by Max Ciampoli
“Let me talk to them and see what I can do,” she offered. “Come by my salon at the same time tomorrow.”
Prior to seeing her, I had asked Monsieur Plantier, chief of police of Monte Carlo, to help me out with procuring an identity card. He was able to get away from Monaco for a few days and said he would meet me in Paris. That evening, I had arranged to meet him and a friend of mine from childhood, Vadim, in front of the famous cabaret and restaurant Le Boeuf sur le Toit. It was opening night at the cabaret for a good friend of Vadim’s who had a two-week contract at Le Boeuf. She was also an acquaintance of mine from childhood. Before the war, Yolanda had sung at the Knickerbocker, my father’s cabaret, a hot spot frequented by celebrities, royalty, diplomats, and politicians from all over the world.
Yolanda was an excellent singer and entertainer who had many friends, especially in artistic circles. Of course, Plantier knew her, too. Everybody knew everybody, or at least just about everybody, in the small city of Monte Carlo.
Vadim was the son of an accomplished tennis player my tutor played doubles with. They had played at Saint Roman, the tennis club of Monte Carlo, where I took lessons, too. Later, Vadim had become a member of the Troupe des Ballets Russes of Monte Carlo.
Yolanda was so surprised. She recognized Plantier, but I had to tell her who I was. I didn’t look at all like the child she had known so long ago. I told her and Vadim not to use my name. We stayed for both performances. She introduced us to some of her friends, including Jean Marais and Jean Cocteau, both well known in the artistic world. We all had supper together after her second performance, but time got away from us, and owing to the 11 P.M. curfew, a friend of Cocteau’s who lived nearby invited us to stay at her place. Anyone found in the street after eleven at night could be arrested by the Germans for being out after curfew. So we piled into her miniscule apartment, which had barely enough space to fit us all. Most of us stood or sat on the floor. We talked, debated, drank, and smoked all night. In the meantime, my mind was working on what could be done at Maxim’s because I had faith that Monique was going to be able to get us in.
“Monsieur Cocteau, do you know a few technicians and electricians I could use for a small project, men that can be trusted?” I asked him when I got him aside for a few moments.
“Yes, I have several who work for me. Let me know what you need. I’ll be glad to help out.” He didn’t even ask what I needed them for.
We left early the next morning after the long, sleepless night. All we needed to move about the city was a carte d’identité. The photo identity card that Plantier had procured for me stated I was Yves Marsan, a citizen of Monaco. He had also brought an international driving permit as a secondary identification. Marsan was really a citizen of Monaco and was my age. It was a good thing that I had left Plantier photos the last time he had helped me out because he had needed them to have these two forms of identity forged.
The fresh air and open space felt good after being crammed into those close quarters. “Is your hotel far from here, monsieur?” I asked him.
“It’s a pretty good distance, near the place de l’Étoile. We can get a bicycle-taxi or take the métro, if you like.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d prefer to walk. That will give us some time alone. I’d like to share some private information with you.”
“Certainly, that would be fine.”
On the way to Plantier’s hotel, I told him that I was meeting someone that afternoon who was going to try to get me access to Maxim’s to use as a means of spying on the Germans.
“If I can be of any help whatsoever, I don’t want you to hesitate to ask,” he told me.
“Just by getting me the false identity saying I’m a citizen of Monaco, you have done more than I could have hoped for. It relieves me of worry for my own safety here in Paris.”
When we arrived at the hotel, I booked a room as well. “I need to shower and get some sleep before my appointment this afternoon, and I’m sure you’re tired as well.”
“I’m exhausted. I’m not young like you are. Shall we have dinner after your rendezvous?”
“I don’t know what time that will be, but I’ll be in touch. If you get hungry, don’t wait for me.”
When I arrived at Monique’s shop, she said, “I have everything arranged. Let’s go across the street.”
She introduced me to the manager and owners of the restaurant. I explained some of my thoughts, and they shared theirs. “You’ll be well paid by the English government,” I told them, not knowing if that made a difference or not, but Mr. Churchill had told me to inform them. “I need to make arrangements and develop some plans to install a system of microphones attached to recording devices. I’ve found some safe technicians to help us.”
“And I know some women who will help us encourage the Germans to talk,” Monique added.
Maxim’s was singular in its expression of extraordinary luxuriousness within a setting that was full of mystery. The lighting itself was a work of art, dim in some areas, brighter in others. The walls were padded in silk, partially covered with sumptuous draperies over draperies, some brocade and others thick velvet gracefully hung in dramatic swags, accented with gold fringe and pulled back with cords from which tassels hung. Adding to the opulence of the private rooms and alcoves were thick Persian rugs. Here and there, impressive mirrors framed in twenty-four-carat gold reflected the exclusive clientele that graced the restaurant, now dominated by influential Germans.
“I’ve been considering how to put the operation into place. Would it be possible for me to work as maître d’ on the second floor?” I asked the owners. “That way I can direct those who I feel will be the most helpful to the private salons or alcoves that are bugged. I can discreetly ask if they want us to provide female companionship. We will have some of Monique’s friends preselected and coached to lead the conversation to our topics of interest,” I told them.
“Yes, we can work that out,” one of them responded.
We returned to Monique’s shop. “An idea came to me,” she blurted out. “I can organize parties to which I’ll invite diplomats from different countries. I’ll encourage them to invite German officers and French Militia members. I have quite an exclusive clientele at my salon that I can draw from, you know. I also know many women I can recruit to help us. Many are widowed because of the war. Others have husbands interned in Germany or Poland in forced labor camps. Several who are Jewish have husbands in concentration camps. These women are totally dedicated to terminating the Nazi occupation of Europe. Many will go to any length to help.” She was excited about her inspiration.
I contacted Cocteau, and he sent me the men I needed and some of the equipment. Once the intelligence system was in place, I became maître d’ and interacted with the German clientele. Most Germans of the upper echelon would have rather died than miss coming to Maxim’s if they were in Paris. It was an exclusive restaurant in those days, as it still is today, and wasn’t far from German headquarters.
A few days later Monique introduced us to the wonderful women willing to help. Monsieur Plantier spent a few days with me to help select our people before returning home. I trusted his judgment and experience as the longstanding chief of police of Monte Carlo.
The scheme worked beautifully. Many women were able to continue the relationships established at Maxim’s and were thus in position to maintain the influx of intelligence. Monique was responsible for coding and sending the data collected to England. Her friends used their feminine wiles for the Allied cause to furnish us with more secrets than we had even hoped for. These women were true patriots.
After a few weeks, I passed the job on to my successor, who would continue to gather information at Maxim’s and help set up other locations popular with high-ranking Germans for the duration of the war.
I got in touch with my contact in Paris, who said I needed to make my way to England via Lisbon, Portugal. He gave me the locations of several safe houses and people who could help m
e. I decided I would pass through the south of France on the way.
Some years later, in 1947, I was traveling to Le Havre to take a ship to New York. I stopped in Paris to visit Monique and to get a haircut and my beard trimmed in her men’s salon upstairs before leaving for the United States. The salon was there, but she wasn’t. I talked to the manager, who confided, “During the war, Monique was caught by the Germans, questioned interminably, and finally blinded by the lights they used in her interrogations. Of course, she doesn’t work anymore, but she is still the owner and we are still in touch every evening.”
“I am so sorry.” I was deeply moved and somewhat shaken by this news. “Will you give her this package and letter for me?” I had written a letter of thanks for her enormous contribution and enclosed my 9-millimeter Lugar as a memento of the times. “I am sorry I cannot stay to go visit her, but I must take a train this afternoon for Le Havre. Please express to Monique my deep regrets for her loss. I will never forget her and her friends’ sacrifices. What they did is etched in my mind forever.”
TEN
Jews for Sale
Once I reached the south of France, I decided to go to a restaurant I knew in La Turbie whose owner I had known for many years. I was staying with a priest at a church in a nearby village. As I was eating lunch, the owner came over to me.
“I have a dilemma, Monsieur Marc,” he said, “and I need some advice.” He knew we both shared the same outlook about Germans occupying France. “What can I do?” He was really agitated about something.
“Do about what?” I asked.
“I learned that a customer of mine who is pro-Nazi intends to go to the militia headquarters in Nice to report a camp in the woods nearby where two hundred fifty to three hundred Jewish refugees are hiding along with some French partisans. I must find a way to stop him.”
“Tell me more.”
“This man is really angry because his son told him about this camp where he’s helping out. The father is anti-Semitic, so that did not sit too well with him. On top of that, the boy has fallen in love with a Jewish girl he met at the camp and plans to marry her. The father is vehemently opposed to Christians marrying Jews, of course.”
“What he doesn’t know is that several other local residents and I take care of feeding these refugees and providing for their medical needs. If he knew, he wouldn’t be frequenting my establishment. He has been bragging that he intends to denounce the whole group to the militia in Nice. I don’t know what to do to protect them.”
“But his son is at the camp,” I said. “He risks losing his son if he reports the camp. Doesn’t he understand that?”
“That’s the point. He wants to get rid of the Jews and his Jew-loving son. He feels he’ll take care of both problems at once.”
“Does he know that it is likely his son will be killed?” I asked, incredulous.
“I’m afraid he does. He’s a Jew-hating fanatic and believes his son is better off dead than married to a Jewish girl. Can you help?”
“Yes, I believe I can,” I replied as I began to feel the heat of anger rising within me.
“If you’d like to meet him, he stops at my bar almost every night and gets drunk before going home. He lives close by, only two or three kilometers away.”
That evening I returned to his restaurant. Most of the tables outside were occupied. As I entered, I saw a man seated alone at a table, holding a glass of red wine. I looked over at the owner behind the bar. He nodded slightly, indicating that this was the man.
I went up to the bar. “I’ll have a bottle of red wine, please,” I said to the owner. He opened a bottle and poured a glass for me. I picked up the bottle and glass and walked over to the table next to the man and sat down. After a few minutes, I opened the conversation.
“Excuse me, monsieur. I’m going to Nice tomorrow, but I don’t know the address of the place where I need to go. I’m not from around here. Do you know Nice at all?”
“Where is it you’re going?”
“I want to go to the militia headquarters, but I’m not familiar with the city, and it’s so big. I have no idea how to find it. Would you know?”
“Not exactly but I can tell you it’s near the center of town. But this is such a coincidence. I happen to be going there myself tomorrow. I’m a member of the militia,” he said proudly. “Why do you want to go? Do you want to join?”
“Yes, I do,” I lied enthusiastically.
“Good man,” he said. “You can come with me tomorrow. I’m going to take my car.”
“That is kind of you. I really appreciate it,” I responded. “May I pour you a glass of wine?”
He nodded. “Why thank you.” He took a big gulp and finished his glass, and I poured him another. He drank it down, and I filled his glass again.
“Wonderful. We’ll go together,” I said. I thought to myself that I’d better get him drunk because I needed to subdue him tonight, and he was very well built. This way, I’d make it easier on myself.
We continued talking, and I continued pouring. With each pause in the conversation, he downed a glass of wine until the bottle was empty.
“Would you mind doing me a favor?” he asked, slurring his words.
“Yes, of course. What can I do for you?”
He was having a lot of difficulty expressing himself. “Would you mind doing me a big favor?”
“I already said yes. What’s the favor?”
“Between militia men, after all,” he slurred, with a grin on his face.
“Whatever it is, it would be my pleasure.”
“My farm is about three kilometers away. You see, I drank a little too much. I don’t know if I can make it home alone. You can stay at my house if you’d like, but I really need some help getting there.”
“Certainly, I understand.”
We got up and stumbled out into the night together like two drunks. It was around nine or nine thirty when we began walking toward his home. I asked myself how I was going to get rid of him. About ten minutes later, it came to me. “I need to go to the bathroom,” I said.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” he responded. “I know of a stable for sheep nearby. The French shepherds use it when they stop with their herds on the way to Italy for the winter to find more grass. Then, on the way back, in the summer they stop there again.”
Shortly afterward, he announced, “Here we are. I’ll come with you. I really have to go, too.”
As we took refuge to relieve ourselves, it started to rain. The entry to the large stone stable was very low. It could hold well over a hundred sheep. As we entered, I noticed the trap into which the sheep’s urine would run so they wouldn’t have to sleep in it. The hole was covered with a boulder.
As we both urinated, I suggested, “We can stay in the shelter for a while until the rain lightens up.”
“That’s a good idea,” he managed to say.
Then I asked, “Do you know if there are any Jews in the area?”
He fell for it. “Those dirty Jews! They’re everywhere! Even here. There’s a bunch of them hiding in this very forest. There are a lot of them in Nice, too. When we catch them, we sell them to the Nazis for a hundred francs a head,” he said proudly. “That’s why I’m going to Nice tomorrow. I’m going to collect a bundle of money for a whole camp of Jews! But that’s not the only reason. My son has been bewitched by a Jewish girl and wants to marry her. I can’t understand it. I won’t accept it. It’s just not done.”
“You mean, your own son is in the camp?”
“Can you believe it? He joined them. He takes himself for a Jew now. It’s his own fault that he’ll be arrested with the rest of them.”
“You only have one problem,” I said as I pulled out the Colt .45 from my belt and pointed it at him. “Get on your knees,” I ordered. He looked at me, not comprehending. I hit him on the side of the head with the pistol. He fell to the ground that was covered with sheep droppings. “I said get on your knees, you dirty beast.”
“It won’t hurt,” I explained. “It will be over much too quickly. I don’t think you understand that it is not right to sell human beings. Listen carefully to what I have to say. In the name of Free France, I condemn you to death.”
“No,” he said, “you don’t have the right.”
“Enough of this useless chatter. Say your final prayers and consider what you were about to do. You have thirty seconds. And don’t move. If you do, I’ll shoot you in the shoulder, and that will hurt and cause you to suffer before you die. So say your prayers and ask forgiveness and die worthy of being a man.”
Suddenly I realized that I’d better get on with it and waste no more time. You just never knew when an interruption might arise. I had to take advantage of the opportunity at hand. The rain was not letting up but coming down harder and harder. “Have you finished your prayers? Finished crying? I’m sure you don’t find anything to reproach yourself for. Am I correct?”
He looked at me, stunned.
I put the Colt .45 on the center of his forehead and pulled the trigger. The bullet went through his head. The explosion resonated throughout the enclosed stable, reverberating off the stone walls. The effect was like that of an echo chamber.
I was relieved that it was over. I removed the stone from the well that drained the stable of urine. I pulled the dead man by his feet across the opening and then dropped him headfirst down the well shaft. I replaced the large stone and started back to the hotel next to the restaurant whose owner had put me on to this scoundrel. As I walked through the dark rainy night, I felt so good inside that I had saved all those people from probable death. But there was no time to dwell on it. I knew I now had to make my way to Portugal as soon as I possibly could. Before leaving in the morning, I would need to reach my British contact in Nice.
