The Bicycle Spy

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “I’ll go as fast as I can,” she said. “I’ll even run.”

  Marcel was about to offer her his bike, but then he thought better of it. Arnaud or one of the other kids might recognize it if they saw her on it. So he said nothing, and she left. He sat down in the straw and started to get comfortable.

  It seemed she was back in no time.

  “How’d you get back here so fast?”

  “I took my brother’s bike!” she said, and wheeled the red bicycle inside. A shaft of light from a high window shone brightly on the silver bell. “And here’s the scrapbook.” She set it down and they began to look at it together. The smiling winners in the pictures looked so happy and so proud. Marcel could imagine how they must have felt. “Do you think the race will ever start up again?” he asked.

  “If the war ever ends,” Delphine said. “It’s been going on for a while now.”

  “Too long,” said Marcel.

  “Way too long,” she agreed.

  They continued to turn the pages and chat until the light from the window faded and the barn grew dim.

  “I guess we should go now.” Marcel stood and brushed the hay from the back of his pants.

  “Au revoir,” she said. Good-bye. “Meet here tomorrow?” she asked as she hopped on her red bike.

  He nodded. “Au revoir.” He got on his bike, too, and swiftly pedaled home.

  For the next four school days, Marcel and Delphine met after school at the barn. He would bring something left over from the bakery, like a bit of stale bread or a couple of rolls, and she’d bring a nearly empty jar of jam or honey, and they would have a snack. They did their schoolwork together, and Delphine showed him tips on how to fix his bike or adjust the seat and handlebars so he could get better speed and control. She had a worn leather pouch that held a couple of wrenches, a screwdriver, and a few other tools useful for fixing bikes. He couldn’t believe how much she knew about bicycles—more than he did, or any of his friends.

  “How did you learn all this?”

  “My dad fixes bikes for a hobby. He even built one himself. He tried to show my brother how, but my brother didn’t care. So he showed me. See, this is where you want to have your seat—you were riding too low.”

  They never actually said it out loud, but she seemed to understand that if they were going to be friends, they shouldn’t advertise it. Other than Paulette, the kids in school seemed to accept her and didn’t bother her too much about having been chosen to sit in the seat of honor.

  On the fifth day, though, they decided to ride together, out beyond the edges of town where it was unlikely they would be seen. It was cold, but Marcel warmed up when he rode. Faster and faster he pumped, but he still couldn’t catch up to Delphine. Finally, in a furious burst, he pulled ahead until they were riding side by side. In seconds, they reached an abandoned stone well, their agreed-upon finish line.

  He stopped, hopped off the bike, and sank down into the tall grass that was now white and dead. She did the same. He turned and propped himself on one arm so he could get a better look at her. Even though she won most of their races, she never made fun of him. “I just wish I could be as fast as you are.” He sighed deeply.

  “You’ve got to learn to pace yourself better,” she said. “And I think you’re not hunched down enough over the handlebars. Here, let me show you.” She got up and reached for her bike to demonstrate. She was a good teacher, patient and encouraging. But there was no time to try out her suggestions in another race, at least not today. They said au revoir and went their separate ways.

  The sky was darkening when Marcel pedaled along the cobblestone street to his house. He’d stayed out too late. His mother would be mad. “There you are,” she said when he came up the stairs. “Wash up—dinner is just about ready.”

  Marcel went to the sink and washed his hands and his face, too, and then sat down to join his parents for the evening meal. The familiar blue-and-white bowls held soup. It was thin and kind of tasteless, but he didn’t want to complain about it. More food shortages, he guessed.

  “How’s school?” his father asked.

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “And your friend Delphine? Everything all right there?”

  “How did you know we were friends?” Marcel asked. He thought he was doing a good job of keeping that secret.

  But his father just turned on the radio and was soon immersed in listening to the broadcast from Radio Paris.

  * * *

  The next Monday at school, Marcel and his classmates were busy working on their compositions when a noise made him look up. Two German officers had come into the room, their shiny black boots heavy on the floorboards, their armbands with the thick black swastikas threatening. Even more threatening were the enormous black guns they carried, so casually looped over their shoulders, like satchels. Marcel was pretty sure they were from the Gestapo, the German secret police.

  It was bad enough seeing the soldiers in town, as he had a few times. But there had never been any Gestapo officers in school. Seeing them here made it feel like they had invaded his classroom—and his world. What would they do if they knew about his parents being in the Resistance? Drag them from the bakery? Force them to answer questions? Shoot them? An icy terror washed over him as these terrible scenes unfolded in his imagination.

  One of the officers said something to Mademoiselle Babineaux and then gestured for her to follow him out into the hall to talk. Marcel noticed that she took her big book with her, the one that had all the names of the students written in it.

  While they were gone, the other officer glanced around. It seemed to Marcel that his gaze came to rest right on Delphine. Why? What reason did the soldier have to look at her? Though maybe he had imagined it. He was so anxious about the possibility that his parents could be discovered that he was jittery about everything.

  He was not alone in feeling like this. Usually, when the teacher was out of the room, some of the kids would start misbehaving. Things got thrown, or names were called. Not today. Everyone remained in his or her seat, cowed and quiet. Mademoiselle Babineaux and the soldier came back into the room. She seemed frightened. Her face was pale and she did not look at the class. She nodded vigorously as the soldier who had remained in the room said something in a low voice, but she did not look at him, either. Finally, when the two soldiers left and she closed the door behind them, there was a feeling of relief in the air, as if the whole class had just exhaled in unison.

  “Please continue with your compositions,” Mademoiselle Babineaux said. For a few minutes, everyone returned to his or her writing, and the only sound in the room was the scratch, scratch, scratch of pens on paper. Then the bell rang. Recess! Marcel was the first one out of his seat. The classroom felt oppressive and even frightening, like a jail cell. He couldn’t wait to get out.

  In the schoolyard, everyone was talking excitedly about the officers.

  “Did you see their guns?” asked Guillaume.

  “How could you miss them?” asked Arnaud. “It’s not like they hid them or anything.”

  Marcel shuddered, remembering. He listened to the others talk for a few minutes more, then he wandered away. Delphine was nowhere around. Where had she gone? He went back inside and looked in a couple of empty classrooms. She was not in either of them.

  After a minute, his classmates began straggling in, Guillaume first, and then Arnaud, laughing and jostling each other. Mademoiselle Babineaux went straight to her desk and began rearranging the papers on its surface as if it were the most important task on earth.

  Then Delphine came in. She looked pale and shaken. Her braids, usually so neat and tight, were messy, and he had the sudden thought that she’d been crying. But she would not catch his eye and kept her head bent over her schoolwork. He wouldn’t be able to talk to her until after school, so he reluctantly pulled his gaze away and tried to focus on his composition.

  When school let out, he rode over to the barn and carefully concealed his
bike inside. A little while later, Delphine showed up in her worn gray coat, a black beret on her head. When she saw him, she actually jumped back, a look of sheer terror on her still-ashen face.

  “Hey, it’s just me,” he said. “And you know I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “No, but they are!” she burst out.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “The Gestapo! Those men who came into our classroom!”

  “I know,” he said sympathetically. “They’re pretty scary.”

  “I hate them!” she cried passionately. “Hate them!”

  “I hate them, too,” Marcel said more quietly, thinking of his parents and the grave danger they faced from such men. “More than you could ever know.”

  “What do you mean?” Her blue eyes blazed. “What are you saying?”

  Marcel was taken aback by her response. “I just meant … that is … you see … ” Should he tell her? Yes or no? He felt ripped apart inside.

  “Are you … ?” Delphine began.

  “No, it’s my parents.” It was a relief to say those words, to tell someone. “They’re in the Resistance. They don’t know that I know. But I found out. I’ve been delivering notes in the bread, the bread from the bakery and—”

  “The Resistance!” She pulled off her beret and tossed it to the floor. “I thought you were going to tell me something else.”

  “What else would it be?” He was truly perplexed by how upset she seemed.

  There was a long silence during which she would not look at him but stared down at the floor. Finally, she picked up a bit of hay and began twirling it with her fingers. She raised her eyes to his. “That they’re Jewish,” she said in a low voice. “That you all are.”

  “Jewish?” Whatever was she talking about? Why would she even think that?

  “Yes, Jewish. Like me.” Her eyes, now glassy with tears, locked on his. “And you have to promise—no, swear!—not to tell. Ever!”

  “Okay, okay!” Marcel nodded. “Jewish!” He repeated. He was stunned. He didn’t think he’d met anyone Jewish before. Everyone he knew was Catholic and went to the church of St. Vincent de Paul on Sundays and saints’ days, or holidays like Easter and Christmas. “But that can’t be! I mean, how—”

  “My father is a lawyer. Or he was, until he wasn’t allowed to practice law anymore. But he knew people who could get us out. He was able to pay them for their help.”

  “Is that why—?”

  “We left Paris and have been moving around? Yes.” She had dropped the bit of hay and began pulling on the tips of her braids, her nervous fingers tug, tug, tugging. “Things in Paris were terrible. We had to wear armbands with yellow stars on them. They said Juif in the center. I was so frightened when I wore that armband in public. And ashamed, too—like being a Jew was a bad thing.”

  “That sounds awful,” said Marcel.

  “It was. And it only got worse. In the summer, thousands of people were rounded up in the winter sports center at the edge of the city. We heard it was horrible. No food, no water, people all crammed together. They were … deported.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Marcel.

  “Taken somewhere far away. We’re not sure where. Drancy, maybe.” She must have read his puzzled look. “That’s an internment camp. There are others, too. In Germany,” she explained.

  “But not your family,” he said.

  “No. My father was able to get us forged identity papers. Delphine Gilette is a fake name. My real name is Rachel Neumann. They got us ration cards, too, and other documents we needed. We moved around for a while, heading south, trying to get to the border. Then he found us a place to stay. Some people in the Resistance arranged it. That’s why we’re here.”

  Marcel was quiet for a moment, trying to absorb all this startling new information. Then he thought of something else. “You said you had forged papers and a fake identity. But I’ve never seen you in church.”

  “Christian doesn’t have to mean Catholic,” she said. “My father said we would pretend to be Protestants. He thought that would easier.”

  “So that’s why you had such trouble when Sister Bernadette called on you that day.”

  She nodded. “But I’ve been studying,” she said. “I can’t afford to let her catch me again.”

  “You must be afraid all the time. What if someone finds out and tells on you?”

  “It would be terrible,” she said. “So when Gestapo officers came into the classroom today, I was so scared! I’d seen them in Paris. I know what they do to people like me. They round us up and they lock us up. And then they kill us.”

  Hearing that, Marcel felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. How could this even be possible? But somewhere inside he knew it was. He’d seen newspaper photographs of Paris in which the Nazi soldiers seemed to be everywhere. Huge banners with big black swastikas were hung from public buildings. Clusters of Nazis were all over the streets, bars, and restaurants. He also knew that the Germans despised the Jews and had passed laws against them. Jews lost their jobs and were banned from public places. So what Delphine had just told him—or should he call her Rachel?—was the logical extension of all that. No wonder her family was desperate to get away. They thought they would be safer here in the country. Only today that hope just may have crumbled—for good.

  The sky around had darkened and a few early stars could be seen. “If my parents are in the Resistance, they might be able to help you!” Marcel said. “Like the Resistance workers who helped you leave Paris. Should I ask them?”

  Rachel looked uncertain, and then shook her head. “No. Don’t say anything. I mean, my parents said I shouldn’t tell anyone about us. And look—I’ve already gone and told you.”

  “Think about it,” he said. “Maybe they could help.”

  “Maybe.” She stood up. “I’d better get going.” Her voice sounded hollow and sad. “My mom is waiting.”

  Marcel wished he could say something that would be of some comfort to her, something that might even help. Instead, he said the only thing he could think of, which was, “Don’t worry. I’ll never tell anyone your secret. Never.”

  “Thank you.” And although she did not smile, her expression looked a little less bleak. But only a little.

  After Delphine had left the barn, Marcel waited a few minutes and then got back on his bike. As he rode along the familiar streets toward home, his mind was racing as quickly as his feet were pedaling. So Delphine and her family were Jewish! That explained a lot of things. Things that had not quite fit together before suddenly did, like the pieces of the giant jigsaw puzzle that he and Papa had worked on together all of last summer.

  There, coming down the street, he caught a glimpse of two gendarmes. It was true that they were not quite as scary as the Germans, but with the dangerous secrets he now knew, he didn’t want to meet up with them.

  Quickly, he turned a sharp corner and hid behind a big shrub to avoid them.

  He was just in time, too, because they stopped walking, and one of them pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Marcel stayed where he was, concealed by dead leaves and thorny branches. Remaining motionless and silent, he strained to listen to what they were saying. Much of it was uttered too softly for him to make out, though he could tell they were gossiping and complaining. A few words were clear enough to understand: Very soon, the officials were going to recheck the papers of newcomers to town, especially those who had arrived in the last eighteen months.

  Marcel knew Delphine and her family had gotten to Aucoin more recently than that. And their papers were false, a fact that might be easily discovered during a routine check.

  He remained where he was, choked with fear. The gendarme who had been smoking stubbed out the end of his cigarette with the heel of his boot. Then the two gendarmes walked off. When the coast was clear, Marcel sped home.

  * * *

  At dinner that night, he shared with his parents what he’d heard the gendarmes saying.
He wished he could tell them what he now knew about Delphine. But he didn’t want to break his word to her.

  “That’s bad.” His mother put down her knife and fork. “They’ll be looking for people with suspicious papers. And if they find any … ”

  “What will happen?” asked Marcel.

  “They could be deported.”

  “Deported to where?”

  There was a silence. Then his father said, “We’re not really sure. But we’ve heard some talk about work camps … ”

  “More like prison camps,” his mother said grimly.

  Delphine had said internment camps. Was this the same thing? But he couldn’t ask his parents—he had promised. “Work camps? Prison camps? Why would they be sending people there? What did they do?” He tried to get more information while still keeping his friend’s confession a secret.

  “It’s not about what they did,” his father said. “It’s more about who they are.”

  “What are you talking about?” But he knew. He knew.

  “The Germans are deporting Jews,” said his mother.

  “It’s been happening in Germany, Poland, Lithuania … and it’s no different here. The Nazis have their policies and the French are just going along with them,” added his father.

  Delphine and her family were Jewish. If they were deported, where exactly would they be deported to? And what would happen to them when they got there? Marcel had sworn not to reveal Delphine’s secret to anyone, not even to his parents. But with what he found out on the way home, he knew they were more at risk than they realized. What if his parents could help her? Would it be all right to break his promise? He wished he knew.

  * * *

  Marcel met Delphine in the barn the next day after school. It was the first of December and had gotten too cold for a bicycle race. Instead, they played cards, using a worn deck Delphine’s mother had brought from Paris. After their game, they lingered for a few minutes to talk.