by Max Ciampoli
He called back a few days later. I told him who I really was.
“My boy,” he exclaimed, “I am so happy to hear from you.”
“How is your son?” I asked.
“He is still safe in Nice, thank God.” After we talked for a while, I explained to him the awful plight of these Jewish children being shipped off to Poland.
“Monsieur, thousands more are being hidden here in Paris. I have devised a plan to secure their safety. To me, it seems straightforward and quite doable; however, it ultimately depends on you.”
“Go ahead, tell me. If it’s possible, I will do whatever it takes.”
So I began to explain what would be necessary. “I will need two buses painted olive green and black, two bus drivers in French Militia uniform, and documents that authorize the transfer of French children to the youth camps in unoccupied France.”
Monsieur Paget was quiet, thinking on the other end of the phone. “Yes, my boy. I know I can accomplish that. Do not worry about a thing. I’ll supply what you need. Is this the telephone number where you can be reached when everything is organized?”
“Yes, it is, monsieur.”
With much enthusiasm, he concluded the conversation. “I will be in touch, and may God bless you.”
I then returned to the bar/restaurant and talked to the woman behind the bar. She was the owner. She called the same young woman, Simone, who escorted me once again to the cellar. This time there was only one man there. I recognized him from the time before. We greeted each other, sat down at the table, and I began to explain.
“Choose sixty children who will be the first to leave. I need a photo of each child like those used for official identification cards. I need to know the birth date of each one. They will need warm traveling clothes and shoes as well as work clothes and boots. They will need as many pairs of socks as possible, as they’ll be staying in forested areas.” The man agreed to take care of everything.
Then I went to the home of a man I had worked with before, Roland Girard, who made counterfeit papers. His wife escorted me down to the cellar.
“Roland, it is so good to see you,” I said as he welcomed me. We sat down, and I explained what I needed. “Roland, I need you for an enormous job. All in all, I need around three thousand cartes d’identité, but only sixty to begin with. You will be given the names, information, and photos you need as time goes on.” I explained the awful situation, and the man enthusiastically agreed to do the job. All seemed to be progressing well.
From there, I went to the library. What I needed was a book with a lot of names. I selected one that listed all known amateur and professional archaeologists. I sat down at a long, dimly lit table and copied the names down, one by one, skipping any that sounded Jewish.
The next day, I met the same man in the cellar at the place Pigalle. He gave me the birth dates and addresses of sixty children. I drove to each address and gave each child his or her new name and explained to each that this Christian first and last name was his or hers from that moment on. They were to forget their old names for their own safety.
One little girl, eight years old, stands out in my memory. “I don’t like that name,” she said. “I want to choose my own name. I choose ‘Sarah.’”
“That’s a lovely name,” I told her, “but just for a while your name needs to be Suzanne.”
She insisted, “No, I don’t like that name.”
I asked, “Do you have a friend whose name you like?”
“Oh yes, my friend A nge. Isn’t that a beautiful name?” Her eyes were wide with admiration.
“Well, there it is!” I responded. “From now on, you are Ange, just like your dear friend. It’s a wonderful name, and you look just like a little angel, too!”
She was very pleased, and I was relieved. I eventually placed this girl with a local family because she was too fragile for the youth camps.
I gave each child a name and explained to him or her what life was going to be like. “But I don’t like that name,” many complained. Some wailed, “I won’t be able to remember that name because I hate it so much!” I worked with each child as best I could and worked out swaps so that each child was more or less satisfied with his or her new name.
It took more than a week to get the papers organized. I used the time to visit the different camps in unoccupied France so that each was prepared for this great influx of children. The commander at Die helped me immensely. More than three weeks later, the first sixty children were on buses on their way to the youth work camps to start their new lives as Christians. The plan worked smoothly.
With the system now in place, I left its continuation in the capable and powerful hands of Monsieur Paget, whose influence extended throughout France. Many veterans who lost limbs in World War I were anxious to help in any way they could to free France from German occupation once and for all.
Later, I got word that all the children concerned had been placed in the youth camps except those who were ill or mentally confused. For those, Paget had found several monasteries willing to take care of them until they were strong enough or able enough, if ever, to go to the youth camps. As the older children in the work camps developed, they were eased into partisan groups and worked for the Resistance.
Before leaving, I went to visit Monsieur Paget on the weekend at his home in Nice. It is truly Monsieur Paget who needs to be remembered for the success of this rescue operation. Without him, this plan would never have worked, and thousands of Jewish children would certainly have perished.
After leaving Monsieur Paget, I decided to go to one of my parents’ apartments in Monte Carlo at 52, boulevard d’Italie, since I knew they were staying at their apartment in Nice. The concierge knew me and let me in. I put my things away and went to see some neighbors in the building, the Van Hofs, who lived on the third floor. Madame Van Hof invited me to dinner with her, her son, Claude, and her daughter, Dominique. It was wonderful to see them again.
Afterward, I went down to my parents’ apartment and began thinking about the Jewish children as I went to sleep. How could I prove that each child was who his identity card said he or she was? An identity card was simply not enough. There must be further proof. Each child needed to have a baptismal certificate. How could I get three thousand baptismal certificates? I wondered. It didn’t seem possible. Then, out of the blue, the solution struck me.
EIGHTEEN
The Vatican
“What I need to do is get to Rome,” I said out loud in a voice of triumph as the idea formulated in my mind. “There, I can secure the proof I need for the children’s identities if my plan works.”
It was early morning when the answer woke me out of a sound sleep. It came to me that I had an ace up my sleeve because of my father. Thanks to Monsieur Franck’s vanity, I had been baptized at the Vatican. When you are baptized at Saint Peter’s, you have the right to ask for an audience with the pope. My father had done precious little good for me during my life, but in this instance he had done me a good turn that I could convert to a great turn for many unfortunates.
The first obstacle was to devise a way to get to Rome without putting myself in danger of getting caught by the Nazis. I decided to call my friend Pierre, the owner of the limousine service in Beausoleil. I went upstairs to the Van Hofs to ask to use their phone. I called, and Pierre’s secretary told me he was out of the office.
“Please have him call Marc at the Van Hof home,” I said and gave her the number.
“Have some breakfast with us, Marc,” Madame Van Hof offered as soon as I put the phone down.
As we were eating, another idea came to me. I could call Maurice Chevalier, the legendary entertainer. I had his telephone number from a previous encounter when I had hidden in the cellar at his home in Juan-les-Pins, an hour or so down the coast.
Chevalier’s valet answered. “Mr. Chevalier is in the sauna and cannot be disturbed,” he said.
“Will you give him a message for me?”
“If that is your wish, I will pass him a message,” he responded coldly.
“This is very urgent. Do you understand?” I retorted, adopting a superior tone. “Do me the service of calling him to the phone right away. Tell him that it’s Marc, the son of Monsieur Franck, the owner of the Knickerbocker in Monte Carlo. I thank you to get him immediately.”
Within minutes, I was on the phone with Mr. Chevalier. I explained to him the precarious situation of these Jewish children and my pressing need to get to Rome. He was horrified at the plight of these youngsters.
“Can you get some time free to escort me to the Vatican under your protection? I know you have all the necessary exit visas, and I can provide the limousine and driver,” I told him, assuming that Pierre would help me.
“Certainly, my dear young man, I will work it out. How much time will we need?” he asked.
“One or two weeks, I’m really not sure,” I said. “I have all the funds we need furnished by the British government.”
“Mais non, mais non,” he replied. “I’ll take care of the expenses.”
“Monsieur, it is already taken care of. Thank you for your great kindness and good heart. These children must be saved. If it is convenient for you, I will send a limousine to pick you up about one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“I believe that will be fine,” he said. “If I cannot change my schedule to accommodate that particular time, how shall I contact you?”
“Just leave a message with Pierre Embalier at his limousine company in Beausoleil. He will know how to get in touch with me.”
I hung up and tried Pierre again. He still hadn’t returned.
“Claude, would you like to walk to Beausoleil with me? I have an errand to do near the Pâtisserie Pasquier.”
“Yes, that will be nice.” Then the phone rang.
“It’s for you,” Claude said. “It’s Monsieur Pierre.”
“Marc, what can I do for you?” Pierre asked.
“What I need is a limousine and a chauffeur for a week or two. I need coupons for gas that are good in Italy and exit visas and papers. Maurice Chevalier will be the person on the lease agreement, but I will be taking care of the expenses. He’ll be waiting at his home in Juan-les-Pins for the limo at one P.M. tomorrow. Will that be possible, Pierre?”
“Absolutely. I have a trustworthy driver and limousine available. I will have him at Monsieur Chevalier’s at one P.M. with all necessary papers.
“Now, on another subject, young man,” Pierre continued, and his tone turned emotional. “I told Cécile of your last visit, and she felt bad that she didn’t have the opportunity to see you. Do me the pleasure of coming to our home this evening for dinner. She is dying to see you and hold you in her arms. You know, we both love you so much. You are the son we couldn’t have. Do you remember when you were little? You would walk with your tutor on the avenue des Spélugues and through the gardens of the Casino. You never missed stopping at our travel agency to say hello and give your regards to Cécile. You were always so polite and respectful, she couldn’t get over it. She would always talk about you. ‘I wish we could have a little boy, like Marc,’ she would say over and over again.
“I told her that I saw you after you quit dental school, and that you looked so grown up and debonair. I promised her that when I heard from you again, I would bring you home for a visit. It would please her so much to see you. Will you stop by the garage to get me around four or five? Is that possible, or do you already have plans? It would make her so happy to see you, to see the man you have become. You know, she hasn’t seen you since you were seven years old.”
Though slightly embarrassed by what he had said, I agreed to come over. I hung up and told Claude that I didn’t need to do the errand after all. I explained the plan to them both, and he asked his mother to pray for its smooth execution. His mother was a charming woman from Holland. She was in the same line of work as I. She helped Jewish refugees on their route of escape to North Africa, across the Pyrénées, or through Sweden by boat to Great Britain. I had known the Van Hofs before I was sequestered with the Jesuits in Nice. They lived in Monte Carlo on the route to the Palm Beach Club, where my tutor would take me twice a week for tennis lessons. She and her daughter, Dominique, about ten years older than I, showered me with love when I was little.
After visiting with the Van Hofs for a while, I got my things together for the trip and then headed over to Pierre’s garage from where he drove us home. When we arrived, Cécile was on the front steps of their villa. She broke out in tears as she ran to the car. She opened the passenger door and jumped back in shock. She couldn’t believe her eyes. “This can’t be Marc, Pierre!” I got out of the car. “He’s a grown man! But . . . yes it is. Now, I see his mother’s charming smile, his mother whom we love so much. Come, come into my arms, Marc,” she said with tears rolling down her cheeks. I did, and she held me. “Thank you, thank you for coming today.” We had a lovely talk over dinner, remembering the old days and filling each other in on what had happened since I had left in 1930. After dinner, Cécile said, “I’m sorry there is no coffee available, as I’m sure you know, but let’s enjoy a good cognac or eau-de-vie together.”
We continued our conversation well into the evening, and then they drove me back to the apartment.
The following afternoon just before one o’clock, there was a knock on the door of my parents’ apartment. It was Claude. “Monsieur Chevalier is on the phone for you.” I followed him upstairs to their apartment.
“The limo has arrived, but I’m not quite ready,” he said. “Can you wait awhile longer to begin our adventure?” he asked in his cheerful way.
“I’ll be ready whenever you arrive, monsieur.”
“I should be in Monte Carlo by three o’clock. I’ll pick you up at Saint Roman, if that’s all right with you. The address is 52 boulevard d’Italie, correct?”
“Yes. Just have the chauffeur ring the bell at apartment D.”
Before three o’clock, the doorbell rang. The driver took my suitcases, and I followed.
The car that Pierre had leased to Monsieur Chevalier was an exquisite Delage limousine. It had a unique aerodynamic line that I had never seen before. It must have been a special edition or an extremely limited series. The chauffeur’s roof was retractable. I had only seen that once before in a Voisin. The roof of the back of the car was a landau, a convertible top. The interior was of precious woods and of mohair, a fabric of exceptional quality that was pleated and padded. There was a bar and an icebox as well. The carpeting was thick and luxurious, almost covering the shoes of Monsieur Chevalier, who smiled as I got in.
“You’ll excuse me, my friend. I seem to have caught a terrible cold last night, and I can hardly talk.” His voice had become low and raspy since I had talked to him earlier. “Please give the chauffeur our itinerary, won’t you?”
“Of course, monsieur. Take the route toward Sospel via the Col de Tende. You’ll cross the border and continue on through the tunnel. As you exit, you’ll descend toward Limone where I made reservations for the night at the Hôtel de la Gare.”
Monsieur Chevalier slept for the few hours it took us to get there. We were not asked for any papers at either the French or Italian customs. The border guards just looked at the car in awe. I carried personal papers saying I was Michel Carbonell, a textile salesman, but they were really more interested in the car than in us or our papers.
At the hotel, once we had signed the registration, Monsieur Chevalier went straight to his room without dining. He was feeling quite sick, but when we met the next morning he felt much better. After breakfast, we took the road in the direction of Torino, passing through Cuneo. We stopped for lunch at a small restaurant in Moncalieri where we enjoyed a fine little meal. The restaurant owner was a garde de chasse (hunting guard) of a private reserve in Valdieri for the king, Victor Emmanuel III. We had a delicious ragout of chevreuil au vin rouge (venison prepared in red wine) with champignons des bois (wild mush
rooms). We didn’t ask any questions about where the meat came from but appreciated the meal immensely. Monsieur Chevalier was still hungry and asked for a second portion. He had a big appetite. The chauffeur didn’t finish his and didn’t seem thrilled with the food. He probably didn’t like game.
I had made reservations in Torino at a hotel I knew well, the Albergo Principi di Piemonte. My tutor and I had stayed there when I was a child. There was a fabulous view of all Torino. The surrounding mountaintops were covered with snow. It brought back wonderful memories of the times I spent with my colonel, and I felt a profound gratefulness that he exposed me to such wonderful experiences. He was such a benevolent man, always desiring the best for others. He gave me a wonderful example of manhood to emulate.
Mr. Chevalier appreciated the hotel. We had dinner looking out on the mountains that encircled the city. The next day, we took the road in the direction of Florence, Mr. Chevalier’s favorite city. He was feeling well again and had completely recovered his voice.
Once in Florence, he gave the driver directions to his favorite restaurant. I’ll never forget the experience, though I don’t remember the restaurant’s name. He ordered for us, not even asking what we wanted, so confident was he in its fine cuisine. The owner was a cousin of a celebrated restaurant owner in Rome named Alfredo alla Scrofa, who was known for his specialty, fettuccine alla Scrofa. His cousin mixed the pasta at tableside with butter and egg yolks that beautifully coated the fettuccine, and then added fresh cream. Just before serving this dish, he grated cheese on the top.
“This restaurant is very special to the Italians,” Chevalier told me. “The owner had a serving spoon and a fork in twenty-four-carat gold that he always used to mix the fettuccine tableside. At the time Italy declared war and began the attack against Ethiopia in 1936, Mussolini gathered wedding bands from the people to finance the cost of the invasion. The proprietor of this restaurant contributed by donating these massive utensils of pure gold to the Italian cause. Another of his specialties is angel-hair pasta made with octopus in its own ink covered with a delightful sea urchin sauce. You must try it. We’ll get an order of this dish as well,” Chevalier said with obvious appreciation. He was right. I never forgot this dish, and to this day, I never go to a Japanese restaurant without ordering uni, sea urchin sushi. I never miss an opportunity to eat sea urchin.