The Bicycle Spy

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  Then Thierry came up to the table. “I’ll bet you knew from the beginning that she was a Jew, and you never said. You helped her hide. Or maybe even escape. And you know what that means.” He made his hand into the shape of a pistol and pointed it to his head.

  “Prove it,” Marcel said.

  “I don’t have to,” said Thierry. “They’ll find her. They’ll find her and then you’ll see.”

  When he left, Guillaume asked softly, “What was the real reason she wasn’t in school? Do you know?”

  “It’s like I said: She’s still sick.”

  “You two are pretty good friends. I saw you riding with her a couple of times.”

  “So what if I did?” asked Marcel.

  Guillaume gave him a pitying look. “Do I have to spell it out for you? She’s a Jew. And everyone knows it’s not a good idea to be friends with Jews. I mean, I feel sorry for her and all. And I didn’t snitch, like Thierry. But you have to be careful, too, you know.”

  Marcel wanted to yell at him. Or even better yet, punch him. Hard. But what good would that do? He’d only get in trouble. And it might endanger Delphine and her family even more. So he abruptly stood up, pushing the table away as he did. Everything on the table shook and a glass of milk tipped over, pooling across the surface and dripping down into Guillaume’s lap. Good.

  “Hey, look what you did!” fumed Guillaume. “You better come back and help clean up this mess!”

  But Marcel had already walked away. He did not look back. Stay calm, he told himself. Just stay calm.

  After lunch, there was mathematics, history, and music. They still did not sing the French national anthem—that had stopped back in November—but they sang another traditional song and one after that. Finally, the seemingly endless day was over and he rushed home as soon as he could. He told his mother what had happened in school with the Gestapo officers.

  “Mon Dieu!” she cried. “You must have been so frightened!”

  “I was,” he admitted.

  “But you didn’t tell.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You did a fine thing today,” she said. “I’m proud of you. Very proud. And Papa will be, too.” She gave Marcel a quick, tight hug.

  “Now what?” he asked his mother.

  “We wait for Papa to come back. That’s all we can do.”

  Waiting, thought Marcel, may have been the hardest thing of all. He felt so powerless. It was a terrible feeling. But eventually, the afternoon faded to dusk.

  “Do you think they’re all right?” he asked his mother for the tenth time as he set the table with only two plates for supper. Who knew when—or if—his father would be back?

  “I am praying that they are,” she said. “I gave him bread, and a loaf of pain d’épice, too. I even baked some croissants this morning.”

  “Croissants? How did you do that?” Marcel asked. Butter was in short supply and the croissant recipe required a lot of it.

  “I’ve been hoarding butter in case I needed it for an emergency. So I mixed what I had with some margarine. Those German soldiers won’t be able to tell the difference!”

  “That should help,” said Marcel. The baked goods would distract attention from the other things—and people—in the wagon. And even a regular loaf of fresh bread would help buy a little goodwill from a soldier.

  Marcel and his mother sat down to eat. Food was in such short supply that they were always very hungry at mealtime. His mother had managed to get a tiny bit of rabbit and had made a stew with pieces of carrot in it. They ate every last bit of it.

  Then Marcel helped his mother by wiping down the table without even being asked. After the meal, she turned on the radio and they sat listening to the news from Paris. None of it was good. The war was intensifying, and cities were being bombed. Maman switched off the radio. Marcel tried to concentrate on his homework but soon gave up. Even his cycling magazines held no appeal tonight. His mother sat sewing, though he noticed that a lot of the time her hands just sat in her lap, the needle glinting in the lamplight. They both kept looking at the clock on the mantel.

  “When do you think he’ll be back?” Marcel asked yet again.

  “I’m not sure,” said his mother. She put the sewing basket aside. “Maybe around ten o’clock.” But the evening dragged on, and ten o’clock came and went with no sign of Papa. And soon it was almost eleven. It wasn’t all that far to Port-Vendres and back. Surely his father should be home by now.

  “Something could have happened,” said Marcel.

  “Anything could have happened,” said his mother. “There’s no way for us to know.”

  Then Marcel remembered the time not long ago when there had been a problem with the wagon wheel. Could there be an issue like that now? One that might even be delaying his trip? He told his mother his theory.

  “You could be right,” she said.

  “Let me ride along the road to look for him. I can bring his tools. I’ll put them in my satchel.”

  “No,” said his mother. “It’s not safe.”

  “But what about Papa?” Marcel pointed out. “Is he safe? And if he’s not, isn’t it up to us to help him?”

  His mother did not have a good answer to this. She sat there silently. He could see she was thinking it over. “All right,” she said finally. “You can go. But wait.” She got up, went into the bedroom she shared with his father, and returned. “Take this with you.” She handed him a small gold tin.

  “What is it?”

  “Touron,” said his mother.

  “Where did you get it?” he asked. Touron was a fancy marzipan roll that came in all kinds of colors and designs. Packed with pistachios, hazelnuts, and candied fruit, it was usually sold in slices and considered a very special treat. Marcel had only had it a few times in his life. There was nowhere in town to get it, though. Especially now. So this must have come from somewhere else.

  “It was a gift. I was saving it. I thought it might come in handy.”

  Marcel took the tin. “All right, Maman,” he said. “I’ll take it with me.”

  She followed him down the stairs and outside. There was the bicycle, looking even worse for the wear. Marcel realized that before he set out, he’d need to adjust the handlebars and tighten the front wheel. He could not risk getting stuck somewhere on the road with all those tools in his bag. It might look very suspicious.

  Marcel did not know a great deal about fixing bicycles, but Delphine had shown him how to check for a few of the most common problems and how to deal with them, too. She had known an awful lot about bicycles, and he tried to remember what she had told him. After about a half hour of tinkering, he had tightened the front wheel and realigned the handlebars so they weren’t veering off course.

  His mother stood watching as he adjusted his satchel and retied the scarf he was wearing around his neck. “Be safe,” she said. “Go with God.”

  “I’ll be careful, Maman,” he said. “And I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Then he set off in search of his father, who was still out there somewhere, alone and possibly stranded in the cold, dark night.

  Marcel rode steadily along the main street until he reached the road that led out of town. This was the latest he had ever been out, and the truth was it made him a little scared. Oh, sure, he had acted brave in front of his mother. And he really did want to be brave. But cycling out here with the wind hissing through the trees and not a soul around was pretty scary.

  A great, spotted bird with an enormous wingspan swooped down very low, startling him as it passed. It was so close he might have reached out to touch it. It flew away quickly but he thought he recognized the ear tufts and the big orange eyes of an eagle owl. It was probably hunting, on the lookout for a rabbit or mouse as its late-night supper, and he was relieved when it was gone.

  To keep his spirits up, he pictured himself again in the Tour de France. Yesterday’s ride was an exhausting stage of the race, but now he was on one of the last, crucial st
ages, pedaling toward the final finish line. Or what he hoped would be the final one.

  The fantasy helped him push through his fear. Marcel pedaled on, slowing down when he came to the bridge. Sure enough, it was manned by a pair of gendarmes. One was short and tubby, the other, skinny and tall. He did not recognize either of them and his heart sped up as he got closer.

  “You there,” called the chubby one. “Come over here.”

  Marcel did as he was told.

  “What are you doing out at this hour?” said the soldier. “You should be home in bed.”

  Marcel’s heart was hammering. He did not want to say anything about looking for his father. If he did, the soldier might ask what he was doing out so late. And explaining that would put too many people he cared about at risk.

  “I’m going to see my grandmother. She’s alone and she needs me.” Marcel’s actual grandmother lived far away, in Lyon, so he did not think he was endangering her at all by saying this.

  “Hmph,” said the gendarme. “Still seems pretty late to me. You’d better turn around and go home.”

  Marcel remembered the tin he carried in his satchel and he dug inside to pull it out. “Here,” he said. “I was bringing this to her, but you can have it. She really can’t eat it anyway. She doesn’t have too many teeth left.” This wasn’t true, either, but how would the soldier ever find out?

  “Look at this,” said the gendarme, opening the tin. “Touron.” He took out a piece and ate it. “I haven’t seen this in ages!”

  “Don’t eat it all!” said the taller of the two. “You’d better save some for me.” He reached for the tin but his comrade held it out of reach.

  “Stop being so greedy. You’ll get yours,” said the chubby one. “There’s a whole tin of it here.”

  Marcel waited until the second solider was chewing contentedly before he dared to ask, “Excuse me, sir, but please can I go now? My grandmother is waiting … ”

  “Go on, get out of here,” said the chubby one. “And you’d better stay over at your grandmother’s house. I don’t want to see you back here tonight, understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” Marcel sped off, grateful to be free again. He kept going, alert to the subtle sounds of the night—any of them might signal his father. Soon he saw something big looming up ahead. What if it was a checkpoint, and there were gendarmes who would stop and question him? He had nothing to give them. Nothing!

  Then something began to move, shifting and neighing in the dark. Could it be? As he got closer, he saw that it was Lulu, the speckled mare that pulled the bakery wagon. What a relief! He’d made it—he had ridden through that last, terrifying stage, in the dark and all alone. Now he’d crossed the finish line in his mind—and there, just beyond it, was his father!

  Marcel pulled up close to the wagon and practically tossed the bicycle aside. “Papa!” he called, but softly, so as not to alert any soldiers who might have been passing through the area. “Papa, it’s me!”

  “Marcel!” Papa jumped up and brushed off his hands. “I can’t believe you found me! How did you know to come looking?”

  “I remembered the last time you had trouble with that wheel. I told Maman it might have happened again.”

  “You were right,” Papa said. “I was so focused on getting your friend and her family out of town that I forgot about that pesky wheel. I didn’t bring my tools with me and now I’m stuck.”

  “I brought your tools, Papa!” said Marcel. He shrugged his satchel from his shoulders, opened it, and dumped the tools onto the ground.

  “Thank you, Marcel,” Papa said. “Now I can fix it and we can be on our way home.”

  “How can you work in the dark?” Marcel asked.

  “I have no choice,” his father said. “A light might attract attention—of the wrong kind.”

  While Papa worked, Marcel asked about Delphine and her family.

  “I brought them to the house in Saint-Girons. Tomorrow they’ll head into the mountains and, if they’re lucky, cross the border.”

  “Unless they get caught,” said Marcel.

  “Unless they get caught,” said Papa. “But I think their chances are pretty good. The guide who’s taking them is experienced. He’ll do his best to keep them safe.”

  When Papa had finished fixing the wheel, Marcel told him about what the soldier had said. “We’d better hide you and this,” his father said, hoisting the bicycle up and into the wagon. “Now you hop in, too.”

  Once Marcel had positioned himself next to the bicycle inside the wagon, his father covered him with the tarp and arranged the sacks of flour and grain around him. He was well hidden from view. Then Papa climbed up to the seat and gave the signal to Lulu. The wagon jolted slightly and they were off.

  Marcel could not see anything as they rode, but he was aware of when the wagon stopped at the bridge, and some muffled words were exchanged between his father and the soldiers. He must have given them some of the bread that Maman had packed.

  The wagon started moving, and Lulu kept up a steady, rhythmic pace. It was late, well past midnight, and Marcel was tired. He let his eyes close, and he drifted into sleep.

  The next thing he knew, Papa was pulling back the tarp and helping him down from the wagon. Maman was awake and waiting for them when they came into the apartment, relieved that they were home. Then Marcel went straight to his room and sank into the deepest of sleeps.

  In the morning, he still felt weary from all the activity of the night before. He went to school anyway, determined not to let his attention lapse. He didn’t want his teacher singling him out again.

  But Mademoiselle Babineaux seemed more interested in Delphine’s empty seat than anything else. “Does anyone know where she is?” she asked. No one in the classroom raised a hand. Then she turned directly to Marcel. “Marcel, do you have any idea?”

  Unable to look at her, he stared down at the top of his desk. “No, Mademoiselle Babineaux.”

  Marcel felt uncomfortable. He liked his teacher and had never lied outright to her before. And she had protected him yesterday. But what else could he do?

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Yes, mademoiselle. I’m sure.” There was a long moment when nothing was said. He waited for her to challenge or scold him. But it did not happen. She turned her attention to the lesson on arithmetic, and Marcel felt like he could breathe again.

  It turned out that the subject of Delphine’s absence was not closed, though. At recess, Thierry came swaggering up to him at the lunch table. “I don’t believe what you told the teacher. Everyone knows you were friends with that Jew. And I bet you know where she’s hiding.”

  “I-I do not,” stammered Marcel, who just wanted to keep his distance.

  “Liar! Liar!” Thierry began to chant. He was standing over Marcel, and his big, bulky body kept Marcel from standing up and leaving the table. Marcel was getting more and more nervous when all of a sudden, Guillaume and Arnaud came over.

  “Leave him alone,” Guillaume said.

  “Why should I?” said Thierry. He turned to Marcel. “Jew lover,” he taunted.

  “He is not,” said Arnaud. “At least no more than any of the rest of us. So he was friendly with her. Big deal.”

  “Big deal is right.” Marcel was surprised at how strong and confident his own voice sounded. “She was the best cyclist around here,” he added. “She beat all of us in a race and she knew more about cycling than anyone. More than me. And certainly more than you. She could have beaten you in her sleep.” He looked up, no longer afraid, at Thierry. “So don’t let me hear you talking about her anymore, understand? ”

  To his surprise, Thierry moved back a step or two. And then he turned and lumbered awkwardly back to his seat at a different table. “Jew lover,” he muttered again. But he’d clearly been surprised by Marcel’s newfound courage.

  Arnaud and Guillaume sat down next to Marcel. “You’re right about Delphine,” said Guillaume. “That girl could really ride.”r />
  “She sure could,” added Arnaud. Then he looked over at Thierry. “I don’t think he’s going to bother you anymore. He’s just a big bully, and bullies can never stand a taste of their own medicine.”

  Marcel smiled. It was good to have his friends back on his side again. With Delphine gone, he’d been feeling really alone. He wondered for the tenth, twentieth, thirtieth time where and how she was. Did she and her family find another safe place to stay? Were the truck and chickens all gone? Where were they on their journey now? Had they been able to avoid getting caught? There was no way to know.

  After school let out for the day, he did something he knew he was not supposed to do: He pedaled by the house where Delphine and her family had lived. He took care not to be seen, and he made it look like he was just riding around, not that he was there for any special reason.

  He could see through the windows that the furniture and dishes were still there. Clothes and books, too. That made sense. Delphine and her parents had each taken only one small knapsack, no more than that. But seeing the house, Marcel could almost imagine that they would walk back in and resume their lives again. Of course, he knew that wasn’t going to happen. They were on their way to Spain now, trekking through the mountains, alert to every sound they heard, every shift in the leaves they saw.

  Marcel hopped off his bike and wheeled it over to the bushes, where he hid it. He didn’t want to draw any extra attention to himself. Then he began walking around, looking for something he could not name. The red bicycle was gone, sold. He already knew that. So what was he doing here? What did he hope to find?

  Some distance from the house was a shed. The door was open and he stepped inside. Not much of interest in here: a basket of moldy-looking turnips, a banged-up pot, a rusty shovel. Just stuff no one wanted. It looked like it had been here for years and years.

  But then his eye was caught by something that looked newer than everything else: a lumpy package wrapped in a fairly new sheet of newspaper. He picked it up and opened it. Inside was the shiny silver bell that had been attached to Delphine’s red bike. He recognized the bell right away, since he had so admired and envied it. She must have left it for him to find! Then he turned to the wrinkled piece of newspaper and smoothed it out. It was a page from the sporting section about the famous Belgian cyclist Sylvère Maes. Maes had won the Tour in 1939 and even though the race had been canceled this year, the article talked about what he was doing now to stay in shape and what his future racing plans looked like. Of course that was what Delphine would have chosen to wrap the bell. It was perfect.