Black Radishes (13 page)

25

P
hilippe stood with his arms folded across his chest, blocking the doorway to the classroom.

“How are you today, Gustave?” he asked in the fake polite voice Gustave had heard him use before. “And your family—how is your family? Your mother and father—they are well?”

Gustave stared at him in silence. Philippe. Of course. It had been Philippe—probably with his grandfather—who had informed on them to the police. Gustave pushed by Philippe and ran into the classroom, looking for Nicole. But she wasn’t there. She didn’t arrive, not even after the late bell rang. It was a long, dreary day of school without her.

“Will you stay for a minute after class?” Monsieur Brunel asked Gustave when the bell rang to signal the end of school.

Gustave put his books into his schoolbag and went up to Monsieur Brunel’s desk as the other kids hurried out the door. When the room had emptied, Monsieur Brunel stood up and put his hand on Gustave’s shoulder. His face was troubled.

“I heard about what happened at your house yesterday, and I wanted you to know how very sorry I am,” he said. “How are your parents?”

“They’re fine, I guess,” said Gustave, looking down at the floor.

“That’s good.” Monsieur Brunel turned to the pile of papers on his desk. “I have something I need you to do for me. Nicole’s father sent me a note saying that she stayed home from school today because she isn’t feeling well. He asked if you would bring her today’s homework.” He grinned suddenly at Gustave. “We both know that Nicole would never want to fall behind in her studies.”

Gustave mustered up the energy to smile back at him, faintly. Homework. Oh, yeah, Nicole
sure
wouldn’t want to miss any of
that
.

“Oui, Monsieur,”
he said, picking up the papers. “I’ll bring it to her.” At least he would get to see Nicole today after all.

As Gustave trudged up the hill to the Morins’ house, he wondered if she had heard about the raid. It was Nicole who opened the door. She was pale but smiling, and her left arm was in a sling.

“What happened?” asked Gustave.

“I broke my collarbone. Come on in,” Nicole replied.

“Does it hurt?” asked Gustave, following her into the kitchen. He was surprised to see Monsieur Morin leaning back in a chair at the kitchen table. Two hats, Nicole’s blue beret and the white hand-knit cap, were on the table in front of him.

Monsieur Morin stood up and pulled out a chair. “Hello, Gustave,” he said. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

“As you can see,” Monsieur Morin began, “Nicole had an accident, and—”

“I made a ramp with some old boards,” Nicole interrupted. “You should have seen me fly when I bicycled off it—until I crashed!”

Monsieur Morin sighed affectionately, patting Nicole’s head. “The doctor says she must keep the arm still. So that means no running around, no tree climbing, no jumping off chicken coops with a blanket for a parachute”—he grinned at Nicole—“and no bike riding.” He looked steadily at Gustave. “As you might have suspected, Nicole sometimes does some important riding on her bicycle.”

Gustave’s breath caught in his throat. “That white hat Nicole put on when we were in sight of the Chenonceau grounds—it meant something, didn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Monsieur Morin, his voice low and steady. “Nicole works with me for the French Resistance, helping people escape from the Nazis. I receive word from my connection over the river that ‘visitors’ are coming to Chenonceau. When the visitors are passing through the château, Nicole rides through the villages nearby to be sure there are no German soldiers or police around, or anyone who looks suspicious. No one pays any attention to a girl riding her bike. If the coast is clear, she puts on the white hat, signaling to the visitors that it is safe to go on. Then they follow the directions they have been given and meet their next connection at the designated meeting point. This person helps them continue their journey. We don’t know anything about the person who helps them next. It is safer for everyone that way.”

“I knew it!” Gustave exclaimed. “I knew some of it, I mean. I knew there was something funny going on with that hat.”

“We just got word that Nicole should ride through the town late this afternoon,” Monsieur Morin went on. “There are some visitors at Chenonceau who will be moving on this evening. We could send an adult. But a child on a bicycle is much less likely to be noticed.” Monsieur Morin paused for a moment and looked intently at Gustave. “It
is
a dangerous responsibility,” he added. “I’m sure you understand that. You don’t have to do it. But Nicole thought you might be willing to ride instead of her. I tried to check with your parents, but no one was home when I went by.”

Gustave took a deep breath. At last, at last, something he could do. “I can decide for myself. I’ll do it,” he said firmly, his heart pounding.

“You remember the way we went, right?” Nicole leaned forward. “You have to stop and speak to Monsieur Ferrand and ask, ‘How is business today, quiet or busy?’ If he says that business has been quiet, he hasn’t seen any police or any Germans. You go on, and then you stop across from the woods. If everything is clear, you change to the white hat.”

“But if you see
anything
suspicious,” Monsieur Morin continued, “if you see a German soldier, or even a French policeman, or if Monsieur Ferrand says, ‘The café has been bustling,’ or if anything unusual seems to be going on, you keep the blue beret on your head.”

“I’ve always put on the white hat,” admitted Nicole. “It has always been quiet.”

“Still, better safe than sorry,” said Monsieur Morin. “If you aren’t sure, keep the blue beret on.”

Nicole picked up the beret and placed it on Gustave’s head with her one good hand. It slid down over his nose. She laughed and adjusted it. Gustave’s face tingled where her hand brushed his cheek.

“There!” Nicole laughed. “No one will notice a French boy riding an old bicycle and wearing a blue beret.”

Gustave nodded and glanced at her for a moment, his cheeks burning, then dropped his eyes. His breath came quickly.

Monsieur Morin went out to the shed with Gustave to get the bicycle. He tucked the white hat in a canvas bag and put it into the wicker bicycle basket.

“Thank you, Gustave,” he said. “What you are doing is very important. You need to be at the spot opposite the woods by four forty-five. Do you have a watch?”

Gustave held up his wrist.

“Good. It’s getting late, so you’ll have to hurry. Come right back here when you’re done. I’ll get word to your parents that you’ll be home late. And Gustave,” he added, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but don’t say anything to anyone about what you’re doing. You are a boy taking a ride on his bike, that’s all.”

Gustave coasted down the hill with the beret on his head, listening to the bicycle clanking. Thoughts rushed through his head. Had Nicole made the ramp here, at the bottom of the hill? It wasn’t surprising that she had broken her collarbone, riding the way she did. He hoped it didn’t hurt too much. Thinking about Nicole, Gustave felt heat rising to his face. He pushed the thought away. Who was visiting the Meniers at Chenonceau today? he wondered. It wasn’t anyone he knew, but soon it would be Aunt Geraldine, Jean-Paul, Giselle, Marcel, and Madame Landau, escaping from the Boches just the way Monsieur Menier’s visitors were today. When Gustave was about a kilometer away from the Morins’ house, he suddenly remembered that Nicole’s packet of schoolwork was still at the bottom of his schoolbag, on her kitchen floor, forgotten. Oh, well. He grinned. Nicole had a good excuse for putting off doing her homework tonight!

26

G
ustave jammed on the brakes in front of Monsieur Ferrand’s café. Imagining that he was a bicyclist racing in the Tour de France, he had gotten there faster than he would have thought possible, and he was out of breath. Monsieur Ferrand’s little dog, Victoire, was nosing around the legs of the outdoor café tables, looking for scraps, but the tables were all empty.

After a few minutes, Monsieur Ferrand hobbled out of the café, leaning on a walking stick. He eyed the blue beret on Gustave’s head and the canvas bag in the bicycle basket.

“Nicole said to ask you how business is today—quiet or busy?” said Gustave.

“Ah,” said Monsieur Ferrand. He looked at Gustave intently. “It seems quiet so far,” he said. “But I have a feeling business might be picking up soon. Keep your eyes open.”

Gustave nodded nervously and got back on the bike. It wobbled for a moment, then steadied. He looked back over his shoulder as he was about to turn the corner. Monsieur Ferrand had taken a seat at one of the outdoor café tables and was sitting with his chin on both of his hands, gazing meditatively out at the street. Victoire stood next to him, her outstretched tail rigid and quivering, barking at something Gustave could not see.

Business might be picking up soon? That must mean that there might be trouble. Gustave fingered the blue beret on his head. Should he keep it on even if he didn’t see anything unusual? But if he kept it on, the Meniers’ visitors would be delayed and wouldn’t get safely into the unoccupied zone. It sounded as if Monsieur Ferrand had heard some rumors and wanted Gustave to be especially vigilant. Dusk was beginning to settle in, and it was getting cool. Gustave checked his watch nervously. Four-twenty-five. He had to check extra carefully, but he also had to hurry.

Gustave turned and bicycled down the next street and the next, glancing attentively from side to side. Nothing unusual. No one was outside. Just stone-and-stucco buildings under leafless trees. A piece of newspaper drifted down the empty street. Gustave watched as the wind picked it up, turned it over, and dropped it down onto the sidewalk, then wafted it up again. The piece of newspaper floated ahead of him, around the corner, and picking up speed Gustave made the sharp left turn around the dark corner too, following the newspaper with his eyes.

“Hey! Watch out!” Two French policemen and an older man in a black uniform suddenly loomed up out of the shadows. Gustave swerved, narrowly missing them. His bike hit a patch of gravel and skidded, crashing down onto its side on top of him. His scraped knee and elbow stung in the cold evening air. Gustave got up, brushing bits of gravel from his arms and legs. His beret had fallen off, and he picked it up with trembling fingers and jammed it back on his head.

“Are you all right, kid?” asked one of the French policemen, picking up Gustave’s bike and handing it to him.

“Is
he
all right?” the man in the black uniform said harshly, in a heavy German accent. “He should watch where he’s going!” Something silver gleamed on the man’s cap, and when he turned, Gustave saw a red band with a black swastika on his left arm. “No discipline, you French,” the man in the black uniform said, glaring at Gustave. “Where are you going, boy?”

Gustave’s elbow was bleeding. “I-I’m just … going home,” he stammered.

“Where do you live?” The black-uniformed soldier squinted at him.

Gustave’s voice felt strangled, the way it had been in the dream about Marcel. But he managed to squeak the words out. “Saint-Georges.”

“You’d better get on home, then,” said the French police man who had spoken before, nudging Gustave toward his bicycle.

Gustave’s knees wobbled. Would the German officer call him back? He threw one leg over his bicycle and rode away, trying not to go too fast, as if he were just a boy riding home from school. The officer didn’t stop him. He was speaking loudly to the French policemen. As Gustave turned the corner, he heard the German officer again bark out the word “discipline.”

As soon as Gustave was out of sight, he pedaled straight toward the spot opposite the Chenonceau woods, gripping the handlebars tightly with cold fingers. Blue beret, blue beret, blue beret, he thought, in time with the rhythm of the pedals. No need to check the other streets now, of course. But what if the German officer and the French policemen followed him? He wasn’t going directly to Saint-Georges, and if they followed him, they would see that. Gustave pedaled as fast as he could. The cold air burned his throat each time he gasped for breath. As he pulled up to the resting spot, his brakes screeched, and he jumped off the bike. What time was it? Four-fifty. The delay with the soldier and the policemen had made him five minutes late. Gustave left the white cap in its canvas bag in the bicycle basket and sat down, his heart hammering, on the rock where he and Nicole had sat on the day they had bicycled there together. He tried not to look toward the woods. He was very conscious of the scratchy wool of the beret on his head. What if he was too late? What if the “visitors,” not seeing him, had assumed that things were safe and left the woods—and were about to get caught and turned over to the Nazis?

Gustave reached up and pulled the blue beret down more firmly over his forehead. How long should he stay there? Monsieur Morin hadn’t said. Gustave pushed up his sleeve and studied his watch. He would stay ten minutes longer, he decided. But what if the Nazi soldier and the policemen came by and demanded to know what he was doing? That might give everything away. They might decide to search the woods. He had to act as if he were doing something ordinary. There had to be some reason why he would stop there, across from the Chenonceau woods, on a cold evening as it was getting dark.

The bicycle! That could be the reason. Gustave looked it over slowly, pretending that he was checking for damage. He examined the rusty old bicycle as carefully as if it had been a brand-new and shining birthday present that he was worried might have been scratched by the fall. He fiddled with the chain, ran his hands over the fenders, and used his fingers to tighten the bolts that held the seat in place. He adjusted the outer flat tire on the front wheel, straightening it over the one inside. When he had looked at everything he could think of, he glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Surely, it had been more than ten minutes by now. No, only four. He did it all over again, as slowly as he could. Six minutes.

Gustave sat down on the rock again, pulled up his sleeve, and examined his bleeding elbow as if it were a very serious wound. His sleeve was torn. Maman wouldn’t be happy about that. Gustave picked at a piece of loose skin, then rummaged around in his pockets for a handkerchief and held it against the cut, looking down at it. His toes and fingers were getting numb. This was the slowest ten minutes of his life.

Suddenly, something crackled in the woods. Gustave started and looked toward the spot. No! He shouldn’t look, in case someone was watching him. He quickly turned his head away, pretending to be gazing into the distance. He reached up and touched his blue beret, adjusting it on his head. He heard a rustling in the woods, but no one came out. Gustave held his breath. Still no one. No more sounds. He waited, pressing the handkerchief to his elbow, making himself count slowly to five hundred. Then he got on the bike and pedaled back toward Nicole’s house as the sky grew steadily darker.

“You’re here, Gustave!” Papa was just inside the doorway of the Morins’ house. Papa hugged Gustave, pulling him into the kitchen. Gustave had time to notice that Nicole had found her homework and was working on it by the light of an old oil lamp before she jumped up, wincing as the movement jostled her arm, and pulled the beret off Gustave’s head.

“The blue beret! Good job!” she said, swinging it around on her good hand.

Papa nodded. “I’m proud of you, Gustave.”

Nicole’s father was pacing up and down the kitchen.

“Well done!” he exclaimed. “Just after you left, I got word that there were Nazi officials in town, directing the French police to keep an eye on Chenonceau. They have gotten suspicious that people are crossing the line through the castle.”

“I saw the police!” said Gustave. “Two French policemen and a Nazi officer in a black uniform.”

“Oh, I
would
break my collarbone and miss the most exciting thing that has ever happened,” moaned Nicole. “You’re so lucky.”

Gustave thought of the people, whoever they were, who had been waiting for his signal in the cold, dark woods, and shivered. “What will the Meniers’ visitors do now?” he asked Monsieur Morin.

“I don’t know,” answered Nicole’s father. He had stopped pacing and was leaning against the stove. “They will stay hidden in the château for a while, at least until things quiet down. Apparently, Monsieur Menier woke up in Chenonceau this morning, to the sound of axes,” he went on, resuming his pacing. “The Nazis have started hacking down all the old trees on the part of the Chenonceau grounds that are on the north side of the river so that they can more easily keep an eye on the castle. The Menier family is furious about having their beautiful trees destroyed, but what can they do?”

He turned to Gustave’s father. “I know that your friends and your sister-in-law and her children must already be planning their journey here, if my contacts got word to them,” he told Papa, “but I’m afraid that they won’t be able to cross through Chenonceau after all.”

Papa’s face went pale. Gustave felt as if someone had grabbed him by the throat, and he couldn’t breathe.

“Do you know any other way for them to get across?” Gustave asked when he could get the words out. Nicole stepped closer to Gustave and put her warm hand in his. Gustave looked down at their two hands, clasped together for a moment. His eyes burned.

“I don’t know,” Monsieur Morin said slowly. “It’s getting very difficult to cross the line.” He looked at Papa. “And I know your visas are good for only a little while longer. You have to get to America soon.”

Papa nodded again, slowly.

“But we can’t go without my aunt and cousins and without trying to help the Landaus,” said Gustave hoarsely. “Can we, Papa?”

“There was a man who used to take people across the river in an illegal rowboat at night,” Nicole’s father said, as if he were thinking aloud. “Boats aren’t allowed on the river now, of course. He sank it to the river bottom with stones to hide it under the water when he wasn’t using it so that it wouldn’t be confiscated. But the Nazis caught him and arrested him and his whole family two months ago.”

Gustave heard Papa draw his breath in sharply.

“And in another town, there’s a family with an old mill on the river Cher. They lead people across the river at night by having them walk on an old stone causeway under the water. They know where the stones are, and they help people across. But this fall,” he sighed, “the water is so high, it would be up to an adult’s neck, and it is so fast and so cold.”

Monsieur Morin looked over at Gustave, measuring him with his eyes. “A boy about Gustave’s size could swim, holding on to an adult’s shoulders in case of a strong current. But with a toddler, it would be too dangerous. I just don’t see how it could be done.”

No one spoke for a few minutes. The old farmhouse kitchen was dark and full of shifting shadows. A cold draft slipped in through the crack of the window and blew through the room, making the light of the oil lamp flicker and rustling the pages of Nicole’s notebook on the table.

“If I could just find a way to get on the good side of the guards at the demarcation line,” Papa muttered. “If I just had something to bribe them with, as a last resort, I might be able to hide Geraldine and Madame Landau and the children in the back of my truck and smuggle them across. It would be dangerous, but I’m good at making friends with the soldiers if I have some little gifts to slip them as I go by. Once you get to be buddy-buddy with them, they never do a thorough search. I used to be able to get cigarettes for the guards and sometimes wine. But my sources have dried up. Do you maybe know of any way I could get some chocolate bars to bribe them with? Perhaps Menier chocolate?”

Monsieur Morin lifted and dropped his shoulders, sighing noisily through pursed lips. “I don’t,” he said. “The Meniers haven’t had any to give away in a long time. The German trucks pull up to the factory now, and they take all the chocolate to the German army as soon as they make it. I’ll try to think about other things to bribe the soldiers with. Cigarettes, wine, chocolate … what else do the Boches want?”

Gustave suddenly remembered a bitterly cold evening a year ago and soldiers with wide, laughing mouths and cold eyes.

“Papa,” said Gustave, from the corner where he was standing with Nicole, “what about radishes? Black radishes?”