by Max Ciampoli
My mother had been ripped away from my life when she was forced to stop breast-feeding me when I had reached the age of eighteen months. After that, my father would allow her no more contact with me. I never understood why he wouldn’t let us be together, and I hated him for this as well as for so many other things.
“I was expecting an English spy,” she said. “I never thought I would meet you again after all these years. They told me that the agent would be staying here for a week or two. What should I call you? I don’t want to say anything wrong.”
Memories, words, and feelings were all jumbled together inside me. I felt like that love-starved little boy again. Dryly, I said, “My name is Michel Carbonell. I was born in Oran, Algeria, on November 21, 1922. I sell farm animals.”
Josephine took my hand in hers. I melted inside. We sat together talking on the couch for a long time, remembering the days long ago in Monaco. (Now, as I write this decades later, I have tears in my eyes. But back in those days, I rarely showed my emotion. I experienced so little tenderness in my life until these recent years with my wife. Recalling these memories and expressing them on paper moves me deeply.)
I started to take in the décor of the room. The exquisite antique furniture would have made any collector jealous.
“Before we eat lunch, I want to introduce you to my family,” Josephine announced. We walked into the next room, the grand salon, which was impressive, to say the least. The stone fireplace was immense. Inside was a door leading down to an underground room and secret passageway that led out of the château. Of course, I would use it should I need a quick escape.
“I used the room to hide British pilots who were shot down while trying to help the French defend themselves. We were able to get them all back to England safely.”
As we entered the grand salon, I stopped abruptly. There, on the parquet floor, head resting inside the fireplace, one of the members of the family, Agathe, a python that was six meters in length, was introduced to me. Josephine saw the look in my eyes.
“Most people have that special look when they first meet Agathe,” she said, very endearingly. “She just loves the little breeze that comes up from the passageway. That’s her favorite spot.”
“What do you feed her?”
“She loves chicken. I have them killed fresh for her. She swallows them whole, feathers and all. Just one will nourish her for an entire week.”
We walked to the other side of the room. “I want you to meet Hannibal.” The stunning green, blue, and yellow parrot was sitting on a platform just outside his cage. He seemed to understand English and French, but most of the time he spoke English, and I didn’t understand a word when he did. Josephine opened the window and said to Hannibal, “Appelle Bozo. Call Bozo.” Hannibal called out, “Bozo, Bozo.” A beautiful Great Dane came running at full speed toward the terrace. Josephine took Hannibal, opened the door to the terrace, placed the bird on Bozo’s collar, and said to me, “They’re going to go for a walk. Let’s go with them.”
In the distance, behind the château, was a large carriage house with a door for each vehicle. There were several doors. Inside, she had two limos, a Citroën Rosalie and a horse carriage. Three servants lived on the second floor of the building, but the gardener didn’t live on the property. Behind the carriage house was another garage in which a small truck was parked. In a big cage, next to the garage, was a chimpanzee with two white mice for company. In the stable, there were two black and white cows and several black and white pigs. Josephine called out to Bozo and said in French, “Let’s take Hannibal back to the house and have lunch.”
“My cook has today off. Let’s go to the kitchen and I’ll make some sandwiches. Would you like jambon de Bayonne or des rillettes?
“Both,” I replied, as we walked to the kitchen. “Do you have some butter for the ham sandwich?”
I felt so at ease with her, and I never felt comfortable with people. “Of course,” she said, “and I even have some apples for the shredded pork spread.” I put together my own sandwiches, and she made one for herself along with a salad for both of us. Then she poured two glasses of rich milk. We sat down at one end of the huge, farm-style table and enjoyed our lunch together. Finishing her second glass of milk, she said laughingly, “With all the milk I drink, I should be as white as snow by now.”
“Oh, non! You are magnificent as you are.” I shuddered at the thought of her not having her beautiful black skin. She smiled affectionately. Her smile lit up the room.
“After lunch, I usually take a nap, but sometimes I don’t wake till four or five in the morning. If I’m still asleep when you get up, just help yourself to whatever you want to eat. My room is in the right wing on the second floor. There is a lovely tower room in the left wing ready for you. Most of the servants are off on Sunday, so you’ll have to fend for yourself.” She let the dog out, locked the doors, and I went upstairs to find my room.
It wasn’t just a room. It encompassed the entire tower. The Roman-style bathtub looked inviting, but I chose the Louis XIV canopy bed and went right to sleep. A while later, I heard some noise in the grand salon. I quietly went down the stairs to investigate. I peeked through the door of the great room. There, I saw a hysterical scene. The gardener was pulling the python by the tail in the direction of the terrace door.
“Do you need some help?” I asked, amused by the sight. “Yes, that would be wonderful. Agathe always spends the night outside. When she is hungry, I have no problem because I can just hold a chicken in front of her, and she follows me to the terrace. Today, she just wants to sleep because she had her chicken yesterday, so food doesn’t interest her in the least.”
The two of us grabbed Agathe by the tail and pulled. It took us a good fifteen minutes to get her out. I was wide awake now.
“Would you like some help feeding the animals?” I asked. At first, the man refused but finally relented when I told him how much pleasure it would give me to help. The two of us fed the “family” and all the farm animals. Afterward, I came back inside and went directly to the kitchen. I went in the walk-in refrigerator and saw a side of lamb hanging. I cut myself four thick double-boned chops, helped myself to three potatoes out of which I made French fries, covering them with four fresh whipped egg yolks. I finished my meal with another glass of milk and was well satisfied.
I took some of the leftover fries with me and took a walk down to see the goats and sheep. There, in the barn, I found the gardener at the coal stove cooking corn and bran together for the pigs. After filling their trough, he said good-bye and climbed into his carriage, clucking to the horse to begin his journey home. I returned to the kitchen, took a bottle of milk and a glass, grabbed a kerosene lamp, and returned to my room.
TWELVE
The Code of Combat
It was still dark outside when I woke up. That night I had had the luxury of sleeping without clothes on because I felt relatively safe in the château. I got dressed and lit the kerosene lamp to find my way down to the kitchen. There, I found the cook busily at work.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Did you have a good night’s sleep?” Not waiting for a response, she continued, “And Madame, did she sleep well?”
“I slept well, thank you,” I answered, abruptly. “I don’t know about Madame.” I did not appreciate her audacity or insinuation.
She realized and said, “Oh, excuse me, monsieur.” She sounded apologetic and seemed slightly embarrassed. She quickly changed the subject, “What would you like for breakfast, monsieur?”
“What do you have?” I asked, letting go of my indignation. After all, Josephine was a mother figure to me, and anyway, an employee should not be making such insinuations about her employer.
“Oh, there is white sausage and blood sausage. I could fix you an omelette, duck eggs, goose eggs—”
“Stop right there,” I exclaimed. “I’ll have two goose eggs, soft-boiled, served in the shell, with a lot of bread and butter and a bowl of café au lait.”
&
nbsp; “Would you like to eat in the dining room or in the kitchen, monsieur?”
“The kitchen is just fine.”
Then she had another thought. “Oh, I forgot to tell you that I also have fresh chicken liver, if you would like me to sauté some for you. I always have them on hand for Madame. Most mornings, she has a liver and champignons de Paris omelette after her half-grapefruit.”
As she was saying this, Josephine entered the kitchen. “Bonjour, tout le monde!” she sang out. “And you, mon petit bonhomme, did you sleep well?” Before I could answer, the cook said in a sarcastic tone, “He’s not so little!” I was fairly tall, broad-shouldered and had a thirty-four-inch waistline. My thighs were quite muscled and almost as large as my waist. I weighed about 225 pounds, mostly muscle.
“You have a big mouth,” Josephine said, scolding the cook. “Nobody asked you for your opinion!” She was furious at her insolence. “Serve us in the dining room,” she said curtly, and then turned toward me. “Venez, mon petit,” she said, beckoning for me to come with her to the dining room.
After we were both seated, the cook brought in our breakfast. We had barely begun eating when Josephine said, “When we’ve finished, you’ll have to tell me what those English have on their minds. If they’ll let you stay with me an extra week, the answer is yes before you ask,” she said sweetly.
Immediately, I jumped at the opportunity. I began talking to her about my mission. I told her that the English wanted her to help the cause by using her influence with certain big industrialists in Saint Louis and Chicago to convince them to allow Great Britain to purchase fifty-three bomber planes, currently in storage, to use against the Germans.
“There is a civilian crew ready to take delivery at any time, anywhere in the United States,” I told her. “They’ll have cash in hand to complete the purchase. All U.S. emblems and unnecessary instruments will be removed before leaving the United States so as not to conflict with the U.S. Neutrality Act.” I became impassioned when I spoke of my mission; completing it successfully was of the highest priority for the war effort.
Josephine smiled and said, “Consider it done, mon petit. I will contact my friends and get you an answer.” Still smiling, she continued, “Why did they happen to choose you to come see me? Do you think it was destiny?”
“Ma chère madame, I also was wondering about that, and I think I know why. My godfather must have talked to Mr. Churchill and told him that you had a soft place in your heart for me, if I’m not being too bold. It may be that I had a better chance than anyone else of convincing you to help us.”
“Perhaps that is so. But something bothers me,” she said. “I should not get in touch with my friends by telephone or by mail. It’s just too risky.”
I thought for a moment, then responded, “I think I have the solution. If you’re available, we can go together to send a telegram.”
“Oh, no! That is just as dangerous, mon petit!”
“No, listen to me,” I said. “It’s very simple. We’ll take your car or mine and go to the American Consulate in Lyon. From there, we can send a message in code that can be deciphered upon receipt by the appropriate government agency and then forwarded to your friends. We’ll tell them to send their answer back to the U.S. agency and direct the agency to code and forward the reply to Mr. Churchill. In that way none of you will be in danger. You just need to compose the message and make a list of your friends’ names, addresses, and phone numbers so that each can be contacted.”
As she considered what I said, I boldly asked, “So, shall we take your car or mine?”
As she got up, she responded, “Let’s get ready and make that decision after we finish dressing. Come upstairs to the room next to mine, open the armoire, and choose whatever clothing you want. That’s my lover’s closet and you’re just about his size. It looks like his shoes might fit as well,” she added. “Take the suitcase on the bottom of the armoire and fill it up. Don’t forget socks and underwear,” she added, in a motherly way. Besides discussing my mission, we had reminisced for quite a while. It was already ten thirty in the morning. As we climbed the stairs she said, “Let’s take a picnic lunch with us and take my car. I’ve decided that I want to drive. It will relax me. All this intrigue makes me tense.”
I was ready first and decided to wait in the library. I knew that her pet python would be in the grand salon, and I wasn’t fond of snakes. Within the hour, she came into the library looking for me. She looked extraordinary in her elegant, form-fitting white suit, made of fine silk. She was such a sensual woman. It was evident she was not wearing anything underneath. She also wore long white gloves and a fashionable large-brimmed white hat. Everything looked superb next to her smooth, dark skin.
From her boyfriend’s wardrobe, I had selected olive green riding pants, a white long-sleeved shirt, a white wool sweater, and an olive green ascot. I also took a very smart green and black houndstooth riding jacket adorned with solid silver buttons in the shape of boars’ heads that I accented with a black silk pochette in the breast pocket. Black leather boots completed my attire. We went to the garage, and she chose the 1935 Renault limousine, a Viva Stella, to make the trip.
We arrived in Lyon at five thirty in the afternoon. The city was in the Free Zone. We went to the consulate, but it was already closed. “Let’s go to La Mère Brossard for dinner!” she eagerly suggested. This was a restaurant well known throughout Europe. I nodded enthusiastically in agreement. I was always ready to eat in those days—especially to eat well, though I never imagined it would lead to my becoming an executive chef years later in America. “After that, if you like, we could go to the movie theater. It will be too early to go to sleep,” she added.
The restaurant was close by, so we were there in no time. Inside we were greeted warmly by Madame Brossard. “Mademoiselle Baker, you’ve arrived so early. We don’t have your table ready yet. Please take a seat at the bar. May I offer you both aperitifs and some escargots as an appetizer?”
At that moment, I realized that Josephine had planned to eat here in advance. “It is always good to see you, madame. May we have two absinthes, please?”
“Certainement, mademoiselle,” she said as she went toward the kitchen to place the appetizer order.
We went into the bar and sat down at a small round table. Though it was early, a few other tables were occupied. One table of three men aroused my suspicions. An accordionist was entertaining, playing the songs of Edith Piaf. When the entertainer saw the Josephine Baker enter the room, he got up, reverently bowed, and began playing some songs from Josephine’s repertoire. Everybody turned, and seeing Josephine, they all stood up and applauded. She was well appreciated in France and throughout Europe.
I leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Go to Madame Brossard and ask her if she knows the three men sitting to our left.” She graciously thanked the audience and left to talk to Madame. As she left, two of the three men got up and walked toward the men’s room. I thought to myself, They want to know if she’s up to something. Josephine saw them get up, too. Instead of asking for Madame Brossard in the dining room, she went directly into the kitchen, where she found Madame directing her cooks. Josephine described the three men to her, and Madame knew them well. They were members of the pro-Nazi Militia. Josephine returned to our table and told me what she had found out. The two men returned to their table immediately afterward.
Moments later, Madame Brossard came to our table in the bar. “Your table is ready in the dining room,” she said. We followed her to a table next to the window. Famous as her restaurant was, Madame Brossard always maintained a very simple décor.
“Would you like your standing order, mademoiselle?” she asked Josephine. “Of course,” she replied in anticipation. Then Madame turned to me and asked what I wanted.
“What do you suggest?” I asked.
“I received fresh frog legs this morning. May I prepare them for you à la Provençale?”
“Absolutely,” I replied,
“but would you ask the cook to deglaze them in absinthe?”
“Of course,” she responded, and vanished.
A few minutes later, she reappeared with another couple who had also been sitting in the bar. She seated them at a table that had just become available. There were only about fifteen tables in the entire room, and they were all occupied.
Just then, one of the three militiamen came into the dining room shouting, “This is not right. We were here before both of those couples! Don’t you know who we are? We control Lyon!”
Hands on her hips, Madame replied calmly, “It is you who don’t know who you are dealing with!” The man abruptly turned on his heel, got his two friends from the bar, walked through the restaurant, opened the door, and slammed it behind them. Madame Brossard, not seeming to pay any special attention to the incident, simply turned around and went back to the kitchen. There was a waiter at the other couple’s table already, taking their order.
Another waiter brought the main course to our table. We had finished our escargots earlier in the bar. On my plate were six large frog legs, covered with chunky tomato sauce. The dish was prepared to perfection. I finished my entrée before Josephine finished hers and asked if I could taste one of her quenelles. She cut a piece with her fork and, reaching across the table, placed it in my mouth.
“C’est delicieux! I think I’ll order some.” This was Madame Brossard’s specialty, known the world over by anyone who really knew food, les quenelles de brochet. The pike, a freshwater fish coming from Lake Geneva, is poached in its own broth and finished in the oven in a béchamel sauce. These dumplings were exquisitely light and really delicious.