier, as much as any of the men around the table. And I was proud of that. I was sorry we had lost a man, but that wasn’t my fault. Florentino said Jerry would probably end up in a German POW camp. I worried about how much damage Jerry would do to the escape line. How much did he know, and would he talk to try to save himself?

  One of the farmers spoke French, and I asked him about the other Americans and Englishmen who had come through. “Many, many,” he told me. “But not so much now. No guides.”

  I nodded. We had heard that all along the route—the Nazis had broken the escape line and the Resistance was struggling to put it back together. How many aviators were stuck in France waiting for someone to bring them to safety?

  Florentino left to call the British consulate from a telephone in the village. David praised me for keeping up on the hike and I thanked him politely, but his opinion and his praise weren’t what was important. I wondered if that’s what Mack meant by true value coming from the inside. I knew I had done my job and done it well. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

  The aviators napped, but sleep wouldn’t come to me. So many thoughts swirled through my head—pride in the fact that I had kept up with the men and made it safely over the mountains, sadness that Jacques was not with me, and fear for the aviators who were left behind in France.

  There was a time when I would have longed to tell Papa all about my trek over the mountains while I desperately waited for his praise. I had carried his disapproval on my back like a heavy rucksack ever since Georges was arrested. But I had put down that burden on the mountain last night and started to trust in my own value.

 
By the time Florentino returned, I had made a decision. I found the French-speaking farmer and asked him to translate. Florentino propped his head in his hand while I shared my plan. He agreed, nodded tersely, and curled up for a nap.

  When Mack woke up, I told him that a car would arrive shortly to pick up him and David and take them to Gibraltar. From there they would fly to England. Then I handed him two letters. One was for Maman. The other for Papa.

  “I’m not going with you,” I told him. “I’ll rest here for a couple of days. Florentino’s going back tonight, but he’ll be here again before the end of week. I’m going back to France. I want to help rebuild the escape line.”

  “Is it because you don’t want to face your father?” Mack asked.

  “No, not anymore. This is different. I have to be able to face myself.”

  Mack tried to tell me that I had already done enough, but my mind was made up.

  “You’re the one who told me that value comes from inside,” I said. “I have to do this. I’m a soldier. You fight your war from the sky, but I have to fight mine on French soil.”

  Mack’s eyes misted over and he pulled me into a hug. “I’ll make sure your parents get the letters,” he said. “I’ll tell your father about how brave and strong you’ve been.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I still wanted Papa to be proud of me, but I was doing this for me, not Papa. If I was going to look myself in the eye after the war, I had to stay. And, like Mack said, that was more important than any praise Papa could give me.

  My imaginary ladder, the one I had built rung by rung, was strong enough to carry me through the rest of the war—until France was again free.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Michael and his family are fictional characters, but the things that happen to them are based on real-life events. By the end of 1941, thirty-eight countries were involved in World War II. Many of the countries in Europe, including France, were occupied by Nazi soldiers who tried to control everything about the day-to-day lives of the occupied people.