“Can you think of it?” his father asked gently.
“I’m not sure,” he said. There had been so many things to remember today: houses, people, highly important messages. There had been a church, and a pasture with a white horse. Or did he imagine that?
“It will come to you,” Maman said. “Do you remember anything else? The name of the street?”
“The name of the street is … ” Marcel was stumped. He knew this, he did. He even remembered repeating it, to be sure he would not forget. And yet, the actual name of the street stubbornly refused to take shape in his mind. “I don’t know,” he said miserably. “I just can’t think of what it is!”
He caught a glimpse of the look that passed back and forth between his parents. This was bad. Very bad. He knew it and they knew it, too. But they tried, for his sake, to be encouraging and not show how worried they were.
“Get some rest,” his mother said. “If you sleep for a little while, your mind will be clearer.”
“What if it’s not?” he said. “Delphine and her family will be captured and deported if I can’t remember!”
“Don’t think that way.” His mother tried to lead him from the table to his room. But he refused to let her.
“I can’t sleep now,” he said. “Not until I remember the name of the street and what the house looks like. There is something out front and maybe something out back too … ”
“Nothing can happen tonight anyway,” said his father. “It’s so late it will be morning soon. Your mother is right. Go to sleep. Things will be better when you get up. You’ll see.” He nudged Marcel out of his seat and toward his room, and this time Marcel allowed himself to be led. But the worry was as strong as the fatigue. “What if I don’t remember?” Marcel said. “Then what?”
His parents had no good answer for this. Of course not, he thought grimly. There is none. He trudged into his room, where he undressed and let his clothes drop straight to the floor in a heap. He was so tired he didn’t even care that his mother would scold him for leaving them there. Then he climbed into bed. He did not expect to sleep—he did not even want to sleep. But sleep overtook him anyway, and even in his dreams, his mind was busy trying to piece together the elements of the day.
He dreamed of a truck overturned in the road, its wheels spinning and spinning. The wheels turned into clocks. The clocks turned into chickens with flapping wings … then there was a horse, a cow, and a pig. A hunk of cheese, a loaf of bread … He bolted up in bed, at once cold and hot. His teeth chattered but his face felt like it was on fire. Why couldn’t he remember? Why?
Marcel got up, went to the window, and opened the shutters. The night sky was clear and soft, like black velvet. The stars twinkled, bright but distant. Just looking at them calmed him a bit. Then he saw the pitcher of water and the glass his mother had put on his desk. He filled it to the brim and guzzled it down. There. That was better. Then he returned to bed. He would remember the house, the street—everything—when he awoke. Or else if he didn’t, he’d go riding back the entire way to get the message again.
It was not quite dawn when Marcel opened his eyes. He could see the sky’s slow brightening through the window, whose shutters he had not closed last night. He was calmer now. Without telling his parents, he had formed a new plan. He would ride back to Port-Vendres, right now, to the house of the woman who’d given him the message. And he would remember it this time, writing it all down if he had to. Not on a piece of paper, though. That was too dangerous. No, he would bring a pen and write on his skin if he needed to, somewhere under his clothes where no one would ever think to look.
It was true that the bicycle was not in great shape, but he had thought of that, too. He would ride over to Arnaud’s house first. He knew his friend kept his bicycle unlocked in a small shed behind the house. He would borrow his friend’s bike and return it later. Arnaud lived so close to school that he did not ride there, and he would never even know the bicycle was missing.
As Marcel stood there looking out the window, the sky grew brighter. The rain was over and it looked like it was turning into a nice day. Perfect for an early-morning ride. He had just reached for his pants and the still-damp jacket he’d worn home last night when his attention was snagged by the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves outside in the street. There was the milkman in his wagon, delivering the glass bottles of milk along with the small containers of cream and butter all over town. Of course, there was no cream and not much milk these days. And no butter, either. Yet the milkman continued to make his rounds, delivering whatever he could.
Marcel recognized the horse, an old brown mare with a weakness for peppermints and a long, thick tail she swished in rhythm as she walked. And the dark red wagon was familiar, too, its deep color coming to life as the sky grew lighter. Suddenly, it hit him like a bolt. The milk wagon was the exact color of the door in Saint-Girons! The door of the safe house where Delphine and her family were going to spend the night! And as soon as he remembered that, he remembered the name of the street, too: rue des Bois!
Marcel left the damp jacket where it was and pulled on the rest of his rumpled clothes, including the nubby sweater the woman had given him. Then he went to wake his father. Together, they put Marcel’s bicycle into the bakery cart and drove to Delphine’s house. They took the back streets, avoiding the center of town, and when they arrived, Papa waited some distance away while Marcel knocked on the door. “It’s me, Marcel,” he said in a low voice. It was only when Delphine’s mother had opened the door that Marcel motioned for Papa to join them.
“Who is this?” said Delphine’s mother, clearly alarmed.
“It’s my father,” Marcel said.
Papa extended his hand and Delphine’s mother grasped it tightly in both of hers. “Thank you for helping us,” she said. “It feels like a miracle.” Delphine’s father shook his hand as well.
Papa nodded to both of them. “Not all of us have fallen in league with the devil,” he replied. Then he continued. “Can you leave right now? There’s no time to waste.”
Delphine’s mother nodded eagerly.
“We knew this was coming, so we’ve eaten, and we have everything prepared,” said Delphine’s father.
“Warm boots? Warm clothes? Gloves, hats, and scarves?” Marcel’s father asked. “It will be cold in the mountains.”
“We have all that. Also a flashlight, batteries, a compass, and some rope—you never know when it might come in handy.”
“I have dried fruit and some nuts,” added Delphine’s mother. “And we each have a canteen.” She began moving around the room, gathering things as the men continued talking.
“That’s good,” said Marcel’s father. “Now, what about money?”
“I have some,” Delphine’s father said. “And we have some jewelry, too.” He turned to his wife. “Is everything sewn into the coats? The rings, your mother’s pins and her earrings?”
“All done,” she said.
“Then we can go,” said Marcel’s father. “I can’t say who will be helping you along the way—the less any one of us in the chain knows, the better. But I do know there will be help. You may be offered a barn, a wine cellar, or even a cave. It will take us a few hours to get to the safe house. Then you’ll have to go over the mountains to cross the border. It will take a day or two, and it won’t be easy.”
“We know,” said Delphine’s mother. “But we have no choice.”
They all went outside, and as the men were loading backpacks into the bakery wagon, Marcel took Delphine aside.
“I won’t see you again.” He was surprised at how bad this made him feel. “Anyway, I hope you have a safe trip,” he added.
“Thank you,” she said.
There was a pause and then he asked, “Are you afraid?”
“So afraid!” she burst out.
“I understand,” Marcel said. “I’d be afraid, too. But my father says these people have gotten other families out. They’ll get yours out, too. Then
you’ll be in Spain.”
“I don’t speak Spanish,” she said. “Not a single word.”
“You’re smart,” he said. “You’ll learn.”
She gave him a tiny smile. “I hope so.” Then she said, “Keep riding, okay?”
“I will.” He looked around the yard. “Where’s the bike?” He thought longingly of the shiny red bicycle and the gleaming silver bell.
“My father painted it black and then he sold it. He didn’t want anyone to recognize it, in case they remembered seeing me on it.”
“That was a good idea.” But it made him sad. They would probably never race together again. Then he had another thought. “What about your cat?” Marcel remembered the orange cat he’d nearly hit, which was the first time he’d seen Delphine.
“My father is going to set her free,” Delphine said. “He says she’s a good hunter and she’ll be all right.” But since she looked like she was about to cry, she obviously didn’t believe it.
“We’ll take her,” Marcel said impulsively. “We always need cats in the bakery. They keep the mice away.”
“Oh, would you?” she said, clasping her hands together under her chin. “Could you?”
“I’ll ask my father but I am sure he’ll say yes,” he said. And just then, he heard his father’s voice, “Marcel, you’d better be getting on to school. Delphine and her family have to go now.”
Marcel sighed. “Adieu,” he said. Unlike au revoir, which they said all the time, adieu was the word people used when they were saying good-bye forever. It sounded so mournful.
“Adieu,” she echoed before walking over to the bakery wagon.
Marcel watched as the family climbed inside. His father piled the bags of flour and other supplies around them, concealing them as best he could. Then Marcel helped him lay a large piece of oilcloth over everything. Papa climbed onto the wagon and gave the signal to the horse. They were off on their journey. He could only hope and pray they reached their destination safely.
Marcel slowly walked over to retrieve his bicycle. He was surprised to feel the prick of tears. He pulled his glasses off and swiped at his eyes. Then he took a deep breath and looked around briefly for the cat. She was nowhere to be found—he would have to come back for her.
Marcel rode over toward the school on the wobbly bike, which he planned to hide in the alley by the flower shop. But there was Guillaume, swaggering up the street just as Marcel was dismounting.
“Hey, where did you get this old hunk of junk?” Guillaume gave the handlebars a little shake.
“None of your business,” said Marcel darkly. Why did he have to be walking by at just this exact minute? What a rotten piece of luck.
“Well, wherever you got it, you should take it right back. It’s a wreck.”
“Like I don’t know that,” Marcel muttered.
“What happened to your bike?” Guillaume persisted.
“It … got crushed by a van.” Marcel had to think fast.
“Seriously? Were you on it?”
“What are you, a dope or something? If I’d been on it, would I be here talking to you now? No, I’d left it parked and some stupid van backed right into it. The driver said he didn’t even see it. It was squashed flat.”
“Too bad,” Guillaume said.
“Yeah, it was,” agreed Marcel. Then, eager to change the subject, he added, “Did you hear? The school week is going to be cut to four days. To save on electricity and heat and stuff.”
“Tu blagues!” You’re kidding. Guillaume’s eyes opened wide in surprise.
“Not that it’s been decided or anything. Right now, it’s just a rumor.” Yeah, a rumor I just started, thought Marcel. And it worked. Guillaume had completely lost any interest in the subject of Marcel’s old bike or his new one.
Marcel was proud of how he’d come up with that idea. But when he walked into the classroom and saw Delphine’s empty seat, his warm glow of pride vanished in an instant.
At school that morning, Marcel just could not focus. He was exhausted from all the cycling yesterday, kilometer after kilometer, and from the fall he’d taken. And the room was freezing. Coal had been strictly rationed and now the classroom was never warm enough. Some days it was so chilly that Mademoiselle Babineaux let them keep their coats on. Maybe the school would be shut down one day a week, and his little lie to Guillaume would turn out not to be a lie after all.
He thought of Delphine and her family in the bakery wagon. They were on just the first leg of a long and dangerous journey. Would they be able to get through to Port-Vendres or would they be discovered? And if they were, what would happen to Delphine and her family? And to Papa? Jews were not the only ones in danger. The people who helped them were, too.
“Wake up, Marcel,” Mademoiselle Babineaux said when he’d been drifting off. “You need to give us your attention.”
The class tittered and Marcel felt his face go pink. This was going to be a long, long day. The clock hanging at the front of the classroom said nine thirty. That meant even lunch was more than two hours away. Would the time ever go by? The hands on the clock seemed to be glued in place. Maybe it was broken.
Then two Gestapo officers walked into the classroom. Suddenly, Marcel was awake and alert. Did their appearance have anything to do with Delphine’s absence? He dared not look over at Delphine’s empty seat, but it was an effort not to.
The officers walked up to Mademoiselle Babineaux’s desk. One of them leaned over and quietly said something. She stood up. “Class, I am going into the corridor for a few minutes. Paulette, you’re in charge. Everyone will study the spelling words while I’m gone.”
Marcel was so nervous that he couldn’t grasp the words in his notebook. They looked like nonsense, and had no meaning. What were they saying out there? Was it about Delphine?
Mademoiselle Babineaux came back into the room. The officers were not with her, and Marcel felt his stomach unclench—until he heard her next words.
“Delphine is not here today,” she remarked. “Does anyone know where she is?”
Marcel didn’t know what to do. He did not want to reveal that he was friends with Delphine and because of this, might know where she was. On the other hand, he wanted to help her by saying something that would quell any suspicions his teacher might have about her. What was the right thing to say? What should he do?
He raised his hand.
“Yes, Marcel? You know something?”
Why did that question sound so threatening? “Yes, mademoiselle,” he said. “Remember she was sick the other day and had to go home early? She’s still sick. That’s why she’s not here.”
“And how do you know that?” she asked.
Marcel panicked. He had not thought of that and had to scramble to come up with an answer. “Her mother came into the bakery and told my mother,” he said finally.
“That’s not true!” Thierry called out. “She’s a dirty Jew and he’s friends with her. Maybe he’s even hiding her at his house!”
“Thierry!” said Mademoiselle Babineaux. “You’re not to call out without raising your hand. Be quiet until I’ve given you permission to speak.” Then she turned to Marcel. “Come with me into the hall for a moment?” She looked at Paulette. “I’m counting on you to keep order here.”
Marcel felt his mouth go dry and his hands go clammy. He was going to have to talk to the Gestapo officers! Answer their questions! If he said or did anything suspicious, he could put Delphine, her family, and his own parents in grave danger.
The two officers stood waiting in the corridor. They wore dark, belted uniforms with breeches that were tucked into their boots. One was very blond, and he spoke first. “Do you know this girl Delphine Gilette?”
“Yes, sir.” Marcel was so frightened the words came out as no more than a whisper.
“Speak up,” said the officer curtly. “I can’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir,” Marcel repeated.
“Were you close friends with her? Did
you know her family?”
“I knew her at school,” he said. That was true at least.
“We’ve had a tip that she and her family are Jewish. Did you know this?” said the other officer sternly.
Marcel thought this might have been the hardest, most scary moment in his whole life, even scarier than when the soldiers almost took the loaf of bread with the note concealed. He had to be brave and strong, like his parents. Like his heroes in the Tour de France. He looked up at the officer. “No, sir,” he said clearly. “I didn’t.”
The officer looked unsure whether to believe him or not. He turned to Mademoiselle Babineaux. “What’s your sense here? Is he lying? Does he know something he’s not telling us?”
There was a long, horrible silence in which Mademoiselle Babineaux said nothing. Marcel knew she liked him. He was a good student and never caused trouble like some of the other kids in class. But he also knew that she, like everyone, was frightened of the Gestapo. “Marcel is a good boy,” she said finally. “If he says he didn’t know about this family’s true origins, I believe him.”
The two officers looked at him. Marcel made himself look back. The blond officer looked away first. “All right, then. We’ve been to their house and we’ll pursue other leads. If you do find out anything,” he said to Marcel, “you’d better come forward right away. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Marcel.
“You may return to your desk,” said Mademoiselle Babineaux.
Before he turned to go, he noticed her hands were shaking. He understood. He went inside and sat down at his desk, flooded with relief. His legs were jelly, his stomach a storm-tossed sea. But for the moment, he was safe.
The day stretched on. Every time there was a noise, Marcel’s eyes went straight for the door. What if the Gestapo figured out he was lying and came back? What would happen then?
Finally, the bell rang, announcing lunch. Marcel sat at a table in the lunchroom, surrounded by his usual group of friends. He mostly listened to the conversation around him, smiling or laughing when it seemed right to do that and not adding very much of his own.
The Bicycle Spy Page 8