by Max Ciampoli
After our meal, we went to the hotel. Once we checked in, Chevalier said, “Marc, will you ask the concierge to make reservations tomorrow at the Excelsior in Rome, a two-bedroom suite for us and a standard room for the chauffeur?”
The Excelsior was an exquisite hotel. I called the Vatican from our room to let them know of my arrival in Rome. I talked to one of the pope’s secretaries who said he would call back with the day and time of my audience.
“Let’s dine in the suite tonight, if you don’t mind. I’m a bit tired from the trip, and I’d rather not have to make conversation with anyone who might recognize me,” Mr. Chevalier suggested. We completed the fine dinner with calvados, and after some conversation we both went to our bedrooms.
Several days later, I received a message from the Vatican that my audience with the pope would be the following afternoon.
The next day, the chauffeur drove me to Vatican City. We stopped at the gates where the guards verified my appointment. Once inside, we drove on the cobblestone street until we reached the entrance. It was an entire city inside that included a railroad station for the pope’s use, a post office, an observatory, a gift shop, and other buildings. I was received by a priest who escorted me to a waiting room where others were also waiting.
The silence was deafening, almost suffocating. People spoke only in hushed voices. The ambience was austere and cold. A priest came in and took me to another room for those specifically waiting to see the pope. There, the skirts of the women were measured, and material was pinned on if they were not long enough. Their heads had to be covered with a scarf before entering. After a while, I was escorted to yet another room and eventually to a final one where I was the only person waiting.
“You are to enter and kneel before the pope on a pillow that you will see,” the priest told me. “Then approach in silence, stop in front of him, and kiss his ring. There will be an armchair for you to sit on. Sit down and wait to be addressed.”
Finally, I was instructed to enter. I followed the directions I had been given. All was very ornate, including the very heavy draperies. The room was dimly lit. The pope, dressed in his impressive robes, looked gaunt and rather frail to me. His secretary was next to him to take notes. The pope asked me the purpose of my visit. I was able to state my goal in French because he was fluent in the language. He was receptive and listened attentively, then granted my request. The audience itself lasted only about fifteen minutes though the preliminary protocol had seemed endless.
We were called the following week to return to the Vatican to pick up the documents. It was raining hard, so I decided to wait in the car. I sent the chauffeur to the office to get the papers. It took him quite a few trips to bring the three thousand certificates to the limousine.
The baptismal certificates were printed in French by the Vatican printers as we had requested. Names and birth dates of the children would later be written in ink by each parish priest. After the chauffeur finished loading the documents, we returned to the hotel.
A few days later when we arrived back at Juan-les-Pins, I sincerely thanked Mr. Chevalier, telling him how indispensable his help was to the success of the plan.
“Glad to be of service, monsieur,” he said with that unforgettable smile lighting up his face.
Later in life, when I held the position of executive chef at a famous hotel in Kansas City, Missouri, who should come to see Mae West’s performance at our cabaret but Mr. Chevalier himself. It was my pleasure to fête him and to inform Ms. West of his help in the successful rescue of so many Jewish children during the war. When she came onstage, she saluted him and told the story of what he had helped me do. When she finished, she ordered champagne for everyone in the large audience and toasted Mr. Chevalier for his heroism during World War II. I know personally how much this meant to him.
When I returned to Monaco, I contacted Monsieur Paget and explained to him what we had accomplished at the Vatican. “We’ve successfully completed this part of the mission,” I told him. “I will leave the baptismal certificates with Pierre Embalier in Beausoleil.”
“I’ll send someone from my office to pick them up,” he said. “Thank you, Marc, for all you have accomplished.”
With the plan of action for the Jewish children in place, I now had to figure out how to get back to Great Britain. I quickly decided to contact the chief of police of Monte Carlo, Commissaire Plantier. Maybe he would have some ideas. He had never failed me before.
My instincts and timing could not have been better. He knew of a Swedish diplomat who needed a chauffeur. The man’s own chauffeur had suffered catastrophic gambling losses in Monte Carlo and had killed himself as a result. This was, sadly, not uncommon in my hometown.
Luck on my side as usual, the Swedish diplomat hired me as his driver, based on Commissaire Plantier’s recommendation and a brief interview. I posed as his chauffeur, driving him first to Paris and then south to Biarritz, where I enjoyed a few days at the seaside while I waited for him to conclude his business. Next I drove him to Lisbon, which was the destination I needed to reach. There, I contacted the British Embassy. As things worked out, the Swedish diplomat was recalled urgently to Sweden. The British authorities arranged for my return to England by plane where I soon rediscovered the comfort and safety of Mr. Churchill’s country home.
After some time back at the estate, Mr. Churchill summoned me to the library to share a cognac. We talked for quite a while, as he enjoyed his cigar and I relaxed with my pipe.
“Some of your solutions to the tasks at hand are truly original, mon ingénieux. Your next mission may require all your resourcefulness,” he said, “and it certainly will be your most vital undertaking so far. What you’ll bring back is invaluable to the ultimate survival of Great Britain.”
PART THREE
MARC, L’INGÉNIEUX
In War: Resolution.
—WINSTON CHURCHILL
NINETEEN
Crossing Europe on Foot
The last thing Mr. Churchill said to me before he saw me off on this latest assignment was that I should expect all my missions to increase in degree of difficulty and in level of danger from here on out. After saying the danger would be greater, he told me he would not hold it against me if I chose not to continue as an agent. He said he now regarded me as a professional but felt guilty for having assured my godfather he would see to my safety. If I stayed on, I was going to be in jeopardy, sometimes doubly and triply so. Far from ensuring my safety, he could only assure the opposite, “imminent peril.” That’s how he so aptly phrased it.
There was no question that I was going on, danger or not, promises to my godfather or not. I would see France free again—of that I was certain. But I appreciated immensely, and still appreciate today, that Mr. Churchill said I had spoiled him with my successes. But I’m no hero. When he explained the latest mission to me, I didn’t know right away how I was going to pull it off. Everything hinged on extracting a brilliant scientist from Bulgaria.
Mr. Churchill had gathered intelligence that the Germans were planning to launch short-range missiles from Calais, France. The missiles would be slow enough that, if detected, the Royal Air Force would have time to shoot them down. Without a good detection system, however, Great Britain could be annihilated.
“The scientist is essential to our defense,” the prime minister emphasized. “He has already been approached by the Russians but would prefer to bring his family to a free country rather than to a dictatorship. The man is Jewish and is actively seeking asylum.”
Mr. Churchill continued to brief me. “The man refuses to leave without his family. We can promise to send another plane, or two more planes if necessary, to get his loved ones. But we cannot risk sending a plane large enough to carry all of them at once. It would be too slow moving and easily detectable in flight. To get him out safely, we have to get in and out quickly.”
“How am I going to do it?” I asked myself. “Should I drug and kidnap him? Mr. Churchill wants
me to get him out of Bulgaria and to England as soon as I can because he has invented a device that can detect incoming V-1 and V-2 missiles. Whatever I have to do, I will. But how?”
As I listened, I considered every possible solution I could think of to get him out. I thought of something my tutor, the colonel, used to say, “Sometimes when attacking a difficult situation or problem, jump in, familiarize yourself with the details, and devise the solution as you go along.”
That, I decided, was what I would do now.
When I parachuted into the valley of Samokov in Bulgaria, the King of the Gypsies and his entourage were waiting for me, eager to help in any way they could. They gathered the huge parachute, made of black silk, and stuffed it into one of their wagons. They would use it later to make shirts and skirts. The Germans prohibited them from traveling at night, but that didn’t deter them in the least. They were a brave lot. Although I was already dressed in Gypsy clothing, and had that torn and tattered look of a vagabond, the King highly disapproved of the British interpretation. “No one travels with the King of the Gypsies dressed like that!” he exclaimed when he saw me.
They took me directly to their camp and dressed me like the rest of the men. I had never seen clothes like these! The deep golden shirt had billowy, bouffant sleeves, the ochre color of villas in the south of France. Over it, I wore a small black velvet vest, left open in a jaunty fashion. I wore a ruby red scarf on my head and another around my waist. The warm, soft black pants fell just below the knee and were tucked into knee-length socks. The total look was quite dashing, I thought, as I finished dressing.
I joined the King for dinner, and he smiled, approvingly, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. “Now you look like a member of the family!” he said as I sat down on the ground with the others, already sitting on their colorful blankets and cushions. To my delight and surprise, I was served moussaka, a dish I was very fond of. I wondered how this Greek dish had come to Bulgaria. It gave me an insight into the close communication system among the Gypsies. They were one people. Political borders had no meaning to them. We ate a leisurely meal while they told me how to play the role of a Gypsy.
“My mission is to get a Jewish scientist out of Bulgaria,” I told the King. “Mr. Churchill prefers to pick him up in a plane but suspects he will refuse. It is imperative that I meet him in Sofia within the next few days. Whatever day I arrive, I need to be at the synagogue at noontime. The scientist and his family are staying with the rabbi at his home until I get there.”
The King was a very good-looking man, with an air of mystery about him. His entire being exuded intrigue. He was massive, rugged, and well over six feet tall. His face, framed by long, wavy black hair, was full of character and suggested a man in his sixties. It was apparent that he was the person in command. He wore a burgundy jacket, trimmed with black tassels, and from his ears hung beautiful gold earrings. His enigmatic smile made me wonder what he was really thinking. The man was extremely valuable to Mr. Churchill because of his widespread influence and contacts throughout Europe. He supplied Great Britain with critical information about the movement of German troops.
“Monsieur,” he said to me over Turkish coffee, “you will be our bear trainer. Tomorrow you will learn what to do.” He smiled. “Now it is late. Let’s go to bed.” I slept in a wagon with the three men in charge of the bears.
The next morning, I woke up with a jolt. We were on the move. There were about twenty wagons, each one pulled by a single horse. This was the King’s court on wheels. All of a sudden, German soldiers appeared on the road in front of us and ordered us to stop. I was in the rear wagon just in front of the bears. “What do they want?” I wondered. “Why are they stopping us?”
One of the French-speaking Gypsies came over to our wagon and whispered, “You are mute. You can hear, but you cannot talk. Go to the bear cages with the handlers. They will show you what to do. The Germans probably just want some entertainment. And don’t be concerned. Our King knows how to handle them.”
We followed the military car into the woods where there was a Panzer division, complete with about twenty tanks. They wanted a show that evening. The same Gypsy came over to me again. “Pay close attention to the bear trainers so that you’ll be able to handle the bears tonight. Tomorrow, our King said we will go to Sofia. No one will ask you for papers if you look like you know what you’re doing.”
We circled the wagons not far from the Nazi encampment. The Germans were celebrating the return of one of their officers from the hospital. We began practicing right away for the evening’s show. As rehearsal began, the variety of simultaneous sounds from the violins, accordions, concertinas, balalaikas, tambourines, and the essential gourds created a huge racket. Singers and dancers were interspersed among the musicians, practicing their numbers. Outside of the musical group, talented gymnasts practiced their pyramids and other acrobatics, while a knife thrower and a flamethrower prepared their stunts. The women were kept safe inside the wagons.
The head bear trainer, a short middle-aged man, motioned for me to stand next to him. He brought out the oldest and most docile female bear. I watched intently as she responded to his signals. She was about six feet tall, about my size. She danced and pirouetted on command. She had her act down pat. All the bears had rings in their noses with chains coming from them to keep them under control. The two males were muzzled because they had a tendency to fight. I held a stick about a meter long with a sharp, metal point on the end, just in case a bear caused trouble.
After dinner, the Gypsies put on the show. My bear did her routine perfectly. The Germans showed their appreciation with a resounding applause. After an encore, we went to our own camp to eat. The German commander summoned the King to his quarters.
When he returned to camp, he told me why the commander had wanted to see him. “He graciously thanked me for the wonderful show and asked how much would be a satisfactory amount to compensate my people,” he reported. “I told him that as compensation I would appreciate an escort through Sofia because, as he knew, Gypsies were normally not allowed to travel through the cities of Europe. He agreed to my proposal.”
What a great idea. This man was clever. This would cut down our travel time enormously. Over dinner, I discussed with him the plan of escape. “Since I don’t think the scientist is going to accept our preferred plan, I will most likely have to accompany this family from Bulgaria to Lisbon, Portugal. What are your suggestions?”
“Nighttime is the only time safe enough to travel. Tomorrow will be our first step. The Germans will escort us through Sofia. This will make it easier for you to get to the synagogue. You’re at the end of the wagon caravan, so just drop off at an opportune moment. As we travel along Sofia’s main street, you’ll see the synagogue on the left across from the Catholic church.”
“Will you be able to organize a system of guides across Europe?” I asked.
“I’ll need a few days to organize the trek, where each set of guides will begin and end. It’s a big undertaking, but I know our people can do it. There will always be six of our men with you, but I need to organize the other Gypsies along the route to arrange for local guides and provisions all the way to the foot of the Pyrénées in France. From there, the Basque partisans can take over. You know, it’s about thirty-five hundred kilometers to Lisbon, depending on your exact route. There may be changes, depending on circumstances, but I’ll formulate the plan, segment by segment. We’ll need to locate good hiding places for you during the daytime. I’ll get in touch with you at the rabbi’s house when I’ve completed the initial arrangements.”
This one man, the King of the Gypsies, did so much for the Allied effort throughout the war. He was always dependable, shrewd, and inventive—a magnificent human being. Survivors of the war and their descendents owe him a great deal.
At dawn, we were on the road to Sofia accompanied by our German escort. The journey took the entire day. When we arrived inside the city, night had already fallen. As we nea
red the synagogue, I jumped off the slow-moving wagon and disappeared into the darkness. I tapped on the door of the synagogue. I knew this was an awkward time to arrive, but I thought I would try to make contact anyway.
When no one answered, I wasn’t surprised. I really hadn’t expected anyone to answer at this time of night. And dressed as a Gypsy, I knew I wouldn’t be welcome anywhere, and then there was the question of papers. I realized that I had better look for a place to hide till morning.
On a street just behind the synagogue, I saw a wagon filled with hay next to a fountain. That looked inviting for the night with one exception. Behind the wagon, there was a large doghouse, outside of which was its inhabitant on a chain. I asked myself what I was going to do now. I thought for a moment and remembered that I had put some sugar cubes into my pocket after drinking my last cup of coffee with the Gypsies. Since I always had a great rapport with animals, I decided to take a chance with this big dog that was staring at me but not yet barking. I took one sugar cube from my pocket and tossed it gently toward him. He sniffed it, looked up at me, looked back at the sugar and took it in his mouth. He looked at me again, this time with a softer eye. I decided to approach him slowly. This time I offered the sugar from my hand. The dog didn’t hesitate.