Why I Stole Your Bicycle

Paris 1943


Sorry I stole your bicycle.


To be fair, it hadn’t moved for two days. I mean, that alone is a feat with a war on.


And, well, I needed a bicycle.


But I figured I would check the bags first, see if there was anything I could sell. For the record, I didn’t find anything worth selling.


But I did find an envelope with my name on it.


I’ve never gotten an envelope with my name on it. So I opened it. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But I did and I can’t change it now.


Andre.


The message didn’t make much sense at first. But I read it again and again, and each time it got a little bit clearer. Code, right? Does it do that for you, too?


I wasn’t quite sure I had it all figured out, but I did know one thing.


This message wasn’t for me.


And if it didn’t get to the actual Andre? I had a hard time imagining the consequences. Maybe it would mean they just didn’t pick up the umbrella they left at the university. Maybe it meant the war would drag on for another two years.


How would I know?


There was a list of addresses in the pocket of the bag. You seem like an organized fellow, so I matched the seventh address on the page with the letter I held in my hand. Smart, marking the code number on the back frame of the bicycle.


And then, I just got on and pedaled to that address.


I know my father has really been after you and the other spies, and I don’t even know if you’re still alive or free to see this, but I’m not like him.


I’ll return the bicycle tomorrow.