The Spark of Resistance

by Kit Sergeant

  “Can you please tell me, madame, where the mechanic is?”

  The woman opened the window enough to eye Alouette up and down, from the lace neckline of her fashionable dress to the flower-trimmed hat she had donned after changing out of her flight gear. “He’s gone to war,” the woman finally replied.

  Alouette got a similar response from the next garage she tried. One elderly woman seated on her porch did not appear as hostile and Alouette called out to her. “Do you have any vehicle I could use to take me to Amiens? My car has stalled and I need to find a mechanic.”

  The woman appeared likely to flee back into the house, so Alouette pulled her wallet out of her purse. “I can pay you.”

  Alouette soon found herself in the back of a hay cart pulled by reluctant horses, and being jolted from side to side at every rut in the road. They had to pull into the ditch almost every mile, at least it seemed to Alouette, as regiment after regiment of soldiers passed them, heading north. They drove by several villages in turmoil, the residents packing every belonging they owned onto motor-cars, rickety carts similar to the one Alouette found herself in, or even on the backs of donkeys.

  “Why are you leaving?” Alouette called to one man as he balanced his rocking chair on a small wagon.

  “The Germans are advancing toward the Marne,” the man replied, the terror obvious in his voice.

  Alouette tipped her flowered hat and focused her eyes on the road ahead of them. She had to get back to Paris as soon as possible.

  The farm woman pulled back on the reins when they reached the aerodrome, about half a mile outside of Amiens. “You sure this is where you want to be?” she asked, eyeing the aerodrome. The doors had been left open, revealing its nearly empty chambers inside.

  “Yes, madame.” Alouette placed a few extra bills into the farm woman’s hand. “If you could just wait a minute.”

  The farm woman gave a deep sigh before nodding her acquiescence.

  When Alouette entered the practically deserted cavern, she heard someone call, “Madame Richer! Whatever are you doing here?”

  As she turned, she caught sight of the well-built Captain Jeanneros. “Oh, Captain, is it possible for you to send a mechanic to help me with my car? It has stalled on the road.”

  The captain threw his head back and laughed. “Only such things could happen to you, Madame Richer. The Germans are pushing toward here and I only have a few litres of petrol left. Of course, you can have some if you need it. But as for the mechanic, I cannot spare one. I’m very sorry, but I’m the last of the squadron now. All the others have gone.”

  Alouette sighed. “I’m not sure the petrol will do me much good if I cannot get my motor-car fixed.”

  Captain Jeanneros scratched his head. “I can give you one tip, madame. Do not stay long in this district, or soon you may find it impossible to leave at all.”

  They had passed the first houses in Picquigny on the return journey when Alouette heard the farm woman suck in her breath. Alouette sat straighter in the cart, catching sight of a crowd assembled in the spot where she’d left the car. To her horror, she noted two armed gendarmes approaching.

  “Now you’ve really done it,” the farm woman muttered.

  The gendarmes paused near the back of the cart. “Hand over your papers,” the shorter one commanded.

  Alouette did as she was bid, her heart racing. She garnered that her presence in the back of the farm cart, combined with her Parisian attire, not to mention her presence in the war zone, must have looked suspicious to the rural population of Picquigny.

  The short gendarme folded Alouette’s papers and tucked them into the pocket of his uniform.

  “Sir,” the farm woman spoke up. She hesitated for a brief second before resignedly pointing a gnarled finger to the cans of fuel in the rear of the cart.

  Alouette’s heart sank at her escort’s sudden betrayal.

  “Where did you get that petrol?” the other officer demanded. “Why are you harboring fuel when the Allies are in desperate need of it?”

  “Monsieur—” Alouette attempted an explanation, but the short gendarme cut her off. “You must come with us.” He gave a sharp whistle and the farm woman set the horse in motion, both officers keeping pace on either side of the cart.

  “Death to the spy!” an old man shouted as the crowd of villagers also started moving forward.

  Alouette felt terror rise in her chest. The mob swirled around the cart like an ocean tide. The villagers had already deemed her a traitor and any attempt she made to contradict them would be futile.

  She was under arrest.

  The mob of villagers followed the gendarme-escorted farm cart to the police station.

  One of the gendarmes pulled Alouette out of the cart. “Lynch the spy!” someone shouted as a spray of gravel landed at her feet. She looked up to meet the angry glare of a white-haired man. The tears that gathered in her eyes did not soften him—if anything, they seemed to be an admission of guilt—and he drew back his arm to launch the next cluster of rocks. “Die, double-crosser!” This time a sharp stone connected with Alouette’s jaw and the tears coursed their way down her face.

  Although the villagers were not permitted into the police station, the window in the room where Alouette was taken for questioning stood open and the crowd gathered outside of it.

  The evidence of Alouette’s supposed damnation was spread out on the table. Her revolver was placed prominently in the center, surrounded by the cans of petrol and the documentation she had presented to the gendarme.

  An older officer sat himself at the table across from the still-standing Alouette. “Name?” he demanded.

  “Alouette Richer,” she replied, a hint of pride in her voice. She briefly crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping he would recognize her name from the newspapers.

  The village gendarme gave no sign of appreciation as he copied it down. “Sit.”

  She fell into a chair with a sigh. She had recently flown from Crotoy to Zürich, to great fanfare, and the Parisian papers followed her triumphs, publishing several articles and photographs of her in aviator gear standing beside her plane. But now that war had come, a curtain had dropped over everything that had occurred before its outbreak.

  “You have no right to a revolver,” the officer commented, a growl in his voice. “How did you come by it?”

  “My husband, Henri Richer, gave it to me. He knew I’d be traveling alone and wanted to ensure my safety.”

  Once again, the gendarme showed no recognition of the name. “Let me see your handbag.”

  Reluctantly, she passed it across the table.

  He dug out her wallet and pulled out a wad of bills. “Who gave you all this money?”

  Alouette bit back another sigh. She supposed the 300 francs in her wallet was a small fortune to the country inspector, who probably earned less than half that in a month.

  “I am not a spy,” she insisted. “My husband is a wealthy man…”

  “I know, I know,” the gendarme held up his hand. “He must have given you all that money to ensure your safety.” He rose heavily to his feet. “What he didn’t understand was how incriminating carrying that amount of cash would be in a warzone. I have no choice but to detain you.”

  “But monsieur—”

  “Pending further inquiries, of course,” the inspector remarked as he shut the door behind him.

  Alouette was left in the room for over half an hour. She used that time to compose herself. The last thing she wanted was to show fear to the men at the station. Indeed, when a younger officer at last unlocked the door, she kept the expression on her face neutral. He escorted her to an empty cell.

  Alouette patted the pillow and then spread her skirts prettily before she sat on the bed.

  The young gendarme watched, an amused expression on his face. “This is not the first time you’ve spent the night in jail,” he stated.

  “Oh, it is monsieur,” Alouette said, taking her hat off and running a
hand through her golden hair. “But it’s better than sleeping in my broken-down motor-car by the side of the road.”

  “Indeed, it probably is.” He returned shortly with a packet of biscuits and stale coffee. Alouette could sense that she’d at least made a friend of one of the aloof gendarmes.

  That same young man came in early the next morning to announce that Alouette had been released. He waved a telegram with the word PARIS stamped on the front. “It seems you have friends in high places.”

  Alouette picked her hat off of the chipped nightstand and tucked her hair beneath it. “It would seem so, wouldn’t it?”

  “Where will you go now?”

  She pursed her lips. “My petrol?”

  He shook his head. “Seized for the army.”

  “Then I shall walk to Amiens.”

  The young man’s face spread into a smile. “Good luck, Madame Richer.”

  “And to you, monsieur.”

  Alouette passed many villagers going the opposite way as she. They were obviously refugees, judging from their weary, and in some cases, panic-stricken expressions. The pronounced silence was only broken by the occasional droning of an airplane. As soon as one became audible, the bewildered townspeople would duck their heads, as if heeding an unheard call, the call of terror that an enemy warcraft was about to drop a bomb upon them.

  Alouette found Amiens in utter chaos. Every door stood open as the townspeople rushed to and from their houses, packing up all of their belongings. Children, dogs, and a few roosters ran wildly through the streets. All roads that led to the town seemed to be filled with refugees repeating the same desperate phrases: “The Germans are coming. What shall we do?”

  She headed through the hordes of anxious people gathered outside the railway station. She found a man in a conductor’s uniform to ask about the next train to Paris.

  “Trains?” he asked in an incredulous voice. “My lady, this station is closed, and the rest of the staff has been cleared out. Gone to war,” he continued proudly, but Alouette was only half-listening.

  For a moment, she thought she would give in to the same useless panic that had overcome the people surrounding her. She allowed herself a few seconds of despair before returning to reality. She needed to find some other way to get to Paris if she desired to not be in a region that was about to be infested with the enemy.

  She spotted an open garage across the street and walked over to it. A young woman in a tattered dress sat on the steps leading toward the door. She glanced up as Alouette approached. “They say that the Germans murder any children they see.” She sniffed. “And I have two little boys.” She buried her head in her handkerchief.

  Alouette climbed up the steps and put a tentative hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Nobody can be so cruel as to hurt young innocents,” she stated. “Not even the Germans.”

  She handed the woman a soiled but dry handkerchief. The woman blew into it noisily before stating, “If you are looking for a vehicle, I have nothing left.”

  “Not even a cart?” Alouette asked, the hopelessness threatening to surface again.

  The young woman looked doubtfully at Alouette’s dress. “I do have a man’s bicycle. Do you know how to ride?”

  Alouette took a deep breath. Her brother had had one when they were growing up, but she was never allowed to ride since it couldn’t be ridden sidesaddle. “Not exactly, but if I can fly planes, surely I can ride a bicycle.” She dug into her purse to find the gendarme had left her a few francs, which she extended to the young woman. The woman pulled herself up, using the banister to steady herself, and led Alouette into the garage.

  Alouette walked the bicycle along the road until she was well out of the way of the crowds. The threat of falling on her face paled in comparison to the possibility of being taken as a German prisoner if she stayed here. Mounting the bicycle proved a difficult feat given her dress and handbag. As she pushed down on a pedal, the bicycle wobbled sideways instead of going forward and she hopped off, the bicycle plunging into the dust of the roadway.

  She heard a low noise and turned her head with her eyes closed, hoping that it was not the stomping of German boots. A young soldier in a blue coat and bright red trousers was sitting on a nearby bench, laughing.

  Alouette put her hands on her hips. “Well, don’t just sit there. Give me a lesson, would you?”

  He pointed at the bandage covering one of his eyes. “Even I can see that is a man’s bicycle.”

  “Oh, do you have a woman’s available?”

  The soldier shook his head.

  “Then do you know of another reason why I should not ride this bike straight to Paris?”

  “Yes,” he said, recovering from his earlier mirth. “The road to Paris has been captured by the Germans.”

  Alouette wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts and gazed at the dust blowing across the road. A German invasion in the carefree French capital seemed as far-flung a threat as someone predicting a thunderstorm on a sunny day. “My husband is in Paris.”

  “Oh?” The soldier’s voice dropped an octave. Alouette smiled to herself. There was something so naively amusing about young men thinking that every woman was ready to fawn over them.

  “At least I think so,” Alouette replied. “He enlisted as an ambulance driver, but hasn’t gotten orders yet. I had to detour to Crotoy to check on our plane.”

  The young man raised his eyebrows.

  “Confiscated,” Alouette said in answer to his unasked question.

  “Yes, the military will do that. When I was at Charleroi—”

  “You were in the Battle of the Sambre?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Alouette looked down. “No reason.” They said that war had a way of turning boys into men, but the young man’s affable manner hadn’t struck her as though he’d seen many hard battles. Even despite that bandaged eye.

  “Anyway, both sides are using airplanes for reconnaissance now.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What war innovations will they think of next?”

  Alouette was lost for a second, dreaming of being in the sky, finding the enemy among the trees. When she returned to reality, all she could focus on were the man’s bright red pants. “Those uniforms… are they new?”

  “They are, but the style dates back to Napoleon.”

  “Perhaps General Joffre might want to reconsider the color of your trousers. A line of soldiers all wearing those would be quite easy to spot from the air.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed with a smile. “I think that trains are still running to Paris from Abbeville.”

  Alouette picked up the bicycle. “Well, what are you waiting for, then?”

  The soldier taught her how to keep her balance. In only half an hour’s time, Alouette was able to ride steadily, although she was only able to mount the bicycle from the curb and could not stop except by jumping off. “I think I’ll be able to manage myself, now. Thank you for your kindness.”

  The young soldier tipped his hat toward her, revealing a bruised and bloody forehead. “Good luck, mademoiselle.”

  Alouette had no idea riding a bicycle could be such taxing work. She passed numerous refugees on her way to Abbeville. So preoccupied were they in their own misery that they did not pay much heed to the girl wobbling along, trying both to balance and keep her dress out of the bicycle’s chain at the same time. She kept her berth wide, lest she fell again, and called out to a man pushing a wheelbarrow, who heeded her by moving closer toward the side of the road. As Alouette overtook them, she realized the wheelbarrow was not filled with food or worldly possessions, but an invalid woman.

  Alouette saw she was approaching a hill and leapt off the bicycle. She tossed her hat into a ditch before picking the two-wheeler back up and walking up the summit. She could feel her stamina fading fast, but would not allow herself to rest, fearful that if she sat down, she might not be able to get back up again.

  Catching a train proved just as difficult in Abbeville as Amiens. The watchman ther
e told Alouette that there was no way to know when the next train to Paris would leave.

  Alouette was about to turn around in anguish when the man told her there was a branch line in Sergueux. Knowing that was her last chance, Alouette managed to get her aching limbs mounted once again on the bicycle and pedaled off.

  She was relieved to see a train sitting in the station, although it seemed to consist mostly of open cattle wagons. “Will that be leaving shortly?” Alouette inquired of an official standing near a car.

  The man shrugged. “We are waiting for information on the movement of the troops.”

  Still, Alouette bought a ticket and boarded a cattle wagon.

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  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my critique partners: Ute Carbone, Theresa Munroe, and Karen Cino for their comments and suggestions. Also thank you to my Advanced Review team, especially Jackie Cavalla for her eagle eyes, as well as Matthew Baylis for his excellent editing skills and Hannah Linder for the wonderful cover.

  And as always, thanks to my loving family, especially Tommy, Belle, and Thompson, for their unconditional love and support.