It was after five o’ clock when he locked up his bicycle in front of the bakery. He found his father in the kitchen, awkwardly trying to prepare the evening meal. This was a bad sign—it meant Maman had not come back yet. Marcel set down his satchel and then went to the sink to wash his hands so that he could pitch in, too.
“Do you think she’s all right?” he asked as they worked. He wanted to tell his father about Delphine but this did not seem like the time.
“I hope so.” His father didn’t meet his eyes.
“She didn’t leave a note or anything?”
“No note,” said Papa. “Not a word.”
Dinner was soon ready and they sat down to eat. The chicken, a tough old bird to start with, was dried out and the scant bit of rice was dry, too. But Marcel didn’t care because he was hungry enough to eat anything. So was Papa. Then his father put his empty plate aside and laced his fingers tightly together. “She’s got to be home soon,” he said, more to himself than to Marcel. “She’s just got to.”
Marcel did the washing up as Papa wiped down the table. At around seven o’clock, Marcel saw his father take his jacket and cap from the hook near the door. “Where are you going?” he asked. He suddenly did not want to be alone in the apartment.
“I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I’m going out again. I’ve got to find her, or at least keep trying.”
Marcel was just about to say please let me come with you when he heard light footsteps coming up the stairs. Then the door opened—Maman!
Marcel and his father rushed over to her. “We were so worried about you,” Papa murmured. “We didn’t know where you were or what happened.”
“I knew you would be and I’m so sorry. But it all happened very quickly. I had to drop everything and there was no time to write a note and no way to tell you where I was, or what I was doing.” She took off her coat and ran her fingers through her hair. Marcel had never seen her looking so pale and worn-out.
Papa led her to the table, where he fixed her a plate of food. Even though it wasn’t very good, she wolfed it down, too. She must have been very hungry. “The police picked up Pascale Garnier this morning. She was brought in for questioning and they wouldn’t let her leave for hours. Her husband was away. No one could reach him. There was no one to watch her children, so I had to go over to her house and stay with them. The baby cried all day.” She sighed. “I couldn’t send you a message, though. It was too dangerous.”
Marcel knew Madame Garnier. She and her husband and their three little girls lived several streets away in a small stone house with a garden in front. Out back, they kept a donkey and a spotted sow. Madame Garnier was always pleasant enough when she came into the bakery to buy her breads and rolls, but she was not a close friend of the family’s. So why had his mother felt the need to do this, especially when it seemed so dangerous?
As if he had read Marcel’s thoughts, Papa said, “Pascale is one of us.” Marcel saw the look of fear painted on his mother’s face. Then Papa added, “He knows, Simone. He told me he found one of the notes baked into the bread and he figured it out.”
“You must never, ever tell—” Maman pushed her plate aside and stood up. She seemed very agitated.
“He understands all that,” said Papa. “He says he wants to help.”
Maman sat down again. “That’s good,” she said, more quietly now. “Very good. Because if we are going to stop these devils from taking over completely and destroying not just our country but the whole world, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
“What happened to Pascale?” Papa asked.
“There was nothing they could prove so they finally let her go. But they wanted the names of all her friends, people she associated with. They told her they were putting her on a ‘to be watched’ list. I waited to leave until her husband got back. She was very shaken, let me tell you.”
“So are you,” Papa said.
Mama buried her face in her hands. Then she lifted it up again. “But I’m all right. All of us are. And we have to be as brave and focused as we’ve ever been in our lives.”
Marcel sat down across from his mother. Yes, he was shaken. Frightened, too. Who wouldn’t be? But his mother’s courage was contagious. He felt it washing over him. Now was the time to tell his parents about Delphine’s family. It was worth the risk. After what had happened at school today, he could see that they had to escape—and it needed to be as soon as possible.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” he began. Quickly, he filled his parents in on the situation: the visit from the Gestapo, the revelation that Delphine and her family were Jewish, the awful way she had been exposed by Thierry today. He was breaking his promise, but he had to. He had to! Delphine needed help and this was the only way he could give it to her.
“I thought they might be Jews,” said his mother. “The fact that they moved here so suddenly, in the middle of the school year. And no one has seen very much of them. They keep to themselves.”
Marcel remembered how Delphine had not been allowed to bring friends home. That must have been why.
“That boy Thierry,” said Papa. “I know his parents. They support Pétain and the whole rotten Vichy government. If he tells them, it’s certain that they’ll inform on your friend.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Marcel asked. “Anything at all? They’re not safe in Aucoin. Not anymore.”
“They’re not safe anywhere in France,” said Papa.
“Delphine said they were thinking about escaping. But where? Switzerland?” Marcel knew that Switzerland was a neutral country and not involved in the war.
“Not Switzerland,” Papa said. “The border is too far from here, and it’s too dangerous for them to head north; the Nazis have taken over Paris. And they can’t go anywhere in the Mediterranean by boat, either. Too many guards looking for Jewish refugees.”
“So then what would they do?” asked Marcel.
“Cross the Pyrenees, and into Spain,” he said. “Though that has its own risks. The mountain terrain is very rugged. And it’s December—there’ll be snow on the ground. Border police will be patrolling all the time. Soldiers, too. They have dogs. But I know it’s possible because it’s been done. Our people have been able to arrange it.”
“How long would that take?” asked Marcel.
“It depends on the weather,” said Papa. “It could be a night’s journey. Maybe two.”
“You have access to this girl,” Maman said. “Go to her house—right now. Don’t let anyone see you. Tell the family that they have to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. They can’t take much with them, though. And they can’t let it be known that they are fleeing.”
Papa nodded, and added, “We’ll have to speak to some people and make some inquiries. We’ll put a plan into action, but we need a few hours. You had better hurry.”
Marcel looked at the grave, worried faces of his parents. They were clearly worn-out, but determined, too. He didn’t exactly want to go. The image of the Gestapo officers was fresh in his mind and he was scared. But how could he let them down? Or Delphine? “I’ll ride my bike over there,” Marcel said. “I can leave right now.”
In a furious rush, Marcel pedaled down the cold, dark streets. He wore all black, the better to blend in with the night. He saw no one, and he prayed that no one had spotted him and wondered where he was going and why. It wasn’t just gendarmes or soldiers he had to worry about. Like Thierry’s parents, plenty of people in town supported the new regime headed by Pétain. Informers were everywhere.
He’d never actually been to Delphine’s house before but she had told him where it was and what it looked like, so he was able to find it without much trouble. It was a small, slightly run-down structure, and when he saw it, he remembered it had belonged to an old man who had lived there for a very long time. After the man died a couple of years ago, no one else moved in. People said the man had a son in Lille but that he never came here. The
house had sat empty until Delphine’s family moved there.
Marcel stashed his bicycle by the gate and approached the house swiftly. He saw a light in what seemed to be the kitchen, and through the window, he could see a dark-haired woman moving around. That had to be Delphine’s mother. He’d never met her or any of the other members of her family before. Well, it was time to meet them now. He knocked softly on the door.
“Who is it?” A voice called. It sounded suspicious.
“Marcel. I’m a friend of Delphine’s.”
“Wait here,” said the voice. A couple of moments later, the door opened. There stood Delphine, with the dark-haired woman right behind her.
“It’s all right, Maman,” said Delphine. “Marcel’s my friend. He won’t hurt us.” She let Marcel inside.
“How do you know?” blazed her mother. “He could be an informer; the town is crawling with spies—”
“I’m not an informer,” said Marcel. “My parents—they’re in the Resistance. They sent me to help you.” He straightened up, trying to stand as tall he could.
“You see?” Delphine said. “I told you!”
“I’m sorry,” said Delphine’s mother. “I’m just so on edge. After what happened at school today, I’ve been in a panic.”
“That stupid photograph!” cried Delphine. “I didn’t even know it was in the bag. I put it there so long ago that I’d forgotten all about it. And now it’s my fault we’ve been exposed. Everything is all my fault!” She began to cry.
“Don’t say that, ma chère,” said her mother, putting an arm around her. “You couldn’t have known. None of us could. We can’t think about what’s already happened. We have to think about the future. Your friend Marcel—he was brave to come here. Now you have to be brave, too.”
Delphine sniffed and wiped her eyes. “You’re right,” she said to her mother. And then to Marcel, “Do you have a message for us? Is there a plan?”
“My parents are working on it right now. They said to tell you to be ready to leave at any time, but not to make it look like you are fleeing. I’ll be back as soon as I have something to tell you.”
Delphine listened attentively, nodding as he spoke. Then she asked, “Why is your family doing all this?”
“Because we have to,” he said. “It’s the right thing to do. We can’t just give in to … them. We can’t.”
“We’re grateful they feel that way,” said a deep voice. Marcel turned to see a man with a short, dark beard enter the room. Delphine’s father. “Not everyone does. There are plenty of French people who are supporting the Germans. They’re only too happy to turn us in. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“My father said something about going over the mountains, into Spain,” said Marcel.
“But it’s so dangerous!” said Delphine’s mother.
Marcel said nothing. She was right. He had studied those mountains, the Pyrenees, in geography. Like Papa had said, the terrain was steep and rocky. There would be snow, ice, and freezing winds. Wild animals lived in the forest. And, of course, there would be soldiers combing the paths. They might have fierce, sharp-nosed dogs along with them.
Marcel wished he could say something that would sound encouraging. But all he could think of was “I’ll be back. You can count on me.”
The next morning, Marcel woke with the light. Last night before bed, Papa had told him about the message he needed to bring to the Resistance member in the neighboring town.
Still rubbing his eyes, he went into the kitchen. He could smell the bread his mother had baked: a round peasant loaf and the pain d’épice the soldier liked so much. He knew it was hard getting supplies to bake anything these days, and shelves of the bakery were often empty or nearly so.
Marcel ate breakfast while she wrapped up the baked goods. She put the loaf in a white cloth and the pain d’épice in a checked cloth. “Remember, if they ask, give the soldiers the pain d’épice,” she said. “Maybe they won’t even bother with you today.”
It was the day honoring Saint François-Xavier. He was born in Navarre, in Spain, but was well-known and loved in the entire region. The holiday was widely celebrated and school would be closed. Everyone would be in church and not focused on Marcel or where he happened to be going on his bike.
“Don’t worry,” he told his mother. “I’ll remember.” Both she and his father stepped outside to watch him as he pedaled off down the road.
It had rained the night before and there was still a fine mist hovering over everything as Marcel rode down the cobblestone street, heading out of town. There was a slight nip in the air, too. He wished he’d remembered to wear gloves. But he just pedaled harder, relying on his own body to create warmth and power. That was what the riders in the Tour de France would have done. Every victory they achieved came from their own personal sense of determination.
Once Marcel had reached the outskirts of town, he turned left, away from the direction of the bridge. This was a different route, not one he usually took. But this was the direction his father had outlined in his instructions. The road here was very bumpy. It was also slippery from the rain, and from all the wet leaves that were plastered everywhere.
As he rounded a curve, the bike went over an especially big bump and the loaf of bread flew out of the basket, flipped over, and landed right smack in the center of a shallow puddle. Zut! Marcel jumped off the bicycle and hurried over to inspect the damage. The muddy water had seeped through the white cloth and into the bread. He peeled away the cloth and blotted the loaf against his pants. Then he remounted and continued on his way. As he rode, he looked down at the contents of his basket. The bread still looked all right. Thank goodness. Besides, he had the pain d’épice if he needed something to offer.
Soon he found himself on the main road into town. The central square was filled with people coming from church. Many of them were on bicycles as well.
But the square was filled with something else, too, something terrifying. Rolling right up the main street was an armored truck! The soldiers driving it were clearly German. What were they doing here? Looking for Jews to … deport?
Marcel wanted to get out of there as quickly as he could, but a French gendarme stationed under an equestrian statue of General Napoleon caught sight of him and gestured for him to come over.
Marcel was nervous as he obeyed the gendarme’s command. “What do you have there?” the gendarme asked.
“Bread, sir.” He hoped he didn’t sound too scared.
“And where are you taking it?”
Marcel was silent. He did not want to say where he was going. He might put the Resistance member in danger if he did. But before he could answer, another gendarme came by and they began arguing—it seemed to be about whose turn it was to do something. The question about where Marcel was going was apparently forgotten—at least for now. Marcel was just about to ask if he could leave when one of the gendarmes looked into his basket.
“Smells good,” he commented. “I want a piece.”
Marcel’s mouth went bone-dry with terror. The gendarme was pointing at the loaf of bread that contained the note!
“No, you idiot, forget the bread. We can get bread anywhere. Look what else he’s got—I can smell it.” The second gendarme was opening the checked cloth to reveal the pain d’épice.
“Take it,” Marcel urged, praying they would forget about the other loaf. “My mother made it and it’s really good. Everyone says so. She’s known for her pain d’épice. Famous, even. ” He was babbling now, his nervousness causing him to talk, talk, talk.
“Merci,” said the gendarme as he tucked the bundle under his arm. “Maybe we should take both?” he asked his comrade.
Marcel went stiff as a plank with panic. These men were cooperating with the Germans. If the gendarme took the loaf, he’d find the note! Then what? His imagination painted horrible pictures: his parents dragged from their home, interrogated, maybe even tortured. Or killed.
“Nah, let’s leave som
ething for the kid, right?” He leaned over to give Marcel a gentle punch on the arm. “Go on home now. And say thanks to your famous mom.”
Dumbly, Marcel nodded. As he sped off, the wheels of the bike seemed to be chanting this refrain: almost caught, almost caught, almost caught. But he didn’t get caught, he reminded himself. He was still free, still all right, and the note was still in the loaf of bread. Now it was up to him to deliver it.
After he’d been told to go home, Marcel didn’t want the gendarmes to see him still pedaling around, so he rode back the way he’d come in, and then circled all around the edges of town for almost an hour, trying to find another way to get in. Now he was behind schedule, but there was nothing he could do. Finally, he discovered a small hidden path near a cemetery. The moss-covered headstones dotting the grass looked ancient. Many were crumbling, cracked, or tilted. He slowed to read a few of the dates: 1851, 1807, 1899. If he’d had more time, he would have gone in to explore. It was spooky in there, and looked interesting. But he didn’t dare stop. Not now.
After following the narrow path into the town, he kept riding around until he found the right street. And there, on the corner, was the clock and watch repair shop his father had described to him. A big pocket watch was painted on the sign out front, just as he’d said. The shop was closed but Marcel used special code: three fast knocks, a pause, and two slow knocks. His father said this was necessary because the person in the shop did not know him personally.
There was a long silence during which he had to wonder if he was in the right place after all. Then finally someone came to the door and opened it a crack. When the man behind the door saw Marcel standing there, he opened it wider and, without a word, gestured for Marcel to come inside and to bring his bicycle.
The man was tall and slightly stooped, with silver hair and silver-rimmed glasses. Marcel’s father had described him perfectly. What he had not mentioned was that the man’s ankle was heavily bandaged, and he was using a cane. Marcel offered the man the remaining loaf of bread. “Bonjour, monsieur,” he said, just as his father had instructed. “I have a small gift for you. It’s very tasty French bread and I think you will enjoy it very much.”
The Bicycle Spy Page 6