by Max Ciampoli
My inner strength and sangfroid were restored as we flew across the picturesque countryside. I would never forget that Christmas with Mr. Churchill.
TWENTY-TWO
Paying the French Communists
A few days later, when we returned hungry from our exhilarating morning ride, another sumptuous breakfast was in store for us. Mr. Churchill was in a very good humor. The U.S. entry into the war had buoyed his spirits. For so long he had worked and dreamed of it, and now the moment was here. He sensed the impending shift in the war that would surely occur in the new year. He was certain that the change in the balance of power would manifest just as it had when the Americans had entered the world war in 1917. I had seen him burdened in the earliest days when England was alone in the tense and grim Battle of Britain. That was when I first joined him, the summer of 1940, only eighteen months earlier. That now seemed like ancient history because so much living, dying, and danger had been crammed into the intervening period. Now this great man seemed not just happy but jolly, just like Father Christmas.
“I must tell you something that happened a while back, Marc. My friend Baruch was visiting me. My valet was serving us breakfast, and he tripped. The tray flew and landed in the chest of my friend. My valet didn’t know what to do. He was so embarrassed and horrified that he couldn’t move. My friend took it well. He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet and handed my valet a large sum of money and said, ‘I am only giving you this much money because the next time, you mustn’t miss my pants. If you succeed next time, I’ll double the amount.’ The look on my valet’s face was priceless. Baruch broke out in laughter so hard that my valet started to laugh as well. Then I burst out laughing, too. There we were, the three of us, almost rolling on the floor. When we finally got ourselves under control, Baruch said to my valet, ‘You know, you’re a good man. Why don’t you come spend the holidays with me in South Carolina.’ He was quite an exceptional man, my friend Baruch.” As he told the story, I experienced so much pleasure seeing him relaxed, his face radiant with joy—for the moment not stressed by his war responsibilities.
“I have another story about Baruch,” he said, obviously enjoying reminiscing about the man. “One night, we stayed at one of your father’s clubs till around five in the morning. Then we left to go to the Casino to gamble. After a couple of hours, Baruch left to get some sleep, but I was feeling lucky, and I stayed. I wound up winning a lot of money, so I stopped at Van Cleef & Arpels and bought him a watch similar to the one I bought for you, but I had time to get his engraved. After that, I went back to the hotel. Baruch is a good friend. He’s given me a lot of sound financial advice. He has a great sense of humor and likes to joke around like you do. He sometimes calls me ‘the King of Nitrates of Chile.’ ” He laughed. “Before he left to go back to the United States, I picked up the pocket watch to give him. What it said was, ‘To the best friend in the world,’ and he has been a dear friend.” He nodded and smiled for emphasis, appreciating the memories, then resumed talking.
“Well, you’ve let me go on and on. Did you enjoy our little ride this morning?”
“Very much, but I’m ready to get back to work. Do you have something in mind for me?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he responded with a smile. “I thought you might want some extra time off. That was quite a walk you took, after all,” he said, with that twinkle in his eye.
“I can be ready to leave at a moment’s notice,” I responded, anxious to get something positive accomplished.
“I do have some funds that I need you to personally deliver to someone who will get it to the Communist partisan group for us. But I want you to take off some more time until after the New Year. A little more rest won’t do you any harm, mon petit. When the time is right, I’ll have my secretary fill you in on all the details. Now let’s go clean up. Then I’ll take a little snooze, and you do as you like.”
A couple of weeks later, I was on my way back to Europe. To avoid detection, we were flying very low into France in a light German airplane that had swastikas painted on the wings. After we left England, I had handed the pilot the written flight plan from Mr. Churchill. He spoke English only, but the copilot spoke German and French. If they were intercepted on the radio by Germans, the copilot would say they were on a secret observation mission.
I was readying myself to make the jump into a long valley located between Sisteron and Carpentras, a region I knew very well. It was an isolated area, far from any roads, villages, or farms. As I awaited the signal, I made sure my overcoat was well fastened. It was a critical piece of clothing. Now came the signal! I jumped into the dark, cold night.
It was an easy jump into an alfalfa field surrounded with rocks that had been cleared by the farmer while plowing. After landing, I unhooked myself from the chute and buried it under a small boulder. The pilot immediately headed in the direction of the Mediterranean Sea to fly to the military base in Gibraltar to refuel. He was not allowed radio contact until he neared Gibraltar. At that time, he would send a coded message so they would know he was not the enemy.
This valley brought back memories. When I was a student at the Athenium in Nice, the Jesuits brought me here for wilderness training. Armed only with a hunting knife, I had to survive for three days with a loaf of rye bread, a small piece of cheese, an onion, and a half liter of water. I learned then that there were a lot of streams and natural springs in the area.
Three million francs had been given to me to personally deliver to a certain policeman who would pass it on to the PPF, the Parti Populaire Français, the Communist partisans who were stationed in the Basses-Alpes. The money was well placed and well deserved, for the group was united with all the other partisans and England in one common cause—to harass and kill the enemy and create as much confusion and turmoil as possible.
I began the forty-kilometer trek to Sisteron, where I was to go to the gendarmerie located in the center of town. I had to remind myself to walk slowly in keeping with my cover. I figured the walk would take about twelve hours. That meant I should arrive in Sisteron about 3 P.M.
I was disguised as a very poor, sick man wearing worn and dirty wool clothes—brown pants, a long-sleeved beige shirt, a faded jacket, an old brown overcoat, a Russian sock on the left foot and none on the right, and oversized old brown shoes. I had a yellow Star of David sewn onto the pocket of my jacket and on my coat. Embroidered across the star was the word Juif.
That afternoon, I entered the two-story governmental building that had a tiled roof typical of the region. There was a sergeant sitting on the left at his desk.
“May I see Sergeant Decoste?” I asked.
“What is the purpose of your visit?”
“Some of his friends asked me to come to see him. They told me I could always find him in his office at the end of the week.”
My instructions had been to come to see Sergeant Decoste either Saturday at his office or Sunday at his house. It was Saturday.
“He happens to be sick today. If you want to see him, you can find him at home.”
“But I don’t know where he lives.”
“Just follow this street past the church, then pass the main square, and you’ll find his house right there on the corner.”
I arrived at Decoste’s home and knocked at the door.
“Hello, monsieur. What may I do for you?” Madame Decoste asked politely.
“Bonjour, madame. Excuse me for disturbing you. I know your husband is ill, but the sergeant at the gendarmerie suggested I come to your home to talk with him, as it is rather urgent.”
She called out to him, and he came to the door. His wife disappeared and left the two of us alone.
“What may I do for you, monsieur?”
“Savez-vous qu’il pleut en Allemagne au printemps?”
He replied correctly, “Yes, I know it rains in Germany during the spring, and it also rains in France. Go out to the garden and around the house and back toward the street. You’ll fi
nd a wood door. Open it, and go down to the cellar. I’ll meet you there.”
Sergeant Decoste had an olive complexion and wore a handlebar mustache. He joined me as I was descending the stairs.
“Do you have a coat for me?” he asked.
“I have your coat,” I said. Once in the cellar, I took off my overcoat and handed it to him. Decoste went outside and called for his wife to come down. He handed her the coat and asked her to remove the Star of David from the brown one and sew it onto the old navy blue overcoat he had brought from the police department. Madame Decoste brought the coat upstairs to do the work while we sat down at a small table to talk.
“Sergeant, someone from the PPF will pick up the coat in a few days.” He must have questioned the significance of the coat, but I didn’t mention that there were three million francs sewn into its lining, which was made of newspaper and cloth, effectively hiding the sound of crackling franc notes. He offered me a glass of wine, some goat cheese, and fresh bread. The bread was a treat for me. I could never get bread often enough. While partaking of this small feast, I explained that the coat with the Jewish star was part of my cover. I was posing as a man with tuberculosis on his way to a camp for Jews where his illness could be treated. The camp was in the vicinity of Avignon, and I had a letter from the Gestapo—forged, of course—explaining my condition and destination.
Decoste commented, “Who but the English would think of hiding a spy behind a Jewish star?”
I carried the letter written in German as well as my normal papers that identified me as Michel Carbonell. My picture was in the upper left corner and embossed on it was the Nazi swastika so there could be no chance of forgery.
“Is there something else I can do?” he asked.
“Yes. Will you handcuff me and take me to the train station and hand me over to the chef de gare personally so all appears to be in good order?”
“No, I am truly too ill, but I can call the police station and ask for another officer to pick you up and take you to the train station in Nice.”
About a half hour later, his wife came down and handed me the blue coat without saying a word. Shortly after, I was picked up by a gendarme who handcuffed me and led me to the police car. It was almost 5 P.M. Across the street, a group of locals was playing boules (bocce ball) on a flat, hard dirt surface in front of the church. When they saw the officer putting me into the backseat of the car, one of the men shouted, “Look, look. They’ve arrested another Jew.”
The policeman put the car in gear, but before leaving, Decoste shouted to him, “Stop. Come over here!” The young man put on the hand brake, got out, and headed toward the front door to find out what the sergeant wanted. Decoste handed his younger colleague a paper bag to give me. When he returned, he handed me the bag.
It took a few hours to drive to Nice. The gendarme removed the handcuffs and delivered me to the stationmaster, who then turned me over to the German police. As Carbonell, sick with tuberculosis, I was coughing and doubled over in pain. Not asking me for any identification whatsoever, speaking French, they told me to sit down on the bench. The stationmaster was very kind and told me that he would ask another railroad worker to find a cattle car that had straw on the floor to make me a little more comfortable on my trip to Avignon.
The train arrived. The weather was cold and rainy. Two German officers approached and said, “Identité, s’il vous plaît.” I coughed as I handed them the letter. They took their time reading it, and then one of them turned to face me. He addressed me gruffly in German. “I have some questions to ask, and I want the truth.”
Though I understood what he said, I replied, “Je ne comprends pas,” indicating that I didn’t understand German.
The two continued looking at the letter and studying my identification papers. One was more sympathetic than the other. He said in German, “Oh, let him go. He’s going to die anyway.” The other reluctantly relented, and they gestured toward the railroad employee waiting next to the boxcar.
Irritated, the stern Nazi officer threw my letter on the ground. As I slowly bent over to pick it up, the man kicked me in the rear and said, “Schwein!” I stayed on the ground, went into a fit of coughing, and acted very sick.
As the Germans left, the railroad employee came over and helped me climb into the boxcar and closed the door behind me. I was alone in the car. I was grateful to be a Jew, in this instance. Second class, where I was not allowed to go as a Jew, was packed with people, many of whom would have to stand for the entire trip.
Here in the boxcar I had my own private compartment. It felt good to be alone. As I sat down on the floor of the cattle car, I opened the bag that Sergeant Decoste had given me. I found three apples, a chunk of hard goat cheese, and a piece of bread. People can be so kind, I thought, pleased to have something to eat.
I made myself comfortable in the dirty straw, lay down, and fell asleep. It seemed like only moments later the train came to a halt. This train was headed for Aix-en-Provence, where I had studied at the university. From there, I was to transfer to the train for Avignon. The stop was one of several on the way to Aix. The door opened and six men in tattered clothing climbed into the car. All had the yellow star sewn onto their wool coats. One closed the door and the train started up again. One of the men said to another, “Savez-vous qu’il pleut en Allemagne au printemps, n’est-ce pas?” There it was—the code phrase. The man did not respond. Apparently, they were waiting for me.
I responded appropriately, “Je vais à Avignon dans le centre.”
That was the new code phrase. Codes were changed often to protect us from infiltrators.
I asked them, “How do you happen to be here?”
One answered, “We received a message that the Gestapo is waiting for you in Avignon. They know who you are. There’s a leak. We don’t know where it is, but we’ve developed an alternative plan. In three kilometers, there is a curve where the train must slow down. At that point, we’ll jump off to the outer side of the curve so as not to be seen. There are bicycles waiting for all of us.”
These were all men in their fifties and sixties devoted to freeing France. I really admired them. At the time, I was nineteen, strong and fearless.
It was a still night and very dark because there was no moon. The rain had stopped. We jumped off as the train slowed down and made our way toward the bushes, where we quickly found the bicycles. We pedaled for about four or five kilometers, passing through a small village. Once outside the village, one of the men said to me, “We’ll leave our bikes here and continue on foot.”
They arranged themselves in single file, and I was told to follow the man leading the group. We arrived at an intersection where there was a small hotel. There were five or six German military cars parked in front. That didn’t stop them. The leader went around to the back, opened the back door, and entered. I followed him in, and the others followed me. The couple who owned the hotel must have been listening for us. They came back and told me that they were going to hide me behind the bar in back of four wine barrels, each about a meter or so in diameter.
“You must not move or make a sound until the Germans leave in the morning, monsieur.” When no one was around, they motioned to me, and I lay down on the floor behind the barrels. They left me there. About ten minutes later, the woman returned with half a broiled rabbit, dark German-style bread, and a bottle of goat’s milk. She said good night and left me to eat and sleep.
I slept on and off. I was kept awake by the noise that the drunken German soldiers were making just on the other side of the bar/restaurant. They were so close to where I was dozing. Strange, but it was only the elevated voices that were disturbing my sleep. For some reason, I felt safe.
I awoke to the smell of a cheese and mushroom omelette brought to me by the woman. She handed me the plate and a tall bottle of goat’s milk. This was luxury. Eggs were a rare treat. But this was the countryside, and they were readily available.
“Monsieur, the German soldiers hav
e left. Eat now. You must replenish your strength. There will be someone coming for you in an hour. Here is a straight razor and soap. Use the bar sink to wash and shave.” She left momentarily and came back. “Here is a postman’s uniform. Most important, here are new forged papers.” This would be my new identity, a very good one, I might add. A uniform of any sort looks legitimate, for some reason.
I got ready, and an hour later into the restaurant walks a skinny young girl, maybe twelve years old. The girl had long brown hair and was with her little brother, who was about seven. I followed her out the front door where she got on her bicycle and helped her brother up onto the handlebars. I followed her on another bike, and she led me to the post office, and then to the head post-man who was standing behind the counter. He peered at me through the bars and said, “I’m counting on you to deliver all these letters, including this registered letter for the schoolteacher and this package for Monsieur the Mayor. Thank you for helping us out of this jam. Our mailman is sick today.”
I didn’t dare say anything because I didn’t know if I could trust the man. I stepped away from the counter with the packed mailbag. My mind was eased when the little girl said, “My father is the mailman. He received orders from the gendarmerie to be sick today to help the Resistance. Don’t worry. I know the route by heart. I’ll take you to the farms and the school, but first we need to go to the mayor’s house.”
When we arrived, the maid opened the door and called for the mayor. He came to the door, greeted us, and asked me to come inside. The two children waited outdoors, and the maid was excused from the room. The mayor, originally from Nantes, told me that he had extremely important news that must reach England as soon as humanly possible.
He began, “One piece of information that I have is bad news for the French. Pierre Laval is returning to a position of power as prime minister of France, joining General Pétain in Vichy. As I’m sure you know, Pétain has been placating the Germans and doing his best to help France. Laval, on the other hand, is pro-Nazi and an anti-Semite as well. The Germans know that he will wholeheartedly collaborate with them to establish a system of forced labor that will expatriate French boys and girls to Germany, where their hands are needed in the German factories.”