LATER THAT DAY, we return to the huge plane—a P-47 Thunderbolt—which did not sustain much damage.
“I want the tailwheel to put on my wheelbarrow, Peter the Great,” Désiré says, ready to scavenge.
“I need the radio and the earphones to get some news,” I add.
Though the mayor of Rugles initially made me promise to have no part in the resistance, he recently had a change of heart and asked if I knew how to rig radios. When I answered yes, I was given a new dual role—the official installer of illegal antennas and concocter of radios made from anything and everything I can find. I have built a number of crystal radios that operate without electricity. If I can put my hand on the plane batteries and radio, I can just imagine the mayor’s delight when I present him with the real thing!
“Let’s go for it,” we utter in unison, making plans to return in two days.
IT IS A RAINY MORNING when we set out, armed with a hammer, wrench, and chisel. We carelessly walk out in the open, and about ten feet from the plane, a voice calls loudly, “Halt!”
The ominous sound of a rifle bolt loading a round freezes our blood and our movements.
Désiré and I slowly hold up a hand as we turn toward the voice. Our other hands are clutching the burlap sacks over our shoulders. Mine has two German grenades and a British Sten gun in it. Désiré has the tools, his trumpet, and a pistol. This is the end of the line. Two Boches are standing there, a young one about my age, the other possibly in his early sixties. The young one is pointing his Mauser straight at us, ready to fire.
“Terrorists!” he tells his companion.
“Nein!” the old one answers, pushing Junior’s rifle up so the shot goes above our heads.
“Nein! Nein!” says Senior Boche.
Désiré is talking fast in German. Senior answers with a smile, and the tension eases. We are still holding our bags, and amazingly, they don’t grab and search them. Junior has closed his mouth, but he is still pointing his gun directly at my belly. I don’t understand a word of what is being said. Désiré opens his bag and pulls out his horn. Is he going to play a tune?
“Nein!”
They don’t seem to appreciate music.
After a few minutes, Désiré’s perfume must get to them, and they let us go. Slowly we walk away. I expect to be shot in the back at any moment, but it doesn’t happen. Whew!
As soon as we are out of earshot of the Boches, Désiré says, “We’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Are you crazy?” I ask . . . and then remember who I’m talking to!
“The old one told me they are retreating this evening. Tomorrow will be safe. Are you afraid, Peter the Great?”
“Me, afraid? You must be kidding, Désiré. I am only slightly petrified.”
My instinct is to take care of my friend, but he is an adult and I’m a kid. Granted, he is a loony adult, but I think that works to his advantage.
SENIOR BOCHE WAS telling the truth. When we return to the plane the next morning with our burlap bags, the Germans are gone. It’s time for us to get to work.
The Thunderbolt has the pilot’s name written on the fuselage: Lt. Lloyd. I utter a silent prayer for this dead pilot. (I’ve never forgotten his name. I thought maybe someday I would be able to tell his family what had happened to him. How naive that seems now, considering the millions of lives lost during the war. Yet I felt, in some way, a sense of responsibility because I had witnessed his unlawful murder at the hands of the Nazis.)
After inspecting the plane, I grumble. “I can’t see any earphones, and getting to the radio isn’t going to be a piece of cake either,” I mutter to Désiré.
“Help me with the tailwheel first,” he pleads.
I start to hammer at the mechanism.
“Amazing! Look at the quality of this stuff, Désiré. How can we get it out?”
“You go inside the fuselage, and I’ll work from the outside.”
“There’s a big steel plate in the back of the cockpit. Impossible!”
“We’ll chisel a hole in the fuselage, Peter the Great.”
I work my way inside the fuselage, which is a tight space even for me, and I see the shiny cylinder attached to the rear wheel. Just then, I have a feeling that something is not quite right. Am I getting claustrophobic? I have the jitters and try my best to calm down.
Boom . . . boom . . . What is that?
“Get out! Get out!” Désiré screams.
I abandon the tools and scramble to get out of the plane. My shirt gets caught and Désiré tears it to free me. On the way out, I scratch my side against a piece of twisted aluminum.
“Planes!” Désiré shouts.
We run as fast and as far as we can, then flatten ourselves on the ground.
Tac-tac-tac . . . boom . . . shee . . . Once. Twice. And then another time. Three American planes are destroying our plane. The Thunderbolt is in flames.
As we watch the fire, Désiré laments. “My wheelbarrow wheel is gone!”
WE COME BACK again the next day. The only part of the plane left intact is the tail end. It takes us the whole day to chisel Désiré’s tailwheel out, but we do. At least one of us is happy.
On our way back to the village, we come across civilian war refugees. An old man is pushing a wheelbarrow full of his belongings, with a little boy around six or seven walking next to him. I can see they are tired. The old man sings an old French song to keep the boy’s spirits up. “The oil painting, / That is beautiful. / But it’s more difficult, / Than watercolor painting.”
Désiré takes out his horn and plays the tune. The old man smiles, and the boy seems absolutely charmed.
We all sing the song together.
“The war is a few miles to our back. Our house has been destroyed,” the old man explains as they continue on.
Désiré is wiping tears from his eyes, and so am I.
THE NEXT MORNING, a German Red Cross bus loaded with British and American wounded prisoners drives slowly by the house. Are we losing the war? It’s hard to know for sure. In the afternoon, I see hundreds of German soldiers on foot retreating east.
“That’s it. They are losing the war. We should be liberated at any moment,” I tell Grandfather with confidence.
It must be about midnight when a plane’s engine wakes me up. When I hear the engine being cut, I immediately think that the plane has been hit. Suddenly a parachute flare lights up the whole countryside.
What’s going on? I wonder, hopping around on one foot trying to get my pants on. I climb out the window and down into the yard to enjoy the show.
By the flare’s eerie light, I can see the plane gliding down. The pilot makes a pass over the road, then guns his engine to climb, and disappears in the dark night.
A moment later, I hear a tank, probably a German Tiger, about a mile up the road. Only one tank? That’s odd. Usually they travel in convoys, covering one another. An isolated tank is a sitting duck.
The mechanical rattle is coming closer. I can’t help but smile with satisfaction when I hear that the motor is quacking irregularly. That’s why he’s alone—a straggler with engine trouble! The plane must have been looking for him to finish him off. The tank backfires loudly; then there is silence.
Perfect. He must be stranded between me and the forest, smack-dab in the open. It will soon be daybreak, and the Allied planes will fry him for their breakfast.
“Kaput, Mister Tiger,” I say to myself.
Merde! The blasted machine restarts, although it doesn’t sound good. I am hiding behind a big bush, and now I can see the Tiger and smell the dying machine’s oily fumes. If only the plane would come back. One pass, and the Tiger would be dead. I can see the silhouette of the Boche commander standing in the tank’s turret, swearing like a madman. If I had a flashlight, I could signal the plane. But unfortunately I don’t.
The infernal war monster turns off the road a hundred yards from me, taking cover under four big trees shading a wayside cross. The Boches will stay here
until they fix the engine. I sneak back home and peer out my bedroom window. I can see the tank clearly. It’s difficult to go back to sleep because I’m anxious to see what will happen next.
AS SOON AS I WAKE UP, I am back in my hiding place to peek at the Tiger, which is covered with tree branches. Only the menacing long gun is sticking out. The Boches are up early too, and judging from their efforts to hide the massive machine, perhaps they never went to sleep. Other than the noise of clanking tools accompanied by lots of swearing, the morning passes in relative quiet.
The disabled tank is situated between our estate and a neighboring farm, where the Rouville family lives. Madame Rouville is pure Gypsy, and her Normand husband is quite a character. Over time we have become good friends. I especially enjoy their two boys, about five and eight years old, because they are a second and third edition of Pierrot Tatiou the Terrible.
Like the Jews, Gypsies are being hunted down by the Nazis for annihilation. But there is a big difference. The Jews cannot believe this is really happening to them and remain an easy target. If the Nazis arrest a Gypsy, all the others immediately disappear, making sure to take Adolf’s wallet with them. Stealing from the Germans is one of their pleasures.
From my vantage point, I see the older Rouville brother sneak up a couple of times to look at the tank. I am tempted to reveal myself, but I know it is safer for both of us to stay hidden. Still, I am certain that his reconnaissance means he is up to something. In the early afternoon, I watch the escapade begin. Actually, I hear it before I see it. Something is being dragged in this direction.
Moments later, a mini-tank made of old crates and camouflaged with some branches appears, pulled with a rope by a young infantryman—the older Rouville—wearing a kitchen pot helmet. Ah, almost like the one I had for my short aviation career. The baby Tiger has a nasty-looking gun fashioned from a rusted stovepipe, pointing straight toward the enemy.
The tank commander is the younger brother, banging on an empty tin can to skillfully imitate the backfiring engine of its larger counterpart, and swearing in a guttural German voice. I can’t help but smile, admiring their creativity and attention to detail.
The subversive tank passes near the Tiger. The Boches are too busy with their own troubles to notice the small intruders. The boys turn around and make another pass. No reaction. Next, the kids take out a few tools and proceed to bang on their tank with a chorus of swear words. Still nothing happens. That’s when Désiré appears around the corner with his horn tucked under his arm. I can see that he likes the setup immensely.
In a panic, I run from my hiding place to get the kids out of harm’s way before all hell breaks loose. But just then, loud and clear, Désiré announces his presence and sounds the charge. Now the Boches are paying attention.
“Swine Françouse!”
With my hands up and facing the Germans, I stand between the two tanks.
“Désiré, get the hell out of here. Run, Désiré! Run!” I scream, expecting a deadly burst from a machine gun.
Behind my back, I can hear the two boys imitating the tac-tac of machine-gun fire. They seem to think that it’s all a wonderful game. Since the boys believe I’m attacking the Boches openly by standing between them and the enemy, they decide to cover me.
“Village idiot! Not dangerous,” I try to explain to the stupefied Germans, making a circle with my finger near my head to indicate craziness.
The kids are throwing all kinds of trash at the real tank, and I get caught in the cross fire, hit in the back of the head with an empty can. Ow! The Germans start laughing and give me time to get the kids out of harm’s way. Désiré salutes me and disappears.
A few weeks later, the same boys are in the nearby forest when they come upon three German soldiers, who have gotten separated from their retreating army. The soldiers are ready to surrender and put their hands up high over their head. These lost German soldiers prefer this minor humiliation rather than retreating with their defeated army. It is quite a sight seeing the boys proudly march their prisoners through the main street of the village.
A month later, when things quiet down temporarily, I find the same Tiger by the roadside, miles away from where it had first broken down. It has a five-inch hole in it, compliments of a plane rocket. Just behind the massive steel wreck are four shallow graves.
ONE NIGHT AS I AM lying in bed, I can hear big guns firing in the distance. The next thing I hear is a German ammunition train being blown up, lighting up the sky. The wreckage burns for days.
A few nights later, I wake to somebody shaking me and shining a flashlight in my eyes. A German, waving a pistol barrel right under my nose, is ordering me to do something.
I get out of bed and quickly put my pants on. A thick-chested German sergeant pushes me into the main room, where my terrified grandparents are seated in a corner, with two young soldiers pointing rifles at them. One guard looks plump like a pumpkin, while the other one looks like a student, totally out of place.
Thick Chest, an ugly brute, sits in Grandfather’s armchair. Even on this throne, he’ll never pass for royalty. He proceeds with his intimidation by slamming his handgun on the table, explaining to me in poor French that he can’t get anything sensible out of the elders because they are stupid. I decide not to say what I am thinking, since he has the gun.
It’s now between him and me, if the three of us are going to live or die.
“Essen und trinken,” Thick Chest declares flatly.
“Verstehe nicht,” I reply. “I don’t understand.”
He picks up his pistol and waves it at me.
“Verstehe,” I say. The pistol goes back on the tabletop.
“Gut! Food. Drinks,” he demands.
Pumpkin escorts me to the larder outside the kitchen, where I pretend to forage for a few minutes, knowing full well that we have nothing to eat.
“Nothing to eat,” I try to explain to him. He pokes me hard in the ribs with the butt of his rifle. I have to find something for the Boches to eat, or they will kill all of us. Then I spot a big cast-iron pot and remove the heavy lid. It holds what looks like some kind of stew, but it doesn’t smell too appetizing.
“Gut!” Pumpkin says.
I bring the pot inside with a pitcher of rancid cider that Mathilde has been saving to make vinegar. I’ve decided to serve only the best to our guests. Thick Chest motions that he wants to be served. While Grandfather and Mathilde, guarded by Student, watch silently, I put three glasses and three plates on the table with forks and spoons. Student and Pumpkin decline and ask for only water.
All the more for Thick Chest, who stuffs himself with cold stew washed down with rancid cider. After mopping up the cold gravy with a slightly mildewed piece of bread, he burps loudly a few times.
When I take a seat, Thick Chest barks an order, and Pumpkin hits me hard in the side with his rifle butt again, telling me to stand up.
“Fix tires,” Thick Chest commands.
“With what?” I ask.
“Garage! Tires.” Thick Chest is pointing his pistol at me, and he and Pumpkin push me outside.
Their big French four-door sedan, sitting outside the gate, has two flat tires. Once we go into the empty garage, I explain as best as I can, “Your troops stole our car in 1940. We have no car and nothing to fix your tires.”
Thick Chest slaps my face, and at this moment, something clicks inside me. I can be as much of a jerk as he is. Obviously, I can’t use violence, but I can be defiant and arrogant.
“Allez en enfer,” I tell them. “Go to hell.”
They both understand. Thick Chest can’t believe what he has heard and shoves his menacing pistol in my face so hard that he cuts my upper lip.
“Go ahead! Kill me if you want, you rotten sausage,” I reply calmly.
Pumpkin laughs, and Thick Chest tells him something that I don’t understand, but it definitely doesn’t seem to be flattering. Pumpkin goes back inside to Student and the grandparents. I am now alone with the brute
.
“I need a horse to tow the car under the trees,” he says gruffly in pig German and French, motioning with his hand.
“Horse?” I repeat.
“Yah! Horse.”
He almost smiles, pleased that I understand him.
“Follow me.” I gesture, and we go into the dark night. He needs me, and I am grinning from ear to ear.
“Shortcut,” I say.
He stays behind me, occasionally poking his pistol in my back.
“Horse,” he repeats over and over, becoming impatient.
“Yah! Verstehe. Horse,” I answer.
Now I’ve got him where I want him. In a couple of apple orchards, I have made a few turns, and I know that he is completely lost in the dark.
“Horse!” he demands angrily.
By now, even this dumb Boche figures out that he has been had. So he throws a tantrum, swearing like the devil and gives me a little thrashing. I have to save my hide, so I point to a farm nearby.
“Gut!” Thick Chest exclaims.
When we get to the farmhouse, I knock on the door, with Thick Chest breathing down my neck.
A few minutes later, the farmer opens the door a crack, and I say, “The Boche wants your horse to tow his car off the road.”
“Tell him to get lost,” the farmer replies, slamming the door in my face. No, I’ve already tried that line, and it doesn’t work, I think.
I try to explain to Thick Chest that the farmer’s horse is sick. “We go to another farm,” I suggest.
“Nein!” Thick says furiously, walking to a window and breaking the glass with the butt of his pistol. Then he shoots a round inside the dark room.
“Swine Françouse, come here now,” he screams.
“Come right away, or the German is going to kill us both,” I implore the farmer.
The door opens, and the farmer is shaking plenty while he puts on his trousers.
“Gut!” Thick Chest says, satisfied.
Over the next few hours, the car is towed off the road, parked under a large tree, and covered with branches. Since I cooperated, I hope that Thick Chest is going to let me go. Not a chance! He wants me to stay with him and makes it clear when he pulls out a machine gun. We begin walking away from the house.
The Missing Matisse Page 24