The Bicycle Spy

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  The man took the bread. He understood the message, and its emphasis on the word French. He, like Marcel’s parents, was opposed to the German Occupation. “Merci beaucoup,” he said. “Will you excuse me for a minute?” He disappeared through a door behind the counter, leaving Marcel to wait in the shop. Marcel knew he would read the message and then destroy it.

  While waiting, Marcel looked around the shop. There were clocks and watches of every description: clocks that sat on mantels, clocks that hung on walls. There was a cuckoo clock and a grandfather clock. And the glass cases were filled with watches. He leaned over to see them better. He’d love to have a stopwatch, so he could time himself on the bike. Maybe one day …

  The man returned. He was frowning. “We have a problem,” he said. “There was an accident on the mountain road last night. A big truck carrying crates of chickens overturned. Another driver was speeding and didn’t see the downed truck in the dark. He hit it, and the truck went up in flames. The fire spread before the fire truck got there, and it took them several hours to put it out. Now the whole area is a mess: The road is waterlogged, and there are branches all over the place. There’s even a downed tree. And let’s not forget the chickens that they’re still trying to round up. It won’t be safe for the family to go until everything’s back to normal.”

  “But they have to get out of town immediately. They can’t stay where they are—someone at school exposed the girl.”

  “Hmm,” said the man. “If that’s true, then someone at the school will have already contacted the gendarmes.”

  “Maybe not. It is a holiday,” Marcel pointed out.

  “You could be right.” The man looked hard at Marcel, as if sizing him up. “This family—you say they need a place to stay. Maybe I can arrange that. Maybe. But I’d have to get a message to another one of our people. Ordinarily, I’d go myself but I can’t,” he said, and gestured toward his wounded ankle. “Can you do it instead?”

  Marcel hesitated. He was already running late. His parents, especially his mother, would be worried about him being gone so long. But who could have predicted that the truck would have overturned? Or that the silver-haired man wouldn’t be able to deliver a message himself? “I’ll do it,” he said. “Just tell me where to go.”

  “All right,” said the man. “But I don’t want to give you a note. It’s too dangerous. You’ll have to memorize what I’m going to tell you. And then you’ll have to memorize whatever information the contact gives you.”

  “I memorized the information that got me here,” said Marcel. “I can memorize this, too.”

  “Head to Port-Vendres. When you get to the center of town, face the big church with the stained glass window. Take a right turn at that corner. Go three more streets, and then take a left. Continue on that street until you come to a stone house with black shutters and white lace curtains.”

  Marcel nodded. “I’ll remember,” he said. “But that takes me farther from home, so I’ll get back much later than I thought. My parents will be worried.”

  “I’d offer to telephone your parents, but you know that’s not safe.”

  Marcel knew why—the few telephones in town were party lines, which meant that they were hardly private. Resistance members would not dare to communicate that way.

  Since there was no way to reach his parents, Marcel got back on his bicycle, heading toward the coastal town of Port-Vendres, about ten kilometers away. He rode swiftly, intent on reaching his destination as soon as he could. He’d have a long way back, and the days were so short now. He’d probably have to ride home in the dark.

  He’d never been this far from home before, and he tried to keep an eye out for landmarks, just in case he needed them on the return trip. There was a stone church with a bell tower. There was a pasture with a low fence. Behind it, a white horse grazed peacefully. He’d just come to the center of a small village when the bike must have gone over something sharp, because suddenly he was wobbling this way and that, the bike weaving out of control. He stopped and jumped off to inspect. No! His back tire was flat! It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. No, no, no!

  Marcel looked wildly around. It was a holiday. Even if the town had a bike shop, which he highly doubted, it would be closed. What was he going to do? His fear quickly mounted to full-blown panic. He had to get the message through. He had to.

  He began to walk the bike through the town square. It was pretty quiet now. Church services were over and everyone was back at home having lunch or a nap. Then he spied a boy pedaling toward him. The boy looked like he was around ten or eleven, and he rode a black, very battered-looking bike.

  The boy stopped when he was face-to-face with Marcel. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Did you get a flat?”

  “Yeah,” said Marcel. “I did. I don’t suppose you have a spare tire I could use?”

  The boy shook his head. “Sorry. Anything we had we gave to the soldiers. If we didn’t they would have taken it anyway.” He made a disgusted face.

  “I know what you mean,” Marcel said, an idea beginning to form in his mind. “What about switching bikes with me?” he asked.

  “Switch bikes with you? Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because I’m going to my aunt’s house in Port-Vendres,” said Marcel, inventing a story on the spot. “I have a really important message for her. It’s urgent, in fact. My cousin is really sick.”

  “I don’t know … ,” said the boy.

  Marcel could tell he was wavering. “I have to get this message to her. My cousin—she might even die.”

  That got the boy’s attention. Clearly, he believed Marcel’s story, so Marcel was encouraged to go on. “Please help me out,” he wheedled. And then he added, “Look, my bike is in much better shape than yours. No dents, and hardly any scratches or nicks. And it has a basket.”

  “A basket would be handy,” said the boy.

  “Sure it would!” He patted the basket. “Look how big it is.”

  “I could put a lot of stuff in there … ” The boy seemed to be thinking out loud.

  “You’d be getting a really good deal,” coaxed Marcel. “A great deal, in fact.”

  “All right,” said the boy firmly. “I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you!” cried Marcel. He had to stop himself from pushing the boy away from the bike—that was how eager he was to get going again.

  “Good luck,” said the boy. “I hope everything works out with your cousin. Do you really think she’s going to die?”

  But Marcel was already on his way. He couldn’t afford to slow down his trip for even the few seconds it would take to turn around and answer the question. Or wave farewell.

  Marcel was already worn-out from the morning’s events, and the ride to Port-Vendres was punishing. He was exhausted, and very, very cold. But then he thought of the riders in the Tour de France. Surely they got tired, hungry, and cold, too. They had to ride in all kinds of weather—extreme heat and freezing cold. Rain, snow, and hail.

  And surely they must have lost faith sometimes, doubting their own ability to win or even finish. But did they give up? No, they did not. They kept on pedaling. Marcel admired those riders more than he admired anyone in the whole world. And for that reason, he made them both his model and his inspiration. They did not give up, and neither would he. This was his own Tour de France, one of the most difficult stages. No matter how bad it got, he would not stop riding. He would keep on going until he reached the finish line—his destination—and delivered his message.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time he reached Port-Vendres. The wind in this coastal town was even sharper. The town was also bigger than he expected, and even with the instructions of the silver-haired man, it took him a while to find the stone house with the black shutters and the white lace curtains.

  When he used the special knock on the door, it was answered by a short, plump woman with brown curls escaping from her bun. Her skin was very brown, too, and there were tiny wrinkles at the cor
ners of her eyes. “I’m here about the clock,” he began, wanting to be sure he said exactly the right thing. “It’s not working and won’t be fixed for at least another day.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

  “I’m here to make sure the clock gets fixed as soon as possible. There are people depending on it.” This is what the man in the clock repair shop had instructed him to say.

  “I see,” she said, looking him over. “And the clock, where is it from?”

  “Oh, it’s a French clock, madame,” he said.

  The woman looked at him steadily. “Then it must be a good clock. When it’s ready, can you bring it to another house in town? I’ll let you know exactly where.”

  “Sure,” said Marcel. “Is it far from here?”

  “No,” said the woman. “It’s in Saint-Girons, the next town over. My husband will be there to receive the delivery. The clock can stay there until it’s time to bring it home.”

  Marcel breathed a small sigh of relief. He’d gotten the message right. The woman had understood his coded words and given him a coded message of her own in reply. Her husband would greet Delphine’s family when they got to the house, where they would spend the night. Then they would continue on their way to Spain through the mountain pass as soon as the chickens had been captured and the truck was gone.

  “What’s the name of the street?” he asked.

  “Rue des Bois,” she said.

  “Rue des Bois,” repeated Marcel, committing the name to memory. Then he asked, “What does the house look like?”

  “It’s stone, like this one. And the door is painted dark red. There’s a barn out back, and to the left of the house, a vegetable garden. Can you remember all that?”

  “Dark red door. Barn. Vegetable garden. I’ll remember. Tell your husband thank you. The clock is very valuable. It’s important to handle it carefully.”

  “He will,” said the woman. “He’s never broken a clock yet. Or lost one.”

  “I’m really glad to hear that,” Marcel said. He was about to get going again when she put a hand on his arm. “You look cold. Can I give you a sweater for the ride home? And some gloves?”

  “A sweater and gloves would be great,” he said. He waited by the door while she went inside. A few minutes later she returned with a nubby, hand-knit sweater, hand-knit gloves, and a slice of a baguette and a thick wedge of cheese wrapped in a cloth.

  “Thank you for all the information about the clock delivery,” she said. “I appreciate it.” Then she added, “Have a safe trip home.”

  “Merci,” he said as he slipped on the sweater and the gloves. He no longer had a basket, so he tied the bundle of food tightly to the handlebars. His stomach rumbled loudly. But his fear—of being stopped by soldiers, of failing Delphine and her family—was even greater than his hunger. He had to get on the road again to deliver his new information as soon as possible.

  Marcel rode back toward Aucoin like a demon, as fast and hard as he could. His legs burned with the exertion. But he knew from all his reading that the way a cyclist handled that burn was the key to his becoming a better rider. Marcel was determined to work through it, like a real Tour de France cyclist. He wouldn’t let it stop him.

  Dark came quickly, along with a cold and stinging rain. The bike he had traded for was not as good as his old bike, so he had trouble maneuvering over some of the rougher patches. Still, Tour de France riders didn’t stop for rain, and neither did he. He kept going, not even stopping to eat the cheese and bread he’d been given.

  It was a good thing he’d thought to watch out for landmarks on the way there, because without the sunlight, things were harder to remember. But look, there was the pasture, though the horse was no longer outside, grazing. He must be safe in his stall for the night. Lucky horse! Then he saw the church he had passed on his way. That meant he was headed in the right direction. He decided to stop in the church for a few minutes—just long enough to eat the bread and cheese. But when he pushed open the church door, wheeled in the bike, and sat down in an empty pew, he realized the little package was not there—it must have fallen off along the way.

  Discouraged, Marcel left the church. The rain had stopped, but he was still wet and cold. Well, the Tour de France riders probably got wet and cold, too. He got back on his bike and began to ride again, pushing himself hard, and then harder still. In his head, he could see the crowd and hear their cheers as he passed. The fatigue he felt was the fatigue of the long-distance rider, and like that rider, he would keep on going.

  After what seemed like hours, Marcel found himself on the road that led back to Aucoin. It had a slight incline, but he was so tired that it felt like a mountain. But he pushed on. Almost there, almost there …

  Then, just as he was about to turn onto the familiar cobblestone street that led to the bakery and his home, the bike hit something—and it was something big! The dark made it impossible to see what it was. All he knew was that he was pitched forward off the bike, and headfirst onto the hard, unforgiving ground. Ow! His glasses came off when he fell, and he had to crawl and feel around for a few frantic moments until he found them and put them back on. The frames were a bit bent, but at least he could see again. What a relief.

  Slowly, Marcel pulled himself up. His knees were skinned and his hands were bloody. And he hurt all over, including his head, which he’d also hit when he fell. His legs felt too weak to ride, so he started walking his bike instead.

  As he approached the bakery, he looked up to the window above the shop. The lights were on—there were his parents, huddled together. They must have been looking out for him, anxiously awaiting his return. He’d never been so glad to see them in his life. He was still shaken from the accident, but quietly triumphant, too. Like one of his cyclist heroes, he had made it to the finish.

  When his parents spotted him, they turned and rushed from the window. They were downstairs and in the street in a matter of seconds.

  “What happened?” cried his father. “You were gone so long!” Then he looked at the wreck of a bicycle Marcel had wheeled home. After the fall, the traded bicycle was in even worse shape than it had been when he’d gotten it. “And what’s this? Where is your bicycle?” his father asked.

  “Never mind about the bicycle now!” said his mother. “Can’t you see he’s been hurt?” She threw her arms around him. He welcomed the hug, but oh, how he ached.

  They helped him up the stairs to their apartment, where it was safe and warm. But he was still shivering, and though he took off the gloves, he kept the sweater on. “Can I have something to eat?” Marcel asked. He thought of his bread and cheese, lying somewhere on the road from Port-Vendres. “Something hot? I’ll tell you everything, but I’m so hungry!”

  “Of course!” His mother hurried to prepare him a plate of food, while his father brought warm water and soap to clean his wounds and gauze to bandage them. Then his mother put down the plate in front of him. But as hungry as he’d been, he was able to eat only a few mouthfuls. He was feeling too dazed and sick to manage any more than that.

  “It’s all right,” said Maman, removing the food. “Maybe just some hot milk. I’ll heat it up now.”

  “Can you tell us what happened?” asked Papa.

  “I’ll try,” said Marcel. For suddenly it seemed like this day was so much longer than the actual hours that made it up, and that the distance he’d traveled was so very, very far. He felt like he’d been gone for days. Or even a week.

  “It was really slippery and wet on the road,” he began. “The loaf of bread bounced out of the basket and into a mud puddle. But luckily it only got a little soggy. And then I got stopped by some soldiers, and they almost took it.”

  “But they didn’t?” Papa’s face was pinched with fear.

  Marcel nodded. “In the end, they let me keep it and only took the pain d’épice.”

  “It’s worked every time. I knew
it would work again.” Maman came to the table with a small bowl of steamed milk. She’d added just a little bit of sugar from their increasingly precious supply. “No one can resist my pain d’épice.”

  Marcel sipped the milk. It felt good going down. “They told me to go home. I didn’t want them to see me again so I took the long way around the town. Then I found the clock shop and the man you told me about. I gave him the bread and he took it away to read the note. But when he came back he said there had been an accident on the mountain road.”

  “What kind of accident?” asked Maman. She was sitting next to him at the table. Papa was on his other side. They were drinking in every word.

  “A truck hit another truck and started a fire. There’s water all over the place, along with dead branches and a downed tree. And there was something about some escaped chickens, too.”

  “It will take a little time to clear all that up,” said Maman.

  “Yes. And so the road was going to be very busy. The man said Delphine and her family would need to wait before trying to cross the border. But he’d hurt his ankle, so he couldn’t ride to give the message to the people with the safe house. He asked me to do it.”

  “You!” exclaimed Papa. “Where did you have to go?”

  “Port-Vendres,” said Marcel.

  “That’s so far,” his father said. “But you did it. You did it!”

  “Yes!” Marcel smiled. “I went to see a woman the clockmaker told me about. He gave me a message for her, and she told me about the house where Delphine’s family could spend the night.”

  “And where is that?” Papa asked eagerly. “We want to let them know the plan as soon as possible.”

  “It’s in Saint-Girons.”

  “Saint-Girons makes sense,” said his father. “It’s not too far from the border. What about the house?”

  Marcel thought hard, trying to remember all the details. “The house—it’s made of stone. And the door is … ” But what was the color of the door? Black? Dark blue? Green? He suddenly couldn’t recall.