Michael at the Invasion of France, 1943 Read online

  The Gestapo split the three of us up. Maman was led into an office with one of the Nazis. She wanted to bring Charlotte with her, but a German woman came and took my sister by the hand. Charlotte wailed, reaching for Maman and then for me. The other boche pulled me away.

  “No one will harm her,” he said in English.

  I followed Maman’s example and answered in French. “She’s only five,” I said. “And scared of soldiers. Yelling frightens her.”

  The boche snorted. “Who will yell at her?” he asked in English.

  He led me into an office with two desks, an extra chair in the middle of the room, and a barred window. I could see more barred windows across a courtyard. The boche nudged me to the chair. I sat and took my coat off. It was warm. I hadn’t been this warm in winter since before the war. Obviously there was no shortage of coal for the Nazis, only for the French.

  The officer exchanged a few sentences in German with a young soldier who sat at one of the desks. Then he switched to French, clearly for my benefit.

  “The boy and his mother understand that we just want information,” he said to the soldier. “They know it’s best to cooperate.” Then he turned to me and switched once again to his heavily accented English.

  “Tell me about your father’s activities in England,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Questioned by the Gestapo

  My jaw dropped. “Quoi?” I stammered. “What?”

  “Tell me about your father’s activities in England,” the Gestapo agent said again, louder this time.

  “What? What are you talking about?” I asked. “My papa isn’t in England.” Somehow I managed to remember to answer in French and not in English. It was important that he think of me as French, not American. The United States was at war with Germany. France had signed an armistice.

  The boche switched topics as quickly and easily as he did languages. “You are American. Correct?”

  “Non.” I shook my head. Once again, I answered him in French. “I am French. I was born in France,” I told him. “Maman was born in the United States, but she is a French citizen—for twenty years.”

  His mouth tightened into a grim line. “Why do you refuse to speak English? You understand it.”

  “I understand English better than I speak it,” I said in French. I said the next sentence in English, but exaggerated my French accent and made sure to get the grammar wrong. “Not good is my English.”

  He gave up. The next question was in French. “You have spent much time in America?”

  “Before the war,” I said vaguely. “A holiday or two with Maman’s family.”

  “And your father? How does he feel about America?”

  “America?” I asked. That question genuinely surprised me. I shrugged. “Papa’s a Frenchman. His loyalties are to France.”

  “Where is your papa now?” he asked.

  I stared at him for a moment. Hadn’t he just said Papa was in England? “We don’t know. We think he was at Dunkirk. Maman believes he is a prisoner. But we’ve heard nothing. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  The Nazi said nothing. I continued to babble. “My brother, Georges, is a prisoner. We got a postcard from him. He’s working in Germany.”

  The Gestapo agent dropped the topic of England completely. Did he know that Papa was in England, or was he just fishing? He asked many questions about America. He acted as if we were having a pleasant conversation in a café or something. I remembered Pierre’s ugly words about Americans, and I repeated them now, as if they were my beliefs. The words tasted bitter in my mouth, but the boche agreed enthusiastically.

  “Yes! Yes! Americans are all about money.”

  He asked about our contact with our American relatives. There was none that I knew of. The war had put a stop to that.

  The Gestapo stepped into the hall. I asked the younger solider for some water. I knew he understood French, but he ignored me. When the Gestapo returned, he was angry. “Your father is in England.” he screamed. “Plotting against the Third Reich, and you are helping him.” His face was red. Spittle flew from his lips. “Tell me everything and it will be better for you—and your maman.”

  That last part sounded like a threat, but I had nothing to tell. I said nothing.

  The boche slammed his fist down on the desk and I jumped.

  “He is spying for the Americans. You and your mother are helping him gather information.”

  My jaw dropped. His statement was so ridiculous that I would have burst out laughing had I not been so frightened. “What information?” I asked. “We have no information. We know nothing.”

  “Where is your father?” the boche asked again.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “Dead or in Germany.”

  The boche took a deep breath. “Your mother has told us. I only want you to confirm a few details, and then you can all go home. I can’t help you if you don’t want to help yourself. If you don’t want to help your maman.” He threw his arms up in the air and waited.

  I said nothing.

  “Your sister is alone,” he said. “She is scared.”

  My mind raced. I didn’t believe Maman had strayed from our story. It was possible that Papa was living openly in England, working for de Gaulle. The Gestapo would know that. But Maman and I had no contact with him. How could we? Where had the Germans gotten this ridiculous idea that Maman and I were spies for Papa?

  If the Gestapo had any real facts, the officer wouldn’t keep asking the same questions over and over again, trying to trip me up. I could trust Maman. She could trust me. My fear left me and I was filled with an icy calm.

  “I do want to help Maman,” I said, “but I have nothing to tell you. We have not heard from Papa since before the Occupation.”

  Sometimes the boche was conversational and friendly. Other times he screamed and pounded his desk. I answered the questions the same way over and over and over again. All the while the young soldier sat calmly taking notes.

  Then it occurred to me that a little playacting might help.

  “Do you know where my papa is?” I asked. “Is he really alive in England?”

  The Nazi refused to answer.

  I was tired and hungry, and suddenly a wave of sadness washed over me. I had said over and over again that I feared Papa was dead. What if he really was? What if he would never know how much I tried to be a soldier for France? I dropped my head into my hands and began to cry.

  “Stop that,” the boche said.

  “My papa is dead, isn’t he?” I wailed. “You worked him to death in Germany!”

  The boche slammed out of the room.

  I sat there for a long time, wondering what had sent the Gestapo to our home in the first place.

  “Please,” I begged the silent young soldier. “Do you know anything about my papa?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I wondered why the Nazis hadn’t asked me any questions about the Resistance. Had someone turned Maman in as an American and made up lies about us for a few extra pieces of coal?

  An hour later, the boche came back and flicked his hand in dismissal. The younger man stood, clicked his heels, and with a “Heil Hitler” led me into the hall. They were the only words I heard him speak.

  Charlotte sat on a bench with the German lady. She ran to me and threw her arms around my waist.

  “Où est Maman?” she asked. “Where is Maman?”

  “She’ll be here soon,” I said. I led Charlotte back to the bench and we sat, hugging, under the watchful gaze of the German lady. Finally an agent led a tired, scared, but very determined-looking Maman to us.

  Charlotte threw herself at Maman.

  “Shhhh, ma petite.” Maman gathered Charlotte in her arms. “All is well, my darling. All is well.�
� She looked over Charlotte’s head to where I sat. I was suddenly too tired to even stand. “Ça va?” she asked.

  “Ça va, Maman,” I answered. “All is well.”

  With Charlotte between us, we walked out the front doors of Gestapo headquarters and splurged on a bicycle taxi.

  “Papa would be very proud of you,” Maman said, once we were far away from Avenue Foch.

  “He would be proud of you,” I told her. Secretly, I couldn’t help worrying that I had done something to bring the Gestapo to our door. Did they suspect my resistance work?

  The Gestapo left us alone after that. Maman had to register at the local police station every Saturday to prove she was still in Paris. We weren’t allowed to leave the city.

  “That’s all right,” Maman said, hugging Charlotte. “We like Paris. We’ll be here when the Americans and the English come and drive these nasty boches back to Germany.”

  Charlotte looked up at her with a sleepy smile. “Nasty boches,” she repeated.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Traitor Revealed

  Maman believed that the Gestapo had questioned us only because she was American, but I wasn’t so sure. How did they know that Papa was in England? Maman had told no one. I told my two closest friends, and one of them had turned into a Nazi. I suspected Pierre.

  I knew for sure when I arrived at the schoolyard with Jacques two days later. Pierre nearly tripped over his feet in surprise. He tried to act unconcerned, but I saw it—shock, fear, and disbelief crossed his face. Pierre did not expect to see me at school that day, or ever again.

  “He did it,” I said to Jacques.

  Jacques nodded. He’d seen it too.

  I raised my fists, ready to pound the traitor into the pavement. I saw fear in my ex-friend’s eyes. He searched the schoolyard, no doubt looking for his accomplice. Stefan was nowhere in sight. Pierre was only brave when the Young Guards surrounded him.

  Now he slithered into the school building.

  I set off after him, but Jacques caught up and held me back. “You’ll only get into trouble,” he said. “You don’t want him going to the Nazis again, do you?”

  “Maybe I’ll go to the Kommandantur and turn him in on a made-up charge,” I said from between clenched teeth. “He can learn what it’s like to be interrogated by the Gestapo.”

  “No Kommandantur,” Jacques said. “The Resistance will deal with him and the other Nazi collaborators after the war. François says the collabos will be tried for their war crimes as soon as we drive the Nazis out of France.”

  Jacques was right, of course. But at that moment I wanted nothing more than to see Pierre suffer. To see him bleed. I took deep breaths until I was able to unclench my fists. I had calmed down, but my vow to fight the Nazis was stronger than ever.

  “When do I start helping the aviators again?” I asked. “The sooner they get back to England, the sooner they can win this war. And then—I promise you—I will take care of Pierre myself.”

  “Soon,” Jacques said. “Soon.”

  It wouldn’t be soon enough for me. Christmas was just a month away, and December meant it would be even colder. We French shivered in our patched clothing, went without Christmas presents, and faced near-empty dinner tables. German soldiers carried packages wrapped in colorful paper and planned elaborate Christmas feasts.

  As 1942 drew to a close, things in France began to change. The Allies landed in North Africa and liberated the French colonies. We began to truly believe that Germany would lose the war. I guess the Nazis were beginning to believe that too. Until then, they occupied only the Atlantic coast and the northern part of France. But when they lost North Africa, the Nazis rushed to take over the rest of the country. They also started going after the Resistance with a fierceness we had not seen before.

  In January, Jacques began to disappear on mysterious errands again. That meant the Resistance had been able to rebuild the escape line. François refused to send me out on missions. He thought the Gestapo might be watching because I was American.

  I spent the next three weeks breaking the rules just to prove him wrong. I tore down more posters, pinned a paper V on my jacket, and even stuck a Vive de Gaulle sticker right on the back of a German truck. The real test came when I found a pile of resistance newsletters on the métro and spent the afternoon slipping them into people’s hands. I even handed one to a Nazi soldier just as the subway doors were closing. By the time he realized what he was reading, I had jumped onto the platform. As the train pulled out of the station, the Nazi shook his fist at me, but I escaped without arrest. If the Gestapo was watching, I’d have been dragged off to headquarters five or six times.

  Finally, François had to admit that the Resistance needed me. The Nazis were arresting French men and forcing them to go to Germany to work in war factories. They raided cafés and movie houses, the métro, and every other public place. No one over eighteen was safe. Men had to go underground, and the Resistance needed boys, despite the risks.

  One Saturday morning in March, right after I got back from clipping grass for my rabbits, Jacques asked me if I had any English books.

  “A few, I said. “Maman has more.”

  “Can you come with me?” he asked. “And bring a couple of books?”

  Jacques had told me weeks ago that he and François were helping American and British aviators. If he wanted English books, that could only mean I was going to meet one of them! I slipped copies of Huckleberry Finn and Treasure Island into my rucksack and followed Jacques on a bike ride across town. We stopped in front of a small house in the Pigalle neighborhood. I stood back while the Fox quietly knocked on a door. An old woman led us into a cramped kitchen.

  “Bonjour, madame,” Jacques said. “This is the friend I told you about. The Wolf.”

  The old woman smiled and kissed my cheeks.

  “Bonjour,” I said. I was disappointed. What could this old woman possibly have to do with the Resistance?

  “Come,” she said. She led us into a small, dark living room. The curtains were pinned closed. A man was sleeping on a sofa. One leg dangled over the armrest. The other was propped on cushions. He was way too big for the furniture.

  The old woman cleared her throat and the man woke with a start. He tried to get to his feet, but only teetered on his good leg. His eyes darted from me to Jacques to the old woman. “Ami?” the man asked Jacques in badly accented French. “Friend?”

  “Friend and comrade,” I assured him in English. “You must be American!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  An American Aviator

  March 1943

  The aviator stared at me with a stunned expression. He looked familiar. I thought about it for a few minutes and then I realized that his was one of the faces on the identity cards Jacques and I had looked at on the day of the arrests.

  Jacques laughed at the man’s surprise and explained what had happened. “He’s been here since the arrests. The line was finally up and running again when he tripped in the dark and sprained his ankle—badly. He’s lucky he didn’t break it, but he can’t leave until he can walk. He’s been trapped in this small dark room ever since.”

  The American looked to me, and I translated. “Jacques says you’re stuck here until your ankle heals,” I said.

  “I didn’t tell him you were coming,” Jacques continued. “I didn’t want to get his hopes up if the Lion said no, but he’s starting to act a little strange. I think he’s been without anyone to talk to for too long.”

  The old woman pointed to her chest. “I don’t speak English,” she said in French.

  The pilot understood that at least. “I don’t speak French,” he added. “I haven’t heard my own language for weeks. They don’t even have a radio here.”

  “The Germans block the BBC anyway,” I told him. “T
hey don’t want us to know they’re losing the war. Where are you from?”

  “Lexington, Kentucky. Name is Steve Jones.”

  He was a giant of a man, much taller than the average Frenchman. I wondered where the Resistance had found clothes to fit him, but then I noticed that someone had sewn fabric onto the ends of his trouser legs so that they would cover his ankles. His shirt was at least two sizes too small.

  “I’m Wolf,” I said.

  He gave my hand a hard shake. “Hiya, Wolfie,” the pilot said. “It sure is nice to hear English. And you don’t even have an accent. Where’d y’all learn it?”

  “My mother—” I cut myself off again. If the Nazis picked up Steve Jones from Lexington, Kentucky, he could lead them to me. Or worse, to Maman.

  “Is your mother an American?” he asked.

  “No, but she speaks the language very well,” I said. It surprised me how easily and naturally I lied. Keeping secrets had become second nature. “I learned it from her.”

  I visited Steve every few days for the next couple of weeks. Sometimes I rode my bike, sometimes the métro. I took different routes, and went at different times of day, always watching to make sure I wasn’t being followed. The aviator devoured every book I brought him and was anxious for every bit of war news I had. The Germans had done a good job of blocking the radio waves, but every once in a while some good news got through to us.

  Steve couldn’t tell me what I really wanted to know—when the Allies would invade France and drive the boches out—but he told me his own story.

  “I was a gunner on a B-17,” he said, “a Flying Fortress. It was our fifth mission. We were flying over France, toward Germany, to take out a factory just over the French-German border. We were close to our target when the Luftwaffe showed up on our tail. Planes around us started going down. Next thing I knew, there was a loud whump, and my buddy Pete crumpled to the floor. Dead.”

  Steve stared into space for a minute. “I crippled one of their planes,” he said, “but they kept coming at us. Our plane started to nose-dive—fast. The copilot screamed over the radio that we had to bail. The next thing I knew, I was jumping out of the plane. Only a couple of us got out before the engine exploded.”