Churchill's Secret Agent

by Max Ciampoli

  One monk or another took care of all my daily needs. I still needed injections twice a day and was given pills as well. There was a common dining room where I was fed my meals. The communal toilet facilities were down the hallway and consisted of Turkish-style toilets. Those are the kind where one stands up to go to the bathroom. There are two tile areas on which to place the feet with a hole in between them. Next to the toilets were the showers.

  After a couple of days, the monk who acted as my main nurse began to take me for walks around the property. He held me by the rope that was tied around my waist. He controlled me from the rear, telling me when there was a step or uneven terrain. He took me all around the property even though I couldn’t see. He showed me the location of the chapel and told me about the well-kept vegetable gardens where the other monk who took care of me worked as a gardener. He described the architecture and explained the monks’ way of life at the monastery.

  One day, after a few weeks had passed, the monk came to my cell to take me for my daily walk.

  “I can see your shape,” I told him excitedly. I was thrilled, and so was the monk. “I can see shapes slightly, if they are close to my eyes. I can see the cross, the bed, the nightstand—everything!”

  That day he took me down a pathway to another building. It was the distillery where almost all of the monks worked in one capacity or another. He brought me close to the huge copper vats. In the immense room built of stone, there were about thirty or forty vats, each with a fire underneath. I could actually see their forms when right next to them. Inside were roots and herbs from the surrounding mountains from which the monks produced their wonderful liqueur, Chartreuse. Clear, spiral tubing descended from each vat to another container. The vapor produced in the process would pass through the tubing and turn to alcohol in these containers.

  From the distillery, he brought me over to the other monk who was working in the garden. He was elated by the news that my sight was returning. It was about two o’clock when the doorbell rang out at the front gate. Immediately afterward, the bells of the monastery sounded two times. The gardener said, “That’s the signal for trouble. Hide your hands underneath your robe. Get down on your knees and bow your head in prayer. Do not move. If someone talks to you, do not respond. You are mute. I’ll speak for you. I don’t want you to be concerned. We have nothing to hide here except you. We’ll let them enter and search if they wish. When they find nothing, they’ll leave.”

  The gates were opened and about two hundred Germans entered the monastery at a run. The search lasted about thirty minutes. They did not approach me at all. They left as rapidly as they had entered. The bells sounded two times and then once. The gardener told me that the first two rings indicated “all clear” and the single ring meant we were all to meet in the chapel.

  The three of us walked toward the chapel, as did all the monks. Once inside, a voice from the front said, “Do not kneel down. Remain standing. It will take up less space.” The chapel seated only about two hundred persons at any one time. By the time everyone arrived, there must have been four hundred of us.

  The brother who was speaking from the front of the room said, “I want to let you all know what is going on. We received a message from the Grand-Saint-Bernard Monastery about an hour ago that they had been inspected and that nothing was found. Of course, nothing was found here either.

  “We feel the reason for the sudden increase in German searches is that they are becoming agitated by the impending Allied landing in the south of France, as well as being very disappointed that their rumored invasion of Switzerland was called off. They have closed all the borders to Italy, France, Switzerland, and Austria. This is why our guest could not go to Switzerland. It would have been too dangerous. Let us all pray for the complete recovery of our guest.”

  I enjoyed the hospitality of the monastery for two more months, during which time I learned a great deal about gardening through daily observation as my sight continued to come back. I regained some of my strength owing to the daily walks that I took with my “nurse.” I wore dark glasses because my eyes couldn’t take the brightness. To everyone’s delight, especially my own, I eventually fully regained my eyesight.

  One day, the gardener brought the news. “It’s time for you to leave, Michel. Can you ski without poles?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Good. Then, we’ll leave tomorrow at daybreak. After a few hours’ skiing, we’ll pick up a car we have in storage in the next valley. You’ll be in Switzerland tomorrow night. The Swiss will get false identification papers for you.”

  This was great news. To be on skis again breathed new life into me. Three monks accompanied me on the mostly downhill trip. It was a good thing that I could ski without poles because my hands were still useless. But I knew they would heal eventually. I had made excellent progress since my escape from Compiègne. Skiing down the hillsides, I asked myself how I would ever be able to thank the countess, Yalena, David, the monks, the partisans—everyone who had contributed to saving my life. I had come back from the dead. I skied jubilantly down the slopes with the brisk, cold wind blowing in my face and freedom within “sight.”

  The weather was rather mild, and the landscape thrilled my senses. We left the skis at the storage where we picked up the car. Arriving in Thonon-les-Bains, we waited for nightfall. Then we followed the southern shore of Lake Léman, passing Evian. Just before the Swiss border, a rowboat was waiting to take us across the lake to Vevey, Switzerland.

  When we arrived, a small produce van was parked and waiting. The driver and two women climbed out to help me. My heart was full as I thanked the brothers for their devoted care. They hoisted me into the back of the van where one of the women helped me into civilian clothes as we drove toward a new chapter in my recovery, the Hotel School of Lausanne.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Convalescence

  The driver started the van and drove off. One of the women said, “Monsieur, you can sit on one of those sacks of potatoes after you change your clothes.”

  I had the feeling these women were nuns, but I asked no questions. I carefully slipped the pants on but had difficulty taking off the monk’s robe.

  “Here, let me help you,” the same one said as she assisted me with the shirt and jacket. “We’ll be at the hotel school before you know it.”

  When we arrived, the driver opened the door and helped me out of the van. He looked at me curiously for a long moment, then removed his cap. “Here, put this on,” he said as he handed it to me. I must have looked like a convict with my hair cut so short. Most Swiss men at that time wore their hair a bit longer than we do today, so I must have looked exceptionally odd. Switzerland was very conservative in all ways, including dress, hairstyles, and politics.

  “Thank you, monsieur,” I responded as I put the cap on and said good-bye to the three of them.

  I entered the building and walked toward the director’s office. Seated behind the desk was a lovely Swiss Italian woman, about twenty-eight or twenty-nine years old.

  “Hello, madame. Though I’ve stayed here several times, I’ve never had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. My name is Michel Carbonell.”

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Carbonell. I’ve seen your name on our occupancy list before. What has happened to you?”

  “I had an accident and have difficulty using my hands. Would it be possible to stay with you again and perhaps just observe some classes?” I asked. My hands were still wrapped in bandages.

  “Absolutely. We’ll work something out, monsieur.”

  “Could I use your phone to call one of my friends in Geneva?”

  “Certainly, I’ll call our operator for you.” I gave her the telephone number, and she placed the call. Once there was a ring, the director handed me the receiver, which I balanced in both hands. The phone rang and rang, but no one answered. I was about ready to hang up when I heard the voice of a woman.

  “May I speak to Monsieur Toby?”

  “He
’s not home right now. Would you like to speak to his father?”

  “Yes, I would, madame.”

  “Be patient. He has difficulty moving. I’ll call him to the phone.”

  When he came on the line, I asked him to give a message to his son. “Please tell Toby that his old friend has returned and is staying at the Hotel School of Lausanne and ask him to return my call. If I’m not available, just have him leave a message for Michel Carbonell, and I’ll call him back.”

  “Monsieur, I believe I will see him within a couple of hours, and I’ll give him your message.”

  I hung up and thanked the director. “Would it be possible, then, to have a room and a bowl of soup or something that I don’t have to cut? I can’t use my right hand at all nor the thumb and index finger of my left hand. I can use a fork, though with some difficulty, with the other three fingers of my left hand. Soup will really be the easiest thing for me to eat.”

  She looked at me with intensity, then relaxed and smiled. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of you. It will be my personal duty. Now, about a room. Let me look at my chart. There are two available on the first floor and several on the second. One of the rooms on the first floor is larger than the others. If I were you, I would choose that one.”

  “You have made my choice, madame.”

  “Would you like your meal served in your room or in the dining room? No, wait a minute. Since I need to stay in the office, I can help you eat right here.”

  She made a phone call and asked for a particular person. She explained my situation to the person in Italian and said that she was going to help me eat.

  “Thank you for your generosity,” I said in Italian. She looked surprised.

  “Where did you learn Italian?”

  “I skied with the Italian Alpine Troop accompanied by my tutor when I was a child.”

  “My parents are from Piemonte, near Torino,” she told me. “Italian is my first language. My mother still lives there, but my father died a while back.”

  About twenty minutes later, a man around fifty years old came in with a tray holding a large bowl of lentil soup with sausage cut into small pieces accompanied by a bottle of vinegar and a covered plate. He placed the tray on the table. She thanked him, and he left.

  “Come sit down at the table, and I’ll sit next to you.” She put a napkin on my lap and added a little vinegar to the soup and mixed it for me. Then she started teasing me in Italian as if I were a child, “Now, open your mouth. That’s a good boy.”

  For some reason, I didn’t feel too embarrassed with her little game. She seemed so kind and caring. After I finished the soup, she removed the dome from the plate. The smell that flew into my nostrils was exquisite. A risotto with octopus similar to what I had eaten with Maurice Chevalier in Florence so long ago.

  “I want to try to serve myself,” I said, but she insisted on serving and feeding me. Before finishing the meal, however, I insisted again and didn’t back down.

  “Truly, I must do all I can so I can recover quickly.” She understood and placed the fork in the fingers of my left hand. It took some time, but I finished the meal. Then she ordered espresso for both of us.

  I got up to go to my room, but before getting to the door, the phone rang. “Monsieur, it’s for you. Why don’t you go to the bar, and I’ll pass the call to you there.”

  It was my contact, Toby. He was a British agent caught in Switzerland when the Swiss closed their borders. He worked for the English and indirectly for the Americans through Allen Dulles, who was in Berne. I explained to him my injuries and limitations without explaining the details. “I’ve been receiving injections in my hands daily. Can you arrange medical help for me?”

  “Certainly, Michel. I’ll bring a doctor to see you this evening.”

  When they arrived, I explained to the doctor what I had been receiving. He gave me shots for the pain and gave me another to sleep. Though I didn’t need one for sleep, I didn’t say anything. The two of them undressed me for bed, leaving just my underwear on. The following morning, Toby returned with pajamas, a bathrobe, slippers, and socks.

  “Tomorrow, I’ve made an appointment with a tailor to come take your measurements and make you some clothes,” he said. “I noticed that the clothes you’re wearing bind your thighs and arms.”

  After he left, I put on my robe and went to the director’s office.

  “Excuse my attire, but I don’t have any appropriate clothes yet. A tailor is coming tomorrow to take my measurements.”

  “I see. And, how do you like your room?”

  “Very comfortable, thank you.”

  “You know, my brother died a couple of years ago. He lived with me at my house. He was a soldier in the Swiss army and was killed in an avalanche. All of his clothes are still in his room upstairs. Maybe some of them will fit you. If you like, tonight I can drive you home, and you can try some of them on. I’ll make a soup for the two of us, a specialty of Piemonte. I love the cuisine that I was raised with, though I rarely take the time to cook. I work six days a week from seven A.M. to six P.M., and it’s much easier to just eat here. My time away from work is very limited. Of course, there is the housework, washing, and errands to do. Sunday morning I go to church, and that is my life. So, is it agreed? We’ll go to my house after work tonight?”

  “Yes, agreed. It’s very generous of you.” The woman was patient, thoughtful, and caring. I was fortunate in that people generally treated me with kindness and respect.

  “If you have any needs, you must not hesitate to ask. I will help you eat, get dressed, whatever you need. All right?”

  “Yes, yes. I understand,” I said, hiding my discomfort in accepting yet another person’s help.

  The dining room of the hotel school was open to the public. It was a learning experience for all those attending the school. Guided by professional chefs and hotel personnel, the students learned the art of cooking, serving, greeting, and pleasing the public as well as the intricacies of hotel management. The hotel school restaurant offered its clients fine cuisine at reasonable prices. Over the next few months, I would eat either in the dining room, my guest room, or at the director’s home. The food was excellent at the school as was the attention to detail. The director took care of my every need, and the students and staff accommodated my every request.

  I was also fortunate that Toby would visit frequently to take care of anything else I needed. He arranged for the doctor to check on me regularly, and he in turn scheduled regular visits by a nurse. As my recovery progressed, I no longer needed to see the nurse daily. She would look after my hygiene and administer any medicines I needed, including the injections so crucial for recovering the use of my hands. My rehabilitation was an excruciatingly slow process. Young and independent by nature and education, I was impatient to get back to work.

  Cherished memories of the time I spent at the Hotel School of Lausanne have remained with me all these years. The three-month stay gave me time to develop a strong relationship with the director like that of a loving big sister. It was a pure and honest friendship, a truly beautiful experience.

  Every so often, I think about my extraordinary saga of capture, escape, injury, and recovery and realize just how amazing it is that I am still alive.

  While in Lausanne, I worked intensely on my physical recuperation. As I got stronger, I joyfully began running and climbing the surrounding mountains greater distances every day. I also took advantage of my time at the school by taking as many classes as I could. At the time, I had no idea how this education would later fashion my destiny as an executive chef in the grand hotels of the United States of America.

  Finally, one bright and beautiful day, I said to myself, “I’m ready to get back into action. I’m exceptionally grateful to be alive and in good shape again. It’s a miracle that I am still drawing breath on this earth. What is waiting out there for me to do?”

  I was fully recovered, physically and mentally strong again. I felt r
eady for any challenge, no matter how daunting.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Return to Combat

  As the plane took off from the airfield headed toward France, I reflected on my triumphant return to England. The secretary, the cook, her assistants, and even Hughes made such a fuss over me. Evidently, they knew something of my imprisonment and escape. I continued my exercise regime perfected in Lausanne as soon as I arrived at the estate—walking, running, and working out every day besides riding the horses every morning. I did not want to lose the gains in strength and fitness I had achieved in the past months. A few days later when Mr. Churchill came to the estate, I was called to the library. It was a greeting to remember. He stood as I entered the room. The look of warmth in his eyes filled my heart.

  “Mon petit, mon ingénieux,” he began, “may God continue to protect you,” he said as he held me close. “I know this has been a difficult passage in your life. I have been kept apprised of your progress in Paris, Chartreuse, and Lausanne. And finally, here you are, alive and in one piece. I’m surprised how fit you look. I know you’ve worked hard to make such great progress in your recovery. I am so grateful you have survived this ordeal. His voice was filled with compassion. “Come, let’s have a cognac.”

  He asked me to tell him all that had happened. Although he knew, I’m sure, he wanted to hear the story in my words. We sat together for a long time as I shared my near-death experience, my escape, and miraculous recovery. “I’ll never be able to adequately thank the extraordinary German partisans who saved me from the bowels of hell and all the wonderful people who nursed me to health again. I would certainly have died without each of their efforts.”

  “You will thank them by continuing on in the fight,” he said, suddenly animated. “We are making great progress. We will win this war—I am sure of it. After a prolonged rest, I want you to parachute behind enemy lines again. I’ll give you a large sum of money to deliver to Combat ’s commander in charge of the Basses-Alpes. And I want you to continue where you left off in spreading the rumor of the fictitious Allied landing. I want everyone to be convinced that it will take place in the south of France. We need every advantage we can get to conquer the Nazis and bring this war to a close.”