Michael at the Invasion of France, 1943

by Laurie Calkhoven

  The room was small and grim with windows facing the stone wall of the building next to us. I was glad I could not see the street, and the Nazis marching up and down. A few minutes later, there was a quiet knock on the door. “Breakfast.”

  Fake bread and fake coffee never tasted so good. The clerk was off duty now, and eager to practice his English on Mack. We were just finishing our meal when there was another knock on the door.

  “I know your aunt Simone,” said a man’s voice. “I went to school with her in Bayonne.”

  The desk clerk nodded and I opened the door. A small man rushed in. “Bonjour, mes amis,” he said. “Hello, my friends.” He kissed my cheeks and then rushed over to Mack to do the same. “Call me Philippe. I’ll lead you on the next leg of your journey.”

  As always, Mack asked about his crew. I saw the look of disappointment cross his face when Philippe didn’t recognize the names. I saw something else too—a feeling I had come to know well—guilt.

  “We wait for two more packages on tonight’s train,” Philippe said, “and then off we go.”

  “Can’t we leave today?” I asked.

  “Your friend will be safe here tonight. There are too many aviators waiting to get out and not enough guides,” he explained. “We have to bring a few at a time. Not just one. But you can go back to Paris on the next train. You don’t have to wait.”

  “Back to Paris?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We have guides to take your friend the rest of the way.”

  “I can’t go back,” I said. “I have to go to England.”

  Philippe shook his head. “It’s no journey for a boy,” he said. “You have to climb steep mountains, cross a river, evade German and Spanish patrols. It’s too difficult. Besides, what will you do in England?”

  “My family’s in England,” I said. “My father is working with General de Gaulle. They’re expecting me.”

  “No one told me about you, only about the aviator,” Philippe said with a shrug. “These Basque guides, they’re very difficult. I don’t think he’ll agree to take you.”

  I started to panic. If I didn’t go with Mack, what would I do? My family was gone. My friends were arrested. “I have nowhere else to go,” I said, my voice cracking with fear. “The Gestapo is looking for me. I have to go.”

  Mack heard the alarm in my voice. The clerk and I both talked at once, translating for him.

  “I won’t go without Mi—” Mack cut himself off. “Without Étienne,” he said.

  The clerk translated for Philippe. The two men left the room. We could hear them arguing in the hall, but I couldn’t make out the words. Mack put a hand on my shoulder. “I mean it,” he said. “I won’t go without you. If we have to, we’ll cross the mountains alone. I have my map and a compass. We’ll make it.”

  I knew crossing the mountains without a guide would be nearly impossible. “Thanks,” I croaked. “We’ll work something out.”

  The door opened. The small man threw his hands up in the air in surrender. “Go,” he said to me. “Go. But be prepared for the Basque to turn you away.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Nighttime Confessions

  Mack and I spent the day in our room, never talking above a whisper. When he arrived at work that evening, the desk clerk brought us some thin soup and more bread. I would never get used to this dry, wartime bread. It was half straw.

  He told us to sleep while we could. “The hike over the Pyrenees is difficult,” he said.

  I tried, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay there in the dark and worried about what Philippe had said about the Basque guide. Would he leave me behind?

  Mack was awake too. “You should have gotten on the plane with your mother and Charlotte,” he said. “You’d be with your father by now.”

  “I don’t want to face my father,” I blurted. I didn’t know I felt that way until the words came out of my mouth. But it was true. Uncle Henri could have found someone to guide Mack. I didn’t have to stay behind. I didn’t want to see Papa’s face when he heard the story of Georges’s arrest.

  “Why?” Mack asked.

  I could only just make out his outline in the dark. He rolled over to face me.

  “My brother is in a German prison camp because of me,” I confessed.

  Mack listened to my story. “You can’t blame yourself,” he said.

  “I pulled the shirt from Georges’ uniform out of the trash,” I said. “That’s how the Nazis knew he’d come back to Paris. They saw his shirt on my bed and searched the building. They found Georges in the basement. If he’s dead—” I cut myself off.

  “Don’t you think that the Nazis would have searched the basement even if they hadn’t seen the uniform?” Mack asked. “Didn’t they search the whole block?”

  Mack was right—the Germans were nothing if not thorough. But I still felt as if it was my fault they searched so hard for Georges. “I’ve been trying to make it up to Papa and to Georges by being a résistant, but then I put Maman and Charlotte in danger too. If Georges doesn’t come back, I don’t think my father will ever speak to me again.”

  “I can’t believe that’s true,” Mack said.

  “It is,” I answered. “My papa was never much interested in me. Georges was his favorite.”

  “Favorite or not, how could your father be anything other than proud?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “What do you think about what you’ve done for France?” Mack asked. “Are you proud of yourself?”

  The question surprised me. I measured every action I took against what I believed Papa would think. I never stopped to consider how I felt. The words were slow in coming. “I am,” I said finally. “I’m proud of what I’ve been able to do for France. I helped a lot of aviators leave Paris.”

  Mack nodded. “You escaped when your friends were arrested. Your mother and sister are safe in England because of you,” he said. “I’m safe because of you. You’re brave and you think fast on your feet. Your papa will see that.”

  I sighed. Tears pricked at the back of my eyes. I remembered the times I felt brushed aside by Papa, the times he and Georges went off on their adventures. Papa only included me when he had no choice.

  “My papa doesn’t value me in the same way he values my brother,” I said. “If one of us has to die, he’d much rather it be me.” Those were terrible words to say out loud, but I believed they were true.

  “I value you,” Mack said quietly. “All the American soldiers you helped escape value you. But that doesn’t matter, really. Real value comes from inside,” he told me. “Be proud of yourself. Know that you’re smart and brave. No one can take that away from you, not even your father.”

  Could I value myself if Papa didn’t value me? Didn’t love me? I tucked Mack’s words away to think about another time. “Why won’t you talk about what happened to your plane?” I asked. “My other aviators couldn’t wait to tell me their stories.”

  Mack sighed. He rolled away from me onto his back. I was about to give up on ever hearing his story when he began to speak. The words were halted at first, then stronger.

  “We had engine trouble,” Mack said. “I should have turned the plane around and headed back to England, but I thought the engine might come around. I fell out of formation. We were like sitting ducks for the Luftwaffe.” He shook his head. “I should have tried to put her down. I might have been able to land in a field.”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “I waited too long. The Luftwaffe was on us, and we got hit. I gave the order to bail. I was the last one out. My men were scattered all over. There were German soldiers on the ground, shooting at the parachutes. I should at least have given the order to bail out before we were hit—given my men a chance.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said. “
You wanted to carry out your mission.”

  “I waited too long.” Mack stared at the ceiling. “Maybe some of them got away,” he said. “Maybe.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A Bike Ride

  Shortly after daybreak the desk clerk arrived with breakfast and two more aviators. David Brooks from England and Jerry Underhill from Virginia. Philippe was right behind them. He handed us each a train ticket to a town called Dax.

  “Boches all over,” he said in broken English. “We go to Dax and then ride bicycle.” He asked me to translate the rest.

  “Leave the hotel one at a time, a few minutes apart and go directly across the street to the station. Don’t stand together on the platform,” I said. “When the train comes, we’ll get on two different cars—Mack and David will follow me on the first one. Jerry is with Philippe.”

  We hadn’t had time to share our stories, but I saw the surprise in Jerry’s and David’s eyes when they learned that I was going too.

  Philippe continued with his instructions and I translated. “When you get off the train, leave the station and walk down the lane to your left. There’s a shed about fifty meters away. Wait behind it.”

  I left the hotel a few minutes behind Philippe and waited on the platform. Mack was a couple of minutes behind me; David and Jerry followed. I learned about what good manners the English had when David got on the train. He stepped on a woman’s foot.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, clear as a bell.

  I froze, waiting for someone to yell.

  The woman only smiled and moved over so he could sit. The other passengers pretended nothing unusual had happened. It was like all of France had joined the Resistance.

  The rest of the short train ride was uneventful. There wasn’t even a Nazi checkpoint in Dax. I followed Philippe at a distance and trusted the others to do the same. When we had all gathered, Philippe opened the shed and wheeled out old, broken-down bicycles. I wondered if the threadbare tires would survive the trip.

  “Dangerous now,” Philippe said. “Ride in twos, far apart. Me alone in front.” He pointed to David and Jerry. “You next.”

  That left Mack and me to take up the rear. We set off about fifteen minutes behind the others. “Do you know where we’re going?” Mack asked.

  “No idea,” I told him. “South.” I knew that was the smart thing—if Mack and I got picked up, we couldn’t tell the Nazis where to find the others, but I hated not knowing where we were going. We were on country roads with little traffic. A couple of times we came to a turnoff and didn’t know where to go. Then I learned to look for Philippe’s signals. On one signpost he had chalked a V in the right direction. At another, he tucked the handkerchief he wore around his neck under a rock.

  We rode and rode, not daring to stop and rest. The wind turned our cheeks red. My fingers felt frozen to the handlebars. Finally, late in the afternoon, we came upon Philippe fixing his front tire. He said nothing, only nodded his head slightly to the left. We turned into the farm lane. We saw the other bicycles just inside a barn and wheeled ours in behind them.

  David and Jerry were slumped on the floor, rubbing their legs. My own muscles twitched. I remembered the day I had to ride away from the Gestapo, how I had pedaled all over Paris. Today I was even more tired.

  Philippe arrived a few minutes later. We never saw the people in the house, but Philippe went inside and came out with a rich country stew. The men organized a schedule to keep watch and I crawled into the hay, searching for a warm place to sleep.

  The next morning we set out again. It was another long, cold ride and we were getting closer to the mountains. The rolling hills were hard on our tired legs and we fought against wind from the ocean. My legs went numb and my mind drifted. By afternoon I wasn’t sure if I was awake or dreaming.

  Mack and I reached a little house on the outskirts of the village of Saint-Jean-de-Luz. Philippe stood outside, chatting with a woman. He nodded around back and we wheeled our bicycles behind the house. Inside, our hostess greeted us with soup and bread. It was warm in the little house, and once my stomach was full, my mind drifted again. I was hardly aware of the conversation around me. At one point Mack stood me up and walked me to a pallet in another room and I slept.

  When I woke, Philippe was gone. Our nameless hostess explained what would happen next. “We will mix with the people going to market in the village,” she said. “There’s a bridge at the bottom of the hill with a German checkpoint. You all have papers, yes?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Mix with the crowd. The Germans will hardly look at you,” she said. “Then follow me—not in a bunch, but in a single file.”

  David and Jerry were nervous. Mack and I were used to passing through German checkpoints by now, but they had only been in France for a few days. I was the first to follow our hostess. Mack offered to take up the rear. We rounded a corner and suddenly there was the Atlantic. I had smelled the salt air all day yesterday, but I hadn’t seen the ocean since before the war began. I took a deep breath and mixed with the villagers crossing the bridge. A boche waved me on without even checking my papers. I crossed the bridge and leaned against a wall, pretending to knock a stone out of my shoe.

  David and Jerry were too close together and they kept looking at each other. David handed over his papers, but Jerry tried to slip through the checkpoint without showing his.

  “Halt!” a guard yelled.

  Jerry took a step back and raised his hands like they did in American cops-and-robbers movies.

  “Idiot!” I said under my breath.

  David walked toward me, panic in his eyes. I cocked my head in the direction of our hostess and he followed her.

  The guard was looking at Jerry’s papers and saying something. Jerry stared back with a blank expression. I ran up and scolded him in rapid French like he was a toddler.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to the guard. “My cousin isn’t right in the head since the war. I lost track of him for a minute.”

  The boche stared at me through narrowed eyes. I knew Jerry couldn’t understand my words, but maybe the guard didn’t speak French either. I raised my finger to the side of my head and made the sign for cuckoo. “He got shot in the head,” I said.

  The guard dropped the papers into my hands as if Jerry’s injury was contagious and waved us on. I took Jerry’s arm and dragged him off the bridge.

  Mack ambled along behind us. In his country clothes and flat beret, he fit right in. I held on to Jerry and walked up the narrow, cobblestoned street our hostess had taken. She was lingering at the top of a hill. When she spotted me, she turned a corner. Then she slipped into the side door of a house. Jerry and I did the same. Minutes later, Mack arrived.

  We were greeted by a young Belgian woman who introduced herself as Tante Liberty. “We’re expecting your Basque guide this afternoon,” she said. “He’ll lead you over the mountains and into Spain, and then contact the British consulate there. The British will take you by car to Gibraltar, and then back to England.”

  “How long will it take?” David asked.

  “You’ll be in Spain by morning.”

  “Spain and then England,” David said with a sigh.

  Tante Liberty nodded. “Your guide is Basque. He speaks the Basque language and only a little French, so you won’t be able to talk. He’s made many trips over the mountains and he’s never lost a flyer. Trust him.”

  “Philippe said there were arrests,” I said.

  “Not on the trek over the Pyrenees. Here in France.” Tante Liberty’s face clouded. “My father,” she said flatly. “Many others. We’ve lost many guides and two safe houses. There’s a bottleneck of aviators trying to get out of the country, and not enough guides to lead them.”

  “My comrades in Paris were arrested,” I said. “I only just got away
.”

  “You’ve got to get back to England and fly those airplanes of yours,” Tante Liberty said, turning to the aviators. “Drop your bombs. Hitler has to be defeated.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Climbing the Pyrenees

  I agreed with Tante Liberty. “Yes,” I said to the aviators. “Hitler has to be defeated.”

  We were all silent for a minute, then Mack asked what we could expect on our hike.

  “It will take all night and you’ll be following goat tracks and smugglers’ paths,” she warned. “The Bidossa River between France and Spain is tricky—sometimes ankle-deep, sometimes waist-high or even higher. You’ll be tempted to celebrate when you cross it, but don’t. Spain claims to be neutral, but their leader, Franco, is a fascist just like Hitler. The Spanish police, the Guardia Civil, arrest escaping aviators and hand them over to the Nazis. You won’t be safe until you’re in British hands.”

  “When will we leave?” I asked.

  “As soon as it’s dark,” Tante said. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you as soon as Florentino arrives.”

  I listened to the men’s snores and finally dropped off myself. The next thing I knew, Mack was shaking me awake. “He’s here.”

  The four of us walked down the stairs and found a craggy, dark-skinned Basque man in the kitchen. He was using a small knife to cut sausage and cheese. He ate right off the blade and washed everything down with wine. When he finished, he motioned to the rest of us to eat too.

  We were nearly done when he threw some shoes into the middle of the table. They were rope-soled and tied with ribbons.

  “Alpargatas,” he said. He wore a pair himself.

  “These are best for hiking in the Pyrenees,” Tante Liberty explained. “They grip the mountain paths and water runs right out of them.”

  “They don’t look like they’ll hold up,” Mack said.

  Tante Liberty smiled. “They won’t. You’ll bring an extra pair.”