“I told my parents about the Gestapo officers who came to school,” she said. “That really frightened them. They said it’s not safe here anymore.”
“They’re right. It isn’t,” he blurted out. “The officials are going to recheck the papers of anyone new to the town! I overheard it last night.” He hadn’t been able to find the right moment to tell her before now.
Delphine’s face went white, and she took a deep, shaky breath.
“Thank you for telling me. I already heard my dad telling my mom that we have to escape—now I know that he’s right.”
“Escape? Where?” The hair on the back of Marcel’s neck began to prickle and he knew it wasn’t just from the crisp, cold air.
“I’m not sure,” she said, tugging on the tip of a braid. In the distance, the church bell tolled the hour and Delphine stood up. “I’ve got to go.” She brushed off the back of her coat. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I guess.”
Marcel rode home. That brisk wind had turned sharper and colder, and he shivered under his jacket. He was glad to see the lights of his own kitchen window. After dinner, he went into his room and closed the door. He was still undecided about whether to reveal Delphine’s secret to his parents. She was afraid, he knew. But what if they could help?
A knock on the door startled him. “Come in,” he said.
“I need you to take a loaf of bread to someone tomorrow,” said his father. “But since it’s getting dark earlier these days, I was wondering if you could do it before you went to school.”
“Do I have to?” He didn’t want to get up that early. He might even be late getting to class. Usually, his parents did not like him to do anything that would interfere with school. Education comes first, Maman was fond of saying.
“Yes, you do,” said his father.
So the message inside the loaf of bread must be really important. Urgent, even. He thought of everything that was happening now: the Gestapo, Delphine and her family. “All right, Papa,” he said. “I’ll go first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you,” his father said. “I won’t be here when you leave but Maman will have the bread ready for you.”
“Where will you be?”
“I heard there might be flour available in Perpignan and I’m going to drive over to pick it up. I haven’t been able to get a new bag for a couple of weeks and we’re almost all out.”
Marcel understood. His father needed the flour to bake the bread that was their living. And then he had another thought: If there were no loaves of bread, his parents would not have a place to stash the messages they needed to send.
That night Marcel lay awake for a long time. He was so worried about having to get up early that he was unable to drift off to sleep. It must have been close to dawn when he finally felt himself relaxing. The sky was growing lighter and he could hear the first chirps of the birds. He really should be getting up to deliver the bread soon. But he was tired. So very tired. He’d close his eyes for just a few minutes and then he’d get up and be on his way …
The next thing he knew, sunlight was streaming into the room. Marcel bolted straight up in the narrow bed. What time was it? He must have slept too long. Now what was going to happen? Was it too late to deliver the bread?
He grabbed his clothes as quickly as he could and went into the other room. The chairs were arranged neatly around the table, which was covered in a red-and-white-checked cloth. The familiar earthenware bowl sat in its usual spot. Beyond that were the armchairs in which his parents liked to sit after dinner and the window with its starched lace curtain. But the rooms were empty. No one was there.
Marcel clattered downstairs to the bakery. No one was down there, either. The shelves were not even half full. The door was locked and the sign saying Fermé—Closed—hung in the window. All of this was very strange.
Then he spied a loaf of bread wrapped in a white cloth. A small piece of paper with his name on it was pinned to the top. So that was the loaf of bread he had been meant to deliver. But where were his parents? He knew his father was picking up the flour, but shouldn’t he be back by now? And what about his mother? She was always here to open up in the morning. That was one of their busiest times.
There was a clock hanging on the wall behind the cash register. It was nine thirty. So he was late for school, too. He picked up the bread and gripped it tightly in his hands. Should he pedal over with the bread, even though it was late? Or should he go to school? He’d never been so confused in his life. Or scared: Where were his parents? Maybe something bad had happened to them. If he knew that they were members of the Resistance, maybe someone else did, too. What if they had been betrayed and were in danger?
Then he heard a noise outside. Papa! He raced to meet him just as he was unlocking the door and walking in. What a relief to see him.
“Marcel!” His father seemed surprised to find him in the bakery. “Why aren’t you at school?” Then he noticed the bread in Marcel’s hands. “You didn’t deliver it, did you?” he asked.
“No, Papa, I didn’t and I’m really sorry! But I was so worried about waking up in time that I couldn’t fall asleep for hours. Then I overslept this morning.” Marcel thought he was too old for tears, but he felt like crying now. “And then when I didn’t see you or Maman I got kind of scared and didn’t know what to do.”
“The wheel of the wagon came off and I had to stop to fix it,” Papa said. “That’s why it took me so long to get back.” He looked around the bakery. “I don’t know where your mother is,” he said. “I have to find her.”
“What about the bread?” Marcel asked.
His father took the loaf and stared at it for several seconds. “I’m afraid it’s too late to deliver it now,” he said. “You go on to school. The delivery will have to wait.”
“But what about the message, Papa?” Marcel couldn’t hold in the question a second longer. “Isn’t that why you wanted me to deliver it? Because of the message inside?” His heart was hammering wildly as he waited for his father’s reply.
“So you know,” his father said. He didn’t seem surprised or alarmed, only very sad. Even defeated. “Maman and I had wanted to keep it from you. How did you find out?”
Marcel told him the whole story. Papa listened carefully, and when Marcel was finished he said, “Maman and I agonized over whether we should let you make these trips and deliver the messages. She said no at first. But in the end, we thought it was important enough to take the risk. So much is at stake—for all of us.” He took a deep breath and went on. “We didn’t tell you because it was safer that way. And we didn’t want to frighten you. But now I see you’ve known for a while and made the trips anyway. You’re a brave boy and I’m proud of you. Maman will be, too.”
Marcel felt three inches taller—that’s how proud he was. But there was still Maman to worry about. “But where is Maman?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said his father grimly. “But I’m going to find her.”
“What can I do? I want to help you.”
“Go to school. Act like nothing’s wrong.”
“That’s all?” Marcel asked.
“That’s enough for right now,” Papa said.
“All right.” But then Marcel saw that his father was pulling aside the white cloth and slicing the bread lengthwise. “What are you doing now?” he asked.
“Getting rid of this.” His father pulled the folded note from the center of the loaf. “It’s not safe to have it anymore.” Then he walked to the sink at the far end of the shop, placed the note in the basin, and pulled out a book of matches. The tiny flame flared brightly before he let it fall onto the note. In a matter of seconds, he was running the water, washing whatever was left down the drain. Then he turned back to Marcel. “Go on, now,” he said. “There’s nothing more either of us can do if we stay here.” When Marcel still did not move, he added, “We need to pretend things are all right. That’s the safest and the smartest course.”
Papa was right.
Marcel knew that. So, hoisting his satchel over his arm, he headed down the stairs, where his bicycle was waiting. He sped along the familiar streets that now felt strange and sinister. Soon he was at school, where he hoped he was ready for whatever the day would bring.
Marcel tried his hardest to concentrate on what his teacher was saying, but it wasn’t easy. Several times when Mademoiselle Babineaux called on him, he could not come up with a reply, and he just sat there, as silent as a turtle. “Marcel’s got his head in the clouds today,” she said. Everyone laughed but he hardly even cared. All he could think about was his mother. Where had she gone? Was she all right?
Finally, it was time for recess and he burst into the yard with the other boys. The day was cold and gray but they ran around wildly anyway, glad to be released from the discipline of the classroom. Marcel joined in, running back and forth the length of the schoolyard. At least it kept his mind from dwelling on his mother.
The girls kept their distance, clustered together in a group over by the fence. Then he saw a boy named Thierry run close to the girls and grab Delphine’s black beret from her head.
“Hey!” She spun around. “Give that back!”
Thierry gave a snort of laughter and kept running. Delphine was fast, but Thierry was so big, and his legs were so long. She could not keep up with him. He ran around the schoolyard with the beret, tossing it up in the air and letting it drop. Delphine pursued him for several minutes but she abruptly stopped.
“You can keep it,” she said. “I don’t even want it anymore.” And she turned away.
Thierry stopped, too. He dropped the beret onto the ground and then stalked off, into the school building. Marcel was torn. He knew what it was like to be bullied by Thierry. Last year the bigger boy had made his life miserable with his teasing and taunting. Once, Thierry had stuck his foot out to trip Marcel as he passed. Marcel had fallen, books scattering everywhere. Another time Thierry had cornered him in the schoolyard and wouldn’t let him pass. This year, the bully had found other victims and seemed less interested in tormenting Marcel, but Marcel still kept his distance. He hated to see the bigger boy teasing Delphine, but he was afraid to confront him. Anyway, Thierry wasn’t interested in bothering Delphine now. It was clear that the game was only fun if she tried to get her beret back. When she lost interest, so did he.
He watched as Delphine went over to retrieve the beret, which she did not put on but stuffed in her pocket. Recess was just about over anyway and they would all go back inside. When the bell rang, she was the first one in.
Back in the classroom, Mademoiselle Babineaux had just told them to take out their geometry books, when Mademoiselle Vernet, who worked in the school director’s office, came into the classroom carrying a note. Mademoiselle Vernet stood waiting while Mademoiselle Babineaux read it. Then the teacher stood up. “I must go and speak to the director right now,” she said. Her gaze moved over the rows of pupils. “Marcel,” she said. “Please come up front and sit at my desk. I’m putting you in charge.” Then she turned to the class. “Open your books to page thirty-six, and do all the problems on that page. I’ll expect to see them done by the time I get back.”
Carrying his geometry book, Marcel walked up to the front of the room. It felt strange to sit at Mademoiselle Babineaux’s desk and to see the classroom from this unfamiliar vantage point. “Be good,” Mademoiselle Babineaux said. “If you’re not, I’ll be sure to hear all about it.” She nodded to Marcel and then she and Mademoiselle Vernet left the classroom.
At first, everyone did as their teacher said and started working on the problems. Marcel did the same. Most of them were pretty simple but down near the bottom of the page, the problems were more difficult and he had to work harder to figure them out.
He looked up and noticed that Thierry was not in his seat. Where had he gone? Marcel looked around anxiously. Then Thierry emerged from the coatroom. A nasty smile was painted on his face. “Look what I have!” Thierry crowed. He was waving something above his head—a satchel. Marcel had a sick feeling he knew whose it was.
“That’s mine!” Delphine cried, standing up at her desk. “Give it back!”
Thierry just laughed his cruel, barking laugh and held the satchel high above his head where Delphine could not reach it. She got out of her seat and ran over to him. Vainly, she tried to retrieve her satchel. But she was too short.
The other kids remained in their seats, looking uncomfortable. No one joined in, but no one tried to stop Thierry, either.
Marcel didn’t know what to do. Where was Mademoiselle Babineaux? Why was she taking so long? She had left him in charge, though. He had to do something.
“That’s enough!” Marcel said sternly. He didn’t know where he found the courage to say this, but once he got started, it was easier to keep going. “Put that down!”
“Like you’re going to make me?” Thierry sneered. In horror, Marcel watched as Thierry dumped the contents of the satchel all over the floor. Delphine dropped to her knees and scrambled to gather books, a flowered handkerchief, pencils, a wooden ruler. He saw her hand reach out for a slim blue pen but Thierry’s big foot got there first. There was an ugly crunch as he ground it under his heel.
“You’ll get in trouble,” Marcel continued. “Big trouble.”
“He’s right,” Guillaume piped up. “Give it back.”
“I’ll give it back when I’m good and ready!”
Delphine was still awkwardly collecting her belongings and Marcel went over to help. Thierry was digging through the satchel though it appeared to be empty. Then he said, “Hey, what’s this? A secret compartment? What are you hiding in here, anyway?” Thierry reached into the pocket and pulled something out. It was small and ivory colored. A card of some kind. No—a photograph. And there appeared to be some writing on the back.
“Give. Me. That,” hissed Delphine.
Marcel was close enough to see Delphine go white with fear. The look on her face was so awful that it goaded him to try to grab the photograph from Thierry’s big, meaty hands. But it was too late. Thierry had dropped the satchel and was studying the photograph. “That’s you,” he said accusingly to Delphine. She said nothing. “That’s you with a boy. Is he your brother? And what’s that building behind you? There’s a six-pointed star on top. And the boy—he’s wearing one of those stupid skullcaps!” He flipped the photo over, so Marcel could see the image of Delphine, younger but still recognizable, and her brother, standing side by side. “Rachel and Roger Neumann, Paris, 1939,” Thierry read. Then he raised his head in wonder. “You’re a Jew,” he said. And then repeated it more loudly. “A dirty, stinking Jew!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re crazy!” she said. Marcel looked at her with awe. There she was, caught and exposed—but she didn’t cower or give up. She threw herself at him and succeeded in snatching the picture from his pudgy fingers.
“That’s right,” Marcel said. “Crazy! I’m telling Mademoiselle Babineaux. She’ll be so mad.” His mind darted back to the picture—Roger must be her older brother, the one who was in boarding school in England.
“Not when she hears what I just found out.”
“You found out nothing,” Marcel bluffed. “A big, fat nothing. It was just a picture. A picture you haven’t even got anymore. Who’s to say you’re not making it all up?”
“Because I have names,” Thierry said. “And names are even better than pictures.”
The other kids stood silently watching as this drama played out in front of them. Just then, Mademoiselle Babineaux walked back into the classroom. She looked very displeased. “Marcel, I left you in charge. So why are you three out of your seats?” she scolded. “Everyone return to your desks immediately.”
Dirty Jew, mouthed Thierry silently before heading for his desk.
“Mademoiselle Babineaux?” said Delphine hesitantly. The photograph was nowhere in evidence. She must have shoved the crumpled remains into her satchel. “I’m feelin
g sick. Very, very sick.”
“Je suis desolée,” said Mademoiselle Babineaux. I am sorry. “Do you need to go home?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” said Delphine. “That’s exactly what I need to do. Right now. May I please be excused?”
Mademoiselle Babineaux touched her hand to Delphine’s forehead. “Why, you’re burning up,” she said. “You must have a fever. Yes, you are excused. You may get your things and go right now.”
“I have my satchel,” said Delphine. “I just need my coat.”
“I’ll get it,” Marcel volunteered. He did not want her to have to walk past Thierry’s desk. “Stay here.”
“Thank you, Marcel,” said Mademoiselle Babineaux. “That’s very considerate of you to offer.”
Marcel did not look in Thierry’s direction as he hurried to the coatroom and got Delphine’s gray coat. Back in the corridor, he handed it to her.
“You get some rest,” said the teacher. “À demain.” See you tomorrow.
But Marcel knew that Delphine would not be in school the next day. And when he saw Thierry mouthing the words dirty Jew in his direction, he also knew that if she wanted to stay safe, she would never return to school again.
Marcel was so shaken up by what had happened that he almost forgot about his mother’s disappearance. And he couldn’t even go home right away to find out if she had returned, because Mademoiselle Babineaux had asked him to stay after school to clean up the classroom. The janitor had been inducted into the army and there was no one left to do the job but students. So for a good thirty minutes, Marcel was busy emptying the trash, pounding the erasers until they emitted big clouds of chalk that filled the air, washing the blackboard, and sweeping the wooden floor. It seemed the work would never end. Each time he finished one task, she gave him another. Finally, though, he seemed to have finished.
“Merci, Marcel,” she said. “You did a good job today. Thank you.”
Marcel smiled. Mostly he liked Mademoiselle Babineaux. And now, if she’d only let him go home, he’d like her even better!
The Bicycle Spy Page 5