by Max Ciampoli
During our stay, we mended our boots any way we could with anything we could find. The Basque woman helped us with the repairs. She couldn’t do enough for us and provided a welcome rest for all. It was evident how much she enjoyed having the company. She must have been so lonely and tired, taking care of the farm all by herself, especially during the winter.
At dawn on the fourth day, we left to continue our climb, our boots, bodies, and spirits in much better condition. We walked on for days until we finally reached level ground near Torrente, a town southwest of Valencia. Even though no danger was expected, we still hid in the brush as we traveled. One could never be too cautious.
Suddenly, one of the partisans shouted, “Stop!” An instant later, we saw a bus approaching. A British flag flew on the driver’s side.
“Safety, thank God!” I shouted deep within. I had been holding on to so much tension for so long. I could finally let go. The responsibility would now be on British shoulders. The journey had even started wearing on the scientist. He hadn’t been looking good. All the while he seemed to be fading fast, I had kept saying to myself in mantralike repetition, “I have to get him to England alive.” The family got into the bus that had come from the British Consulate in Lisbon. Andre and I climbed in after them. Once inside, we were all on “British soil.” I was relieved to be home.
The family must have been grateful, but no one showed any emotion. The daughter and her father had been gems the entire trip, but the little boy had been such a demon and the wife had been a whiner, although she hadn’t complained in French. The Gypsies and partisans had dealt with the boy most of the time. All was forgiven in that moment that I laid grateful eyes on the British flag. The partisans wished us well and left in the direction of Barcelona.
There were two drivers who took turns so that we would not have to stop, except for gas and to go to the bathroom. There was plenty of food and drink on the bus as we headed toward Madrid, where we stayed on the outskirts at a luxurious hotel. It all seemed surreal. We slept, ate, and departed in the morning on the road toward Trujillo, Spain, where we stayed the night. The following morning, a car arrived from the Portuguese Embassy. A doctor had come to examine the mother and child and determined that both were in good health.
The tension was gone, and we were all more relaxed. “Doctor, please join us for breakfast,” I offered, after he completed the examination. The boy no longer annoyed me as much, as I didn’t have to be concerned about being captured because of his antics. And the wife wasn’t complaining. “How does the scientist put up with her, anyway?” I wondered, as we made our way to the dining room.
Immediately after breakfast, the wife, the daughter, and her child left with the doctor to drive directly to Lisbon. Soon after, the rest of us got into the bus. The British government was in a hurry to get this important man to London.
When we arrived at the British Embassy in Lisbon that evening, we walked through a large room filled with about a hundred beds, all occupied, to an examination room on the far side where we were all asked to remove our boots prior to being examined by a medical doctor. After the lengthy exam, we returned, barefoot, through the same room. By then, only about half the beds were occupied.
We went to the waiting room where the women of the family greeted us, along with the newest and youngest male member. They looked refreshed. We men then went to shower and get haircuts. Fresh, clean clothing was brought to us in the dormitory along with new shoes to put on. Now, only about twenty beds were occupied. I asked one of the employees where all the former occupants had gone. “Two buses just left for Gibraltar,” he told me.
We were all reunited in the waiting room. As we were talking, the British ambassador entered. He introduced himself and walked over to the scientist. “I welcome you and your family, sir, on behalf of Great Britain. Mr. Churchill has asked that I personally accompany you to the airport. You will be taking an airplane directly to London.”
When we arrived at the airport, the ambassador escorted us to a private VIP room where we sat down to eat while we waited for the flight. One of his aides interrupted the meal. “Sir, there is an urgent telephone call for you.” When the ambassador came back to the room, he told us what had happened.
“The British minister of aviation gave me bad news. The plane we were to take has been shot down. Mr. Churchill has requested an airplane from the Turkish government to pick your group up in Gibraltar. I’ll arrange for a Portuguese plane to take you there. You’ll wait a day or so in Gibraltar for a Turkish flight to London.”
He stayed with us at the airport until our plane left Lisbon. When we arrived in the air space above Gibraltar, we had to circle about thirty minutes before we were able to land because the small airport was extremely busy. We were greeted by the governor as we disembarked. He nodded to me in recognition. I had met him before with Josephine when she had driven with me to Gibraltar for my extraction by plane back to England. The governor asked the scientist and me to join him in his limousine, and everyone else got into the car waiting behind the limo.
“Sir, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said to the scientist. “My wife and I will have a dinner in your honor this evening. We would like you and your family to stay with us at the governor’s mansion while you’re in Gibraltar.”
As we all entered his home, the governor’s wife welcomed us. Because it was late, we were shown directly into the formal dining room where a lavish table was set. “Everyone, please begin without us,” the ambassador said, as he indicated I should come with him. “We have a few minutes’ business we must take care of before we join you.”
We walked to his study. “Welcome back, monsieur. How is our charming Josephine?” he asked.
“Sir, I have not had the pleasure of talking to her for quite a while.”
“Please send regards from my wife and me when you speak to her, won’t you? Now, to the business at hand,” he continued. “Mr. Churchill asked me to call as soon as your group arrived safely at the mansion. Please sit down.” He dialed and was able to get through to the prime minister right away. He gave me a bewildered look. Apparently, Mr. Churchill was speaking to him assuming it was me. The governor interrupted him to let him know that he was going to put me on. “Monsieur, prenez le téléphone ,” he said, as he handed me the receiver.
“C’est vous, Marc?” Mr. Churchill asked.
“Oui, monsieur, c’est moi,” I replied. It felt so good to hear his voice again.
“Was your mission accomplished without any great mishap?”
“There was only one,” I said, “but I couldn’t call it a mishap. I have an extra traveler.”
Churchill burst out laughing, “So I heard, so I heard. And how is the little urchin?”
“He’s in excellent health. He’s a strong little boy.”
Changing the subject, he said, “Let me explain what will happen next. As you already know, a Turkish plane will pick you up in Gibraltar and bring you to England. I am going to send three Spitfires to protect you when you enter British air space to make sure that you arrive safely. We will direct your plane to the private airfield at the base where you sometimes stay. That night, everyone will stay at the base except you. We’ll bring the scientist to London the next day where he’ll begin his work immediately. Andre will accompany him.
“I congratulate you. Another job well done, mon petit! I fully expect that England will be safe from missile attacks. On another note, it is urgent that you come directly to my country home.”
I thought, Aha, another mission.
But he totally surprised me when he said, “You’ll spend the Christmas holiday with my family and close friends. We have only two days left till Christmas, and we must get to work on getting some game on the dining table. You and I must take good care of our guests, mustn’t we? My car will be waiting for you at the airfield. Ask to see me as soon as you arrive.”
TWENTY-ONE
Christmas with Churchill
I was extreme
ly touched by Mr. Churchill’s invitation to spend the holiday with him. I knew we’d be going hunting and riding, and I thought of it with great anticipation. Then my thoughts traveled to Christmases past. A “family” Christmas—I had never experienced a family Christmas. My father had never permitted it. I ached inside as I remembered how much I loved my mother and had wanted to spend Christmas with her—or any time for that matter. But my father forbade all contact. I sometimes wondered why I couldn’t have had a real family and a normal father.
Mr. Churchill didn’t know that I had never had a family Christmas before. In fact, my father didn’t believe in any holiday celebrations, let alone Christmas, with its heavy family and religious meanings. Even if he had, he certainly wouldn’t have included me in any family celebrations. In any case, he didn’t seem to believe in religion either, as he forbade my mother to go to church.
While I was locked up with the Jesuits for those seven years, I did celebrate Christmas but not with family. Usually three boys out of the twelve were left at the monastery over the holidays, two others and me. With our Jesuit teachers, we would decorate the monastery’s sailboat with Christmas lights and take it for an annual outing off the coast of Nice. That was really fun, but it never replaced the family I didn’t have.
When I arrived at the estate, the property was adorned with decorations of all colors on the house and on the bushes and trees. The chauffeur honked his horn and pulled up to the main entrance.
“Monsieur, come into the foyer. Mr. Churchill is expecting you,” one of the servants said as he took my bag from the car. As I entered, the grand man was coming down the staircase from his bedroom. He was wearing a beige chenille robe, fluffy slippers, and a nightcap with a pom-pom on the end. I was astonished. There was no cigar between his lips. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him without that cigar. He came bounding down the stairs, full of energy with a huge smile lighting up his face. He was coming down so fast that I was afraid he would fall. He was so adorable. I felt that he was the father I never had. It felt so good just to see him again.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he pulled me into his arms and hugged me tight. “My boy, it is so good to see you,” he said as he cradled me back and forth. That must have been a sight, my chin resting on top of his head. I was so moved by this show of affection, but it felt strange. The emotion I was used to feeling most of the time was anger. I asked myself what were emotions like this all about, anyway? Whatever they were, this warm hug and huge welcome felt extraordinary.
“Would you like some tea?” he asked, holding me out at arm’s length for a quick inspection.
“No,” I replied, “but I would like some ice cream, if you have any.”
“Chocolate or vanilla?”
“Chocolate,” I said, decisively. He sent the butler to the kitchen. I sat down in an office next to the entry, and Mr. Churchill left the room. When he came back, I was already finishing up the ice cream, and the hot tea was waiting for him on the tray along with a carafe of eggnog.
When he entered the room, he had a full bottle of whiskey in his hand. “We’ll baptize this one together,” he said. He asked the butler to pour the eggnog. “Not too full,” he said. It seemed as though the butler was used to this because the spoon was already next to the glass, ready to stir the mixture. We drank the spiked eggnog together out of large cut-crystal glasses. He wasn’t interested in the tea. “Let’s go to sleep now,” he said. “We must be ready to leave the house by five A.M., and it’s already one.”
The valet escorted me to my room. It was not the one I usually stayed in. He opened the grand door for me to precede him and then, once in the room, opened the armoire. In it was a silk robe, a hunting outfit including boots and hat, a new uniform, two suits, a tuxedo, shoes, and all the accessories to go with them. He showed me the bathroom, in which I saw a chenille bathrobe and slippers and all the toiletries one could possibly think of. It was as if I had lived there for ten years already. “I think you’ll find everything you need, monsieur,” he said, and closed the door behind him.
Suddenly, I realized how exhausted I was. I took off my clothes, put on the nightgown that had been laid out for me, and slid into the turned-down bed. It felt oh so good to lie down.
Two and a half hours later, I was up and in the shower. I was downstairs just after 4 A.M., to be early, but Mr. Churchill was there ready and waiting with a thermos of café au lait. He smiled and said, “Good, I’m glad you’re up early. Are you ready to go, Marc?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
His two gamekeepers were waiting in the foyer, so we left right away. Four horses were saddled in front of the house. The gamekeepers mounted their horses, each taking six hunting dogs along. Then Mr. Churchill and I mounted our horses, ready for the hunt.
We hardly entered the forest when we saw a female boar, her four babies, and the male. He made his attack on me immediately. I was loaded up and ready, and shot him in the heart. One of the gamekeepers strung him up to a tree and disemboweled him. “Congratulations, that takes care of the big game,” Mr. Churchill said with a smile. “Let’s dismount and continue on foot.”
The time went by quickly as we gathered the game for Christmas dinner. I shot two ducks, and the prime minister shot two pheasant and seven quail. On the way back, we picked up the horses and returned on horseback. We were home by ten o’clock. Breakfast was served upon our return. There is nothing like an English breakfast, especially at Mr. Churchill’s home. We began with porridge and condensed milk, followed by double-thick rare lamb chops, veal liver, bacon and sausage served with sautéed potatoes and onions cooked to a golden brown, and croissants, which we dunked in our café au lait. It was good to be back “home.”
After breakfast, he told me, “Go shower, and then we’ll take some steam and discuss your recent mission. Afterward, I’ve arranged for massages.”
After the steam and massage, I relaxed for the rest of the day, taking leisurely walks around the property. In the late afternoon, Mr. Churchill sent for me. “Come, we have something we must do.” We climbed into the limousine. One of the servants came along with two huge bags of Christmas packages. “We’ll distribute presents at some orphanages and hospitals. At least the children will have some momentary happiness.”
When we returned home, we went to the library where a servant poured us each a “fine” Napoleon cognac. It was smooth as velvet on the throat. I lit my pipe, and Mr. Churchill continued smoking his cigar. We relaxed and talked. The two of us had a light supper and went to bed rather early that evening.
Though I stayed at this country home many, many times, I rarely saw Mr. Churchill’s wife, though I know she was often there. I mostly stayed in a section of the house that she didn’t frequent. She seemed to like to maintain a low profile.
The next day, family and friends began arriving for Christmas dinner in the early evening. It was a black-tie affair. There were about twenty people at the table. I wasn’t seated next to Mr. or Mrs. Churchill, who were the only ones at the table who spoke French. No one spoke Italian or German either. I, more or less, just observed the party. I watched the guests as they enjoyed themselves.
The dinner was delicious. Mr. Churchill had a fine cook in the kitchen and had developed a French palate, so there was nothing at all bland about the meal. We started with a madrilene, a cold tomato consommé. Then the wonderful fresh game was served accompanied by potatoes Champs-Élysees, which is sautéed potatoes layered with black and white truffles. Salad was then served, a combination of watercress and Belgian endives in a hazelnut oil and lemon dressing. The meal was completed with English trifle for dessert.
After-dinner drinks and coffee were served in the salon while presents were handed out. Mr. Churchill got up and walked in my direction. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small satin pouch that he handed to me. He said, “It isn’t much, just a sign of affection.” On the outside was written Van Cleef & Arpels. I opened it and pulled out a lovely p
ocket watch. I felt awkward. I had never received a Christmas present before. Besides that, I had nothing to give him in return. “Merci, monsieur ,” I said, not knowing exactly what to say.
I watched as everyone opened their presents. Not understanding English, I felt like an outsider. Then it dawned on me—I was an outsider. I didn’t quite feel as if I belonged in a family. Such thoughts made me uneasy. Wanting to escape my malaise, I went over to Mr. and Mrs. Churchill. “Thank you for the lovely dinner,” I said, and excused myself from the party. “Joyeux Noël.”
The next morning, the horses were ready, and off we went for hours through the forest and around the small lakes. It was just the two of us—Mr. Churchill and me. I felt exhilarated and renewed as the cool wind blew in my face. We raced along, passing sweet little houses, scattered here and there, with their roofs of straw. I told myself it didn’t matter if I didn’t have a real family. But I was only protecting myself from the unidentified feelings of the night before. I had to keep my mind on what my life now involved. We were going to free France. We were going to save the Jews and the Gypsies from being slaughtered. We were going to rid the world of the Nazi infestation.
Thinking like this, I suddenly wanted to get back to Europe. Not wanting to wait as usual for Mr. Churchill to take the initiative, I planned to ask about my next assignment as soon as the time felt right.