The Bicycle Spy

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “Are you ready?” called Arnaud.

  “I’m ready,” Marcel called back. He handed his bag and lunch box to Guillaume and maneuvered his bicycle into position. But before they could start, Marcel heard his name. He turned, and there was Delphine, riding up on a handsome red bike and ringing its silver bell. That bike was really something, and the bell was great, too—shiny, with a forceful sound when she pressed it. Marcel wished he had a bell like that on his bike!

  “I want to race, too,” she said.

  Arnaud looked at Marcel; Marcel shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ve never raced a girl before, have we?” Arnaud shook his head.

  “What difference does my being a girl make?” said Delphine. “I’ve got a bike. I’m taller than Marcel, but not as tall as Arnaud. It seems fair to me.”

  “She’s right,” said Guillaume, and then several kids chimed in, “Let her race! Let her race!”

  “Okay,” Arnaud said finally. “Come over here and get in line with us. We’ll start at the church and then keep going until we come to the big oak tree, way down the road. Whoever gets there first is the winner.”

  “Sounds good.” Delphine positioned herself between Marcel and Arnaud and gave her braids what Marcel now realized was her trademark flip.

  He didn’t know how he felt about racing a girl. Delphine had already demonstrated what a good student she was—now was she trying to prove that she was the best cyclist? Not if Marcel had anything to say about it! He hunkered down over the handlebars.

  Standing by the finish line was a boy named Alain. He was in charge. “On your mark,” he called, “get set … Go!”

  Marcel took off, speeding down the road like he was being pursued by demons. He kept his gaze steady on the road ahead of him and tried to block out the knowledge that Arnaud had pulled ahead and Delphine was gaining on him. Marcel pedaled faster and faster, until he’d caught up to Arnaud and then passed him. Yes! He was doing it, he was going to beat them and—

  All of a sudden, Delphine shot ahead like a blazing red rocket, leaving both Marcel and Arnaud behind. The crowd of kids chanted her name, “Delphine! Delphine!” Marcel kept pedaling, but he’d lost his focus and his edge. As his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, Arnaud whizzed past him. But Delphine was still ahead of them both. Marcel’s eyes clouded with tears as she reached the oak tree and turned around to face the group triumphantly.

  “The winner!” called out Alain. He pressed down on Delphine’s bell a few times, and then he yanked her arm up in the air, a gesture of victory. Arnaud was there seconds later, and then Marcel, in third and last place.

  Panting with exertion, he angrily swiped at his eyes and pushed the glasses back into place. It took several seconds for his breathing to go back to normal. Delphine had come out of nowhere to win the race. Who even knew a girl could go that fast, riding her brother’s bike besides? As Marcel stood watching her, so many things were swirling around inside him. Shame, anger, and disappointment. But also admiration. And respect.

  That night, it took Marcel the longest time to fall asleep. He tossed and turned, kicking at the covers, yanking at the sheets, and even punching his pillow to fluff it up. In his mind, he kept reliving the humiliation of the race. Beaten—and by a girl. When he finally did fall asleep, he dreamed that he was riding in the Tour de France, only he was the very last cyclist in the race, straggling behind everyone else. The crowds that lined the side of the road jeered and tossed rotten vegetables at him as he passed. It was a relief to wake up.

  At breakfast, he could hardly stay awake. Twice his mother asked him if he was all right. He told her he was fine, though he wished he could say he was sick and crawl back into bed. But he knew if he did that, the other kids would think he was ashamed of being a loser—so ashamed that he had to stay home. No, as tired as he was, he had to go to school today.

  So after he ate, he picked up his satchel and headed down the road on his bicycle. When he reached the school building, he saw Delphine. He didn’t feel tired anymore as she came right up to him. “I have something to show you,” she said. “I know you’re going to like it.”

  “What is it?” he asked, curious. He was glad she did not make fun of him about losing to her.

  “It’s a surprise,” she said. “Wait until recess.”

  All morning he wondered what it might be, and when recess came, Marcel was the first one out the door. Delphine followed close behind. He noticed she was lugging something in her satchel. While the other kids ran around, chasing each other and shouting, they walked to a shady spot at the far end of the schoolyard. There were a couple of big, flat rocks over there and Delphine sat down on one of them, then pulled something from her bag. “Voilà,” she said. Look.

  It was a big leather-bound scrapbook. Marcel opened it to look inside. It was full of pictures of all the winners of the Tour de France! Some, like Antonin Magne and Ottavio Bottecchia, had actually won twice. Now, that was really something to be proud of. Along with the photographs, there were articles cut out from newspapers and magazines, maps, and postcards that showed the cyclists’ smiling faces peering out. There was even a bit of yellow fabric glued to one of the pages.

  “What’s this?” Marcel touched the faded snippet.

  “A piece of a jersey that belonged to Roger Lapébie,” she said.

  “He won in 1937,” said Marcel.

  “Right,” said Delphine. “My grandfather knew someone who knew him.”

  “Was all this stuff your grandfather’s?”

  “He started making the scrapbook. Then my father added to it. And I’m adding even more.” She reached over to flip the pages ahead. There, close to the end of the book, were more-recent pictures, which Marcel recognized.

  Delphine continued. “My grandpa and my dad are both big Tour de France fans. Not my brother, though. He doesn’t care about cycling at all. Isn’t that funny? I’m a girl, but I love it.” She let go of the pages and nudged the book back in Marcel’s direction.

  “This is some collection you’ve got here.” Marcel was impressed. He began to leaf through the book more carefully. Soon some of the other kids, tired from running around, came over to join them.

  “Hey, can I see?” asked Arnaud.

  “Sure.” Delphine moved aside so he could have a look. Guillaume and some of the others crowded in, too, all jostling to find a good spot.

  “Where did this come from?” Arnaud asked. When Delphine explained, he added, “I bet it’s worth a lot of money.”

  “It could be,” Delphine said.

  “So where did you get it? Is your family rich or something? Like all those Jews who are wrecking the country?” said Arnaud.

  Marcel looked over at Delphine, who had not answered. Two big pink splotches appeared on her cheeks and it seemed that her lips were trembling. Why was she so upset? Arnaud could be kind of a jerk, but basically he was all right. And plenty of people supported the new government headed by Maréchal Pétain and said bad things about Jews: that they had too much money, were taking over the country, were foreigners, and were not true Frenchmen. Marcel’s parents never talked like this and so neither did Marcel. He didn’t even know any Jews. But he wasn’t really bothered by these comments, either. Yet Delphine was—why?

  Arnaud didn’t seem to expect a reply. And he clearly didn’t have any idea he’d upset Delphine. He was looking at the scrapbook, pointing, exclaiming, and laughing. So was everyone else. Was Marcel the only one who noticed her reaction?

  He moved over to her. “He’s an idiot,” he said softly. “Just ignore him.”

  Delphine nodded, though she said nothing. But she seemed to calm down.

  Then the bell rang. Recess was over. Delphine put the scrapbook back in her bag, and everyone headed to the open doors and filed back into the classroom. But Marcel kept thinking about the comment and Delphine’s reaction to it. There was some mystery about her—something that made her seem different than the other girls he knew. But
he couldn’t have said what it was.

  He mentioned the exchange to his parents later that evening. “Why do you think she got so upset when Arnaud said that about her family being rich?”

  “I’m not sure,” Papa said.

  “What did you say her name was?” Maman asked.

  “Delphine,” said Marcel. He noticed his parents exchanging a look.

  “Delphine what?” asked Maman.

  “Gilette,” answered Marcel.

  “And she just moved into town? Did she say why?”

  “No, she didn’t,” Marcel said. “Anyway, why are you so interested? She’s just a girl at school.”

  “No special reason,” Maman said. She suddenly seemed very absorbed by the sewing in her lap, and her fingers moved deftly as she worked.

  But Marcel was not fooled. He’d said pretty much the same thing to Guillaume when Guillaume had wanted to know why he seemed so interested in Delphine. He hadn’t been telling the truth then and he suspected his mother was not telling the truth now. But before he could say any more about it, she looked up from the shirt whose buttons she was replacing.

  “Your room is a mess,” she said. “Didn’t I ask you to straighten it up earlier?”

  He sighed. “You did.”

  “And yet it still isn’t done.”

  “No … ,” he said, knowing what was coming next.

  “Then would you please go do it now?”

  With a big sigh, he got up from his chair. “What difference does it make anyway? Who even cares if my room is messy?” But he said it softly, so she wouldn’t hear. And then realizing that any argument would be futile, he went off to do what she had asked. It was only when he’d picked up all the clothes from the floor and stuffed them, unfolded, into his armoire, pulled the blankets up in an effort to make the bed, and gathered all the papers and books and tucked them behind a chair that he thought again about his mother’s interest in Delphine. She’d said there was no special reason for it. So why didn’t he believe her?

  When Marcel got home from school the next day, his mother asked him to take another loaf of bread to his aunt and uncle. Marcel was not in the mood to do the errand. He was tired and wanted to read the new comic book he had traded with a kid in school, not hop on his bike. But the look on his mother’s face made him realize it was pointless to protest, and so he waited while she wrapped the loaf in a clean white dish towel. Then she handed him another parcel wrapped the same way. It had a familiar and delicious aroma. “Pain d’épice?” he asked.

  “Yes. In case you get stopped.”

  He took the packages and put them in the basket of his bicycle, which he had left in front of the bakery that morning—it had been raining and he had not wanted to ride in the rain. The sky was clear now, yet he still didn’t want to ride: Though he hated to admit it, even to himself, he was a little bit afraid. Before, he’d thought he was just delivering bread and cakes. Now he knew better.

  There was probably a message inside the loaf. What if a soldier or a gendarme took that loaf and found it? But then Marcel looked at the other parcel, the freshly baked pain d’épice. He would offer that to anyone who stopped him. That’s why his mother had given it to him—to keep him safe. And she was asking him to do this for a good reason. At least he thought it was for a good reason. They were working against the Germans, who had invaded their country. That was a noble thing to do, right? The thought made him feel a little better.

  “Don’t stay long at your aunt’s house,” she said. “I want you to come right back.”

  “I will, Maman.” Marcel got on his bike and pedaled down the streets until he had left town and was on the open road. The trees overhead had lost all their leaves now, and only the bare branches remained. He saw a rabbit dart across the road and scurry off into the high grass. Usually, he liked this ride. He’d fantasize about the Tour de France and pretend he was riding in it. These empty roads would be filled with adoring fans. He could almost hear them as he rode …

  Today it was different, though. He could not be lulled into the familiar fantasy, and he kept looking down at the basket with its two covered loaves. When he came to the bridge, he recognized that soldier he’d seen before, and he slowed down. The soldier recognized him, too. Marcel came to a stop. He was scared. What if he wanted the bread today?

  “Do you have cake?” the soldier asked. Marcel nodded. With slightly shaking hands, he handed the soldier the pain d’épice. The soldier inclined his head and took the package. And when he pulled back the cloth to reveal the aromatic loaf inside, his mouth turned up in a small smile. “Go,” he told Marcel in his strangely accented French. Marcel didn’t waste any time getting back on the bike and speeding away.

  He got to his aunt’s house about twenty minutes later and gave her the loaf of bread. Was there a note inside? He had not dared to check.

  Before he turned around to leave, his aunt handed him a worn shawl. “Please bring this to your mother.”

  That was strange. His mother already had a nice shawl. Why was his aunt sending another?

  “I’ll give it to her.” As he put the shawl in his basket, he realized it was made of two different kinds of material that had been sewn together. One side was bluish gray and the other, light brown. There was room in between the two sides. And when he was far enough from his aunt’s house, he stopped to examine it more closely. There was something in there—something that felt like a piece of folded paper. Instantly, he knew: It was a note that his aunt and uncle were sending to his parents.

  Marcel sped back home as fast as he could. The guard at the bridge waved him through so he didn’t even have to stop. He saw his mother standing out in the street, like she was waiting for him to get back. Why? Did she think he wouldn’t make it?

  “You got here quickly,” she said. “Did anyone stop you at the bridge?”

  “Only when I was on my way there, but I gave him the pain d’épice again and he didn’t stop me on the way back. He even smiled, sort of.”

  “I’ll have to keep baking the cake,” his mother said. “I just hope I can get the ingredients. There are always shortages at the market.”

  “Aunt Marie Pierre sent this to you.” He gave his mother the shawl with the note sewn inside it. It took every bit of self-discipline he had not to blurt out, I know what you and Papa are doing. But he didn’t. If he told, they might not let him deliver the loaves anymore. And scared as he was, Marcel wanted to keep carrying the messages. It made him feel brave, strong, and important. His mother just thanked him and draped the shawl over her arm, like it was nothing special.

  * * *

  The next day at school, Mademoiselle Babineaux asked Delphine to sit in the front row, at the desk directly opposite hers. This was a place of honor in the classroom and although Marcel had a seat in the first row, he’d never been asked to sit in that special desk. Paulette, the girl who had occupied the place before, did not seem happy about giving it up, and everyone was talking about it at recess. Marcel did not join the cluster of kids who were in the yard, but he stood close enough so he could hear. He didn’t see Delphine anywhere.

  “The new girl thinks she’s better than everyone,” Paulette said. “That seat was mine. I’m the best one in the class. Just look at my marks.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Guillaume. “She seems pretty smart to me.”

  “She’s not smart. She’s pushy, that’s all. She thinks she can waltz in here from Paris or wherever and just take over. ”

  “Sounds like you’re jealous,” said Guillaume.

  “Who, me?” Paulette was indignant. “Why would I be jealous of her? I just don’t like her, that’s all.”

  Paulette had a high, whiny voice. Marcel turned away and went back into the classroom by himself. There was Delphine, sitting at her desk. “How come you’re not outside?” he asked. “Recess isn’t over for another fifteen minutes.”

  “I don’t feel like it,” she said. She kept her head down and did not look at
him. Maybe she’d heard something, he thought. Maybe she knew. He went back outside to play with the other kids but his heart wasn’t in it. He was glad when recess was over.

  Later, when school was dismissed, he saw Delphine walking home alone. He wanted to go talk to her, but he thought about what Paulette had said and he was afraid. If he got too friendly with her, the other kids might start teasing him for that, too. There was already enough that he was picked on for. Still, she knew so much about cycling, and she was a really good rider. And he even felt a little sorry for her.

  Marcel waited until Delphine got to the end of the street and turned the corner. Then he rode his bike through the tiny alley beside Madame Girard’s flower shop so he could meet up with her on the other side, out of sight of his classmates. What he did was his own business. No one had to find out if they became friends, did they? And he was going to make sure that they didn’t.

  She looked surprised to see him waiting—but not unhappy. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Looking for you,” he said. “I wanted to see that scrapbook again.”

  “All right,” she said. “But we can’t go to my house.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s because of my mother. She’s not well and she doesn’t like me to have anyone over.” She seemed nervous when she said this. Like she was lying. But why would she lie about that?

  “We can go somewhere else,” he said. “I’ll show you a good place, and you can go home and get the scrapbook.”

  Marcel walked his bike as they fell into step together. Soon they came to an abandoned barn that was near the edge of the town. He pushed open the door and they stepped inside.

  “Is this your secret hideout?” She walked around slowly, looking at the empty stalls and piles of pale, dried-out hay.

  “Sort of,” said Marcel. He and Arnaud used to come here but Arnaud complained that it smelled, so they had stopped. It would be a safe place to meet Delphine. “If you want to get the scrapbook, I can wait here.”