by Max Ciampoli
A few years later, after the end of the war, the gendarmes came to see me at the Eden-Roc, a luxury hotel in the south of France that was serving as a hospital for officers and where I was recovering from an injury.
“A body was found in a bergerie near La Turbie,” one of them began. “When we asked around to see if anyone knew what had happened, the owner of the restaurant explained the circumstances and named you as the person responsible. Is that so?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Please read and sign the statement we have prepared, if you find it accurate.”
Since it was true, I signed it. The policemen thanked me and left. That was the last time anyone mentioned the incident to me.
From La Turbie I made my way to Lisbon, where I would contact the appropriate people to get back to England. The city was a major destination for refugees, especially Jewish families, from all parts of Europe trying to escape Nazi tyranny. Their desperation was palpable. Another aspect of the city’s changing climate was the continual influx of spies. Intrigue reigned as their numbers increased from Russia, England, Germany, Italy, France, Spain, and elsewhere. Spies from the world over either mingled or cautiously avoided one another. Lisbon was teeming with secrets, schemes, and conspiracies. The enemy was unidentifiable. No one could be trusted. Everyone was spying on everyone else. If it hadn’t been so serious, it would have been comical.
A couple of days later, compliments of the British, I embarked on a fishing trawler that took me and a number of Jewish refugees to England. The others were already on board when I arrived dockside. The trip took a long time because we had to avoid the path of the German submarines. As soon as we arrived in port, I made a telephone call to Mr. Churchill’s secretary.
“I’m in England and ready to be picked up,” I said, happy to hear her familiar voice.
A couple of hours later, a car driven by a woman soldier came to take me to the prime minister’s residence. On the way to my safe haven, I hoped that Mr. Churchill would have time to go hunting. I could use the relaxation. Then again, I thought, maybe he would have a mission for me right away. In any case, I breathed easier now that I was back in England and my mission had been completed successfully.
ELEVEN
Josephine
While on a long ride on one of Mr. Churchill’s horses, I thought about how much I loved to be out in nature, just my horse and me. I was enjoying the long, relaxed days alone in the countryside while Mr. Churchill was engaged with his wartime responsibilities in London. But this restful interlude did not last long.
The prime minister returned the following week and called me to his office. “I haven’t seen you for such a long time, mon petit,” he said as he took me in his arms. “It makes me happy to see you here and to be able to speak French with you. By the way, I commend you on the plan you formulated at Maxim’s. When the war is over, you and I will have to pay them a visit. We must thank them for their invaluable assistance in defeating the Germans, and we must show our appreciation to the salon owner as well. One day, we’ll have a lot to celebrate,” he said with resolve.
“I love your devotion to getting rid of the Hitler regime,” he added. “I love your posture and your allure. You represent what we call in Great Britain a true gentleman. You seem to be at ease in any milieu. That serves us well.”
I was too embarrassed to respond. Anyway, I didn’t know what to say. I was just pleased to be useful, but I wanted to do something more, something definitive.
“I hope you’ve been sleeping well and enjoying your rest because it’s time for you to leave on an important mission. The United States has fifty-three bombers in moth-balls that we desperately need for our Royal Air Force. We are alone in this fight against the Nazis. Not only do we need these planes, but we need more arms and more supplies to conquer the Germans. They are much better equipped than we are. Every time the Nazis bomb London, we must retaliate immediately and with precision.”
At the time, neither the United States nor Canada was willing to get involved in the war. “Marc, I need you to go to France to talk to a very influential person that I met years ago in Monte Carlo at your father’s club. She could be crucial to our obtaining these airplanes. We need to convince some financiers and influential industrialists in the United States to sell us these bombers. I know the U.S. wants to remain neutral; however, if we don’t get them, I fear for the future of the world.”
He sighed and nodded, emphasizing the seriousness of what he was about to confide. “You’ll go to her home. She lives in the countryside, about two hundred kilometers north of Toulouse. I want you to talk to her and explain how critical the situation is. Tell her that each time we are attacked, it is imperative that we counterattack. We cannot continue doing so if we don’t increase our airpower. We have lost too many airplanes, and we do not have the means to produce them quickly enough. It is vital that we obtain these American planes so we can destroy the German arms factories and war production machine.” Churchill didn’t say why he chose me for the mission, but I would figure that out later.
I responded, “I’m ready. When do I leave?”
“Through personal contacts in France, I’ve arranged your cover. You are on the books of a company that buys and sells farm animals and through selective breeding improves the breed quality. Your specialty is cows. You can increase the quantity of their milk production. Your title is “négociant de bestiaux,” a farm animal salesman. Your region is nonoccupied France. Everything is well organized, with people in the industry claiming to have known you for years, those for whom you work and have worked, and those who will unequivocally stand up for your good reputation in the industry. Your biggest concern, as always, will be the French Militia. The pro-Nazi movement is growing and they are treacherous, as you already know. Good luck, Marc, and may God be with you. My secretary will give you all the details tomorrow.” Before I left his office, he gave me another hug.
The next day, his secretary gave me the particulars. “Monsieur Marc, you will be dropped in the vicinity of Brive-la-Gaillarde in the Gers department of France. You will have a Peugeot 304 at your disposition and plenty of coupons for gasoline. Your name will again be Michel Carbonell. All papers confirming your identity will be in the car. Only Mr. Churchill and I know about this mission. Do not trust anyone else. The German Fifth Column is everywhere. We know that many of them have been in England for years and are in powerful positions. They are doctors, lawyers, and politicians. We never know who we are truly talking to. They established themselves well before the war started, from the time when Hitler was first forming his Nazi party.”
The departure was planned for a night with no moon, with takeoff set for 11:30 P.M. I boarded a small, slow-moving but very quiet and light airplane, one most often used for observation. For the longer range necessary with this mission, an additional gas tank had been installed. The frame of the airplane was built of wood, covered with canvas, and painted with an aluminum paint to waterproof it. As little metal as possible was used in the body to avoid detection from radar.
After we were in the air about ten minutes, I handed the pilot our flight plan. We were to head south from England, avoiding the coast of France. Then we would head toward Arcachon on the coast and go inland toward Périgueux where the partisans of Combat would be waiting for me. Hours later, I spotted what I was trained to detect.
“There are the fires,” I said to the pilot. There were always three fires placed in an arrowlike arrangement to indicate the direction of the wind. The pilot lifted one wing and was able to get a bit more elevation. He landed beautifully, coming to a stop before the end of the field, which was about 150 meters long. Fortunately, he made a soft landing, as this type of plane, owing to its light construction, can take very little shock.
At the field, hundreds of men and women, most of them Basques, were armed heavily with Steins (9-millimeter machine guns), hunting rifles, and grenades. All were there to protect me. They quickly threw dirt on the f
ires, and I was directed toward a narrow dirt road where a truck was waiting. Three members of the Resistance were in the back of the truck. One of them had a bazooka. I got in next to the driver, who turned on the ignition but not the headlights. It was around three in the morning. He told me, “Curfew is at eleven. We have to be extremely careful. No lights. The French Militia is vicious in our region. If they spot us, we’ll be imprisoned.” A short while later, the truck came to a halt. “This is your destination for tonight, monsieur. Be ready at eleven tomorrow morning. We’ll pick you up.” They left me at a nearby farm where the woman of the house and her two children were awaiting my arrival.
“Come into the kitchen and sit down. I’ve prepared a little something for you to eat,” she offered cordially.
I sat down at a lovely, traditional rectangular chestnut table where each place had a bowl carved into the wood, country-style. At this type of table, no plates were used. The “bowls” were simply wiped clean after the meal. The fireplace was at the far end of the kitchen/family room. Made of massive granite, it took up the entire wall. There were two stone benches inside the fireplace that provided a wonderful place to warm up on winter mornings. Each bench could easily seat two people. The ceiling was supported lengthwise by two tremendous chestnut beams. Each of these was supported by two beams on either end of the ceiling. On the table was a welcome spread: rye bread; Reblochon cheese, a rarity in the area (from the Haute-Savoie region); and a bottle of Bordeaux.
After I finished the special meal, the farmer’s wife showed me to my room, located on the mezzanine and overlooking the enormous room below. There were three other bedrooms down the hall. I fell asleep right away, only to be awakened a couple of hours later by the whispering of her two young boys. Both were dressed for school in white shirts and navy blue short pants covered by aprons. They wore lace-up shoes with long navy blue socks. The two stared at me in awe. They were so excited to have “the spy” in their home.
When on a mission, I often slept in my trousers, so I had only to finish dressing fully. I put on my disguise: a long-sleeved shirt, a virgin-wool ecru pullover sweater, a beige angora scarf that could easily be wrapped around my neck three times, a cap from Auvergne, short boots, and socks. I “brushed” my teeth with soap and the end of the towel, washed up, and combed my hair. I was letting my beard grow so there was no need to shave. The two boys each grabbed a hand and pulled me downstairs.
“Voilà l’officier anglais, Maman!” the older of the two shouted. They evidently thought I was a British officer. “Come and eat,” the older boy said to me. “Our mother has already prepared breakfast.”
They were so adorable. The staircase steps were very narrow—just fine for the two excited little ones, but at the speed they were pulling me, I was having a hard time keeping myself from falling. Finally, I just whisked each boy up in the air by putting my arms straight up, and I arrived safely at the ground level with a giggling boy hanging at the end of each arm.
The two of them pulled me toward the table. I sat down and was immediately sandwiched by the two kids. The bread was warm, the block of butter (about a kilo and a half) had just been removed from the churn, and the mirabelle plum jam was the best I had ever eaten. I generously buttered the bread and dipped it in my bowl of café au lait, made from barley and chicory and lightened with fresh cream. I took a second helping of bread with a mound of fresh jam piled on top. This was to be a memorable breakfast. I started to get up from the table, but the lady of the house stopped me. “Monsieur, I have fresh apple beignets for you,” she said. They were sprinkled with powdered sugar, and she served them with a bowl of fresh cream. Extraordinary.
The kids began to pull on me. “Monsieur, come help us milk the cows. We’ve been eating for so long that we’re late. The truck that collects the milk cans will be here soon!” Smiling, I hurried out with them to the barn to take care of the twelve beautiful Holsteins. The cows smelled so good. They were impeccably clean. Each cow gave about nine liters of milk. The three of us completed the job in no time at all. I milked five cows in the time that it took their little hands to milk three each. Then the two kids milked the last one. They kidded me, laughing, “For a grown-up, you sure milk slowly.”
We filled the three milk containers with one bucket at a time, dumping the bucket of milk in after finishing each cow. We loaded them into a wheelbarrow that the two boys pushed to the side of the road. Then we placed the milk containers in an old bathtub into which flowed fresh and icy underground spring water.
Unexpectedly, the truck that I had ridden in the night before appeared, followed by the Peugeot that I was to drive. It was eight o’clock in the morning, not eleven.
“Are you ready?” the driver of the truck shouted. I nodded. “Get into the car on the passenger’s side.” A woman was at the driver’s wheel.
“I’ll just grab a few things inside the house,” I said. I hardly had time to say thank you and good-bye to the dear people. I jumped into the car, and we drove off immediately, taking the road toward Brive-la-Gaillarde. I turned for a last look at the family. I noticed the sad little eyes of the two boys, each one wrapped in an arm of their mother, standing in front of the farmhouse.
The truck took the lead. The road was dusty and filled with potholes. After four or five hours, the driver said to me, “After this curve, on the right, you will see a fifteenth-century château. It is called Les Milandes. As you will see, it’s surrounded by a forest and rolling pastureland. It’s located to the northwest of Toulouse and overlooks Castelnaud-Fayrac, next to the Dordogne River.”
The truck came to a stop in front of the estate, and the car stopped directly behind it. From the passenger’s side of the truck emerged one of the men from the previous evening. He motioned to the Peugeot driver to go ahead, and the driver of the truck honked the horn four times.
The entrance to the estate was a dirt road lined on both sides by plane trees, platanes. Arriving in front of the chateau, the car came to a stop on the cobblestone directly in front of the impressive entrance.
The driver of the car got out, handed me the keys, and jumped into the truck. The truck pulled away. No one said another word. When I reached the top of the front steps, I found the door partially open. I called out, “Is anyone home?”
Two small hands appeared on the edge of the door, pulling it open. The servant said, “Come in, monsieur. Madame is expecting you.” She led me to the salon. A woman was seated on the Empire-style red velvet couch. She wore long pants of white shantung, which hugged her body from slender waist to knee and from there flared out on the sumptuous red velvet. Through the sheer long-sleeved white blouse, I could see her beautiful black skin. She was smiling.
I could not believe my eyes! My throat tightened. I couldn’t say a word. I knew this woman! She jumped up, seeing me suddenly lose all color in my face.
“Do you feel all right, monsieur? Would you like a glass of water?” Her very short hair was worn tight against her head like Rudolph Valentino, parted on the side. I tried to bring myself under control so that I could tell her I was all right, but I could not utter a sound. This was such a shock. I wanted to say, “Do you remember me?” but nothing came out. Again, she asked, “Please, may I get you some water?” This time I nodded, thinking that the water might help me speak. She hurriedly left the room.
Meanwhile, I flashed back to the time when I was four years old. This woman held such a special place in my memory. She flew back into the room with a glass of water in hand and gave it to me. Elegant in her every movement, she darted about like a firefly. I took a couple of sips of water and glanced her way. She looked very concerned.
This bearded young man, not yet nineteen years old, suddenly felt again just like that little boy of four. The extraordinary entertainer standing before my eyes had been a guest in my parents’ home for three or four months while she entertained at my father’s nightclub. She had always treated me so kindly, calling me “mon petit bonhomme,” my little young ma
n. I also had fond memories of her little black Pekinese, “Minuit,” who would lie on my lap for hours on end, licking my hands and arms.
When I was able to pull myself together, I looked at her directly and began to sing, “J’ai deux amours: mon pays et Paris” (I have two loves: my country and Paris). That was her special song. While looking into her eyes, I added, just as she had in my youth, “Et vous aussi.” (That’s what she added to the song when she sang it to me, “And you, too.”)
She looked at me. It was obvious that there was no recognition. Smiling quizzically, Josephine Baker responded, “Oh, they didn’t give me a password. ‘Et vous aussi’—is that the password? Or do I know you?”
I answered with unusual tenderness in my voice, “You know me, mademoiselle. I am your petit bonhomme, but I haven’t seen you since I was four years old in Monte Carlo.”
She approached me saying, “Oh my God! Of course, I see it now. You are Franck and Celeste’s son. Now I see the resemblance to your mother. You have her smile. You’ve grown up, but you still have that unforgettable, sincere smile of your dear mother,” she said, as her eyes filled with tears. “Come, come over here and kiss me.” She began sobbing as she held me in her arms. After some time, we both regained our composure. How times had changed since then!
“I’ve thought of you so often,” she said kindly. “You were the most polite and considerate child I have ever met. I know that must have come from the education of your tutor. I’m certain you didn’t learn it from your father. And you undoubtedly have your mother’s big heart,” she said wistfully. She had always cared a lot for my mother. We reminisced. My mind was flooded with memories. During those few months, she had given me the affection, the hugs and kisses, and attention that my mother was forbidden to give me. From Josephine, during that brief period, I had received the mothering and nurturing that I had longed for.