by Max Ciampoli
Now I had a decision to make. I knew the dog was my friend. Should I sleep in his house and curl up next to his warm body, or should I sleep in the wagon underneath the hay? I decided on the wagon and dug myself into the hay so that I was completely hidden from view. I put a sugar cube in my mouth to suck on and fell asleep. I awoke to the sound of scratching. It was daybreak, and my new friend wanted breakfast. I reached into my pocket for another sugar cube. Good thing I had taken quite a few.
I climbed out of the wagon, brushed myself off, and went to the door of the synagogue. Even though it wasn’t the designated time, I decided to try anyway. After all, it’s safer to be inside a building than out on the street, I reasoned. An older man opened the door. I spoke to him in French, but he didn’t understand. He gestured for me to come in. He showed me to a bench where he indicated I should sit down. He went to the telephone hanging on the wall, talked for a couple of minutes and hung up. He gestured that I was to wait.
A while later, another old man, broom in hand, entered the lobby where I was waiting. He began sweeping the area right in front of me. The man wore the traditional long side curls of Orthodox Jews. He did not take his gaze off me the entire time he was sweeping. Unlike the other man who had opened the door for me, this one had a sour expression. He just stared at me, a miserable grimace on his face. His constant stare made me furious. I got up to look out the window. The man jumped in front of me, holding the broom horizontally in both hands and signaled for me to sit down. Reluctantly, I sat. In those days, it did not take much to make me angry. Later, when I thought about the situation, I realized that this man knew that Gypsies often meant trouble. He probably didn’t want anyone to see there was a Gypsy in the synagogue.
As I sat there, I thought, If only this scientist would have accepted the original British plan, a small plane could have been sent for him, and the mission would have been finished. Then I wouldn’t have to put up with this malcontent staring at me. I was about nineteen years old at the time, and nobody had ever dared look at me like that. I felt ready to do battle, but I contained myself. I did not like this old guy.
I reviewed the situation in my mind. Maybe if I got lucky I could convince the scientist to take the plane. He had refused to take it because they could only take him on board. He would not accept being separated from his family, so this complicated scheme to get him out of Bulgaria had to be developed. I had to admire him for insisting on keeping his family together. It was a simple truth that a plane large enough to take them all was too dangerous, and any other sort of transportation was too risky. And he couldn’t afford to trust that we would come right back with another plane to get the rest of his family. How could he? It was his family at stake. He had a right to be doubtful. Anything could have happened in the interim between flights.
So I had to accept the situation, including putting up with this cranky guy and his piercing stare. Hours went by, and the man kept on sweeping. He also kept on staring every chance he got, and every time I looked up our eyes locked. No doubt he saw me as a threat. This annoyed me, and I wondered if he ever had anything else to do. I was so aggravated my jaw was clenched shut. It was crazy on my part to focus on this old man, so I decided to close my eyes and think of something else. It worked. I even dozed off for a while. I was awakened by another man’s voice.
I opened my eyes to a radiant smile. The room was transformed. Now, this is a face to wake up to, I thought. The old man should take some smile lessons from this angelic being.
“I’m Saul Rothstein,” the rabbi said, introducing himself. “I am grateful that you’ve arrived safely,” he said softly, with sincerity. A certain peacefulness dominated his being. “You know, I haven’t had the opportunity to speak French since the German invasion of Bulgaria. I was raised in Paris and came to Sofia as a grown man.” His voice exuded calm. He was young, in his thirties, enthusiastic, optimistic, a breath of fresh air. “I became a rabbi in Paris,” he continued. “After I finished my studies, I felt called to return to my own country.” That explained why he was living here.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Rabbi,” I replied.
Emotion still fills me when I think of him. Today, tears come to my eyes because I know what happened to this wonderful man. Rabbi Rothstein was later caught by the Gestapo as he was helping Jews get out of Bulgaria. He was tortured but would not talk. He was put on the wheel of torture, attached by his ankles and wrists. It was cranked until he was dismembered. Unbelievable cruelty and such a horrible waste. This dear man sacrificed his life.
“Why don’t you change into these clothes?” he suggested, handing me the traditional clothing of the Orthodox Jew: long black coat, black pants, white shirt, black shoes. Since the clothes were big and baggy, I just slipped everything on over the Gypsy clothing. He was taller and bigger than I, so there was no difficulty.
I accompanied him to his home, about a ten-minute walk from the synagogue. We entered the small ground-floor apartment. The walls were bare. The furnishings were very simple. Though it was midday, the room was very gloomy and lit by kerosene lamps. In the middle of the room was the dining table around which the scientist, his wife, daughter, and son were seated. There were places set for the rabbi and me. Lunch was prepared and waiting.
The rabbi introduced us. The scientist, in his midsixties, had gray hair with a receding hairline and was very tall and slender. He had a nose similar to that of Charles de Gaulle. His wife, around sixty, was small, about five feet tall. She also had gray hair that she wore in a short style. She was plump and appeared to be in poor physical condition. On the other hand, the scientist seemed quite fit, as was their nine-year-old son. But the walk would be long and difficult for any adult. How would the wife handle it? What about a nine-year-old boy? And then I looked at his twenty-year-old daughter. She must have been seven or eight months pregnant. She would risk her life—all of our lives, including that of her unborn baby.
The scientist spoke fluent French, and the others understood enough to get along. After the traditional niceties, I reiterated the original plan to the man—we could put him on an airplane the next day and his family would follow shortly afterward on another plane. I told him bluntly, “Monsieur, I have strong doubts that your family is strong enough to make it all the way to Portugal on foot. The trip is well over three thousand kilometers.” I enumerated several of the risks involved and then suggested, “You know, monsieur, I could simply kidnap you.”
The scientist responded without a moment’s hesitation, “Yes, you could, monsieur, but if you do, I will not help the English at all. You see, I’m afraid to leave my family here without me. The Russians have already asked me to help them, and I put them off. I’m afraid that either the Nazis or the Russians will take my loved ones, and we’ll never see each other again. My daughter’s husband has already died in prison. I simply will not leave without my family.”
How could I fault him? I didn’t. That wasn’t the issue. Getting them all to Portugal alive was the mission that had to be accomplished.
“All right, then,” I said. “We will walk most of the way from Sofia to Lisbon. This trek will be extraordinarily difficult on a daily basis. If you commit to take the journey, there will be no quitting. We will be walking at night and hiding during the day. I figure the trip will take between two and three months. There will always be six Gypsies accompanying and protecting us along the way, as well as additional Gypsies guiding us for short distances along the route. If you weaken and hold the group up, you will be endangering every one of us. If you have problems walking, someone will drag you along. If no one has the strength to drag you, we will be forced to leave you behind. This is an important decision for you. These are the conditions that you must agree to. So, monsieur, I suggest you reconsider. Take an airplane tomorrow and allow us to hold your family in a safe house and send them to join you afterward.”
The scientist did not waver. “I have already considered every possibility,” he said. “This is the
only way. I want my family to accompany me. I am positive that we can make it together,” he responded, passionately. “I would not try if I didn’t believe we could succeed.”
And, so it would be. We spent the day discussing the possible problems that could arise and the trip in general. We ate dinner and continued discussing the details.
“On this journey, there is one law: my law. I will not tolerate any questions. You must simply obey instantly when I tell you to do something. We are not only risking your lives, we are risking our own. Each of the six men accompanying us as well as every partisan along the way has his own family and life ahead of him. They are risking everything for you. They could die if you forget the law as the days go by, so keep it fresh in your memories. In case we are captured, the less you know, the better. Once we cross the Yugoslavian border, there will be no danger until we leave the country.” (I expected no problems at all in Yugoslavia because Tito was Communist, and though he had no use for the Russians, he was totally against the Nazi regime.)
I continued, “The trip to Dubrovnik will take about two weeks or so. We will be going through mountains, but they are not too high. There will be a lot of ascent and descent. There is no established road or path that we will be following. We will have neither skis nor snow boots. We will only be equipped with mountain boots. Tomorrow morning, when I return, I want each of you to have all that you want to take placed in front of you. I will tell you at that time what you can take. You will each be supplied with an empty flour sack to put your belongings in, but more about that tomorrow.”
So, under these conditions, I agreed to take them. Late in the evening, the rabbi walked me back to the synagogue, where I would wait for the Gypsies to contact me. He showed me to a small room where there was a narrow straw mattress on the floor. “Thank you, my friend, for the great risk you’re taking. Have a restful night’s sleep,” he said as he shut the door.
TWENTY
Deliverance
The next morning, I woke up to some noise in the next room. I got up and opened the door. It was the old man with the bad staring problem. He gestured for me to follow him. In the foyer was Andre, the Gypsy who spoke French. “Tomorrow night we can leave on our journey,” he said. “We’ll travel about twelve or fifteen kilometers to a location where the men and one of our wagons will be joining us. The two women will be able to ride for a while. From that point, we’ll take the wagon in the direction of Breznik as far as we can until the terrain prevents it from continuing. Before we arrive at the border of Yugoslavia, one of our men will take the wagon back to our camp. After that, the terrain will get rugged. We’ll continue on foot. We’ll have to avoid the Bulgarian border guards, of course. We’ll hide in the brush and descend a kilometer or so where we’ll cross into Yugoslavia.”
Later that morning, when the rabbi came to the synagogue, I told him the news about our departure. Together, we walked to his home. There was luggage everywhere. I explained sternly, “You will only be able to take what is absolutely necessary. Select wisely. No one is going to carry your belongings for you. Here are your flour sacks to pack. Be at the synagogue, ready to travel, at six o’clock tomorrow night.” Then I left, accompanied by the rabbi, and returned to the synagogue.
That afternoon, several Gypsies came to explain in detail the next part of the journey. None of them spoke French, and neither the rabbi nor Andre was there. One of the men pulled out a map and, using gestures, made himself understood. Once in Yugoslavia, we would walk about two hundred kilometers through the mountains to Pristina, where some kind of vehicle would be waiting. Optimistically, at about twenty kilometers a day, that leg of the journey should take about ten days, I figured as I considered the terrain.
The moment of departure arrived. We were all gathered at the synagogue, bundled up and ready to leave: the family, Andre, and I.
“Good-bye my friend,” the rabbi said to me. “May God protect you.” Then he said good-bye to the family. I explained to them that the first stop would be between twelve and fifteen kilometers from Sofia where we would be met by the wagon. We left the city on foot. All too soon, the walking became difficult for the wife. I was looking forward to finding the Gypsy wagon. It was hard to watch her suffer.
How was she going to do it? How would I ever convince her husband to leave her behind if she couldn’t continue? What other option did I have? I decided I just wouldn’t focus on any of that right now. I trudged on in silence, keeping my own counsel and suppressing my doubts.
Before leaving England, Mr. Churchill had advised me, “If the scientist still refuses to take the plane, I suggest you walk through Yugoslavia to Trieste, then cross northern Italy into the Basses-A lpes of France.” He added nostalgically, “When you arrive in France, say hello to my home away from home in the distance, on the Mediterranean. You’ll be my guest on the Côte d’Azur when we return at the end of this war.” He had such a love for France. Returning to the task at hand, he instructed, “You’ll cross the Basses-Alpes, which you know like the back of your hand, continue through France and Andorra where the Pyrénées are not quite as high, and then enter Spain. If they accept, the Gypsies will be your guides until you reach the Pyrénées, near the Spanish border. After that, only one Gypsy will remain with you, Andre. He’ll be accompanying you back to England.”
About six hours later, we met the wagon. The older woman had needed to rest a lot. Six Gypsies had set up camp while awaiting our arrival. They were gathered around a campfire. The two women and the boy immediately climbed into the wagon, but the energetic little one kept jumping in and out all night long. As it turned out, he was frenetic the entire trip. Although he was aggravating, I let him be as long as he was quiet, spoiled brat that he was.
We headed toward Breznik. It was almost daybreak when we arrived. At that time, the wagon and six Gypsies left us, and other Gypsies replaced them. We hid for the day and continued our journey that night, hiding in the brush along the Bulgarian border so as not to be detected. About a kilometer beyond the guard post, we began crossing into Yugoslavia. At that point, the mountains were about twenty-one hundred meters high. We were guided through a pass to a farmhouse where we could eat, sleep, and rest for the day.
Our next destination was Pristina. When we arrived, there was a truck to take us as far as Titograd, around 200 kilometers over bad roads filled with potholes. At that point, the mountains were much too rugged for the family to climb on foot, a reality the King understood. We continued by bus to Dubrovnik, another 150 kilometers. We arrived at night and went straight to the docks where a Gypsy was waiting with a message.
He spoke to Andre, who translated for me. “The plans have been changed. We’ve received orders from London that we are not to go through Italy. You will hide on two Turkish tugboats and, under the guise of helping an Italian ship in trouble off the coast of Yugoslavia in Korcula, you will take the group to the port of Blato, Korcula. There, you will join up with the ship and resume the voyage. You’ll refuel in Reggio, on the boot of Italy, and then continue up the west coast to La Spezia, where the ship will be put in dry dock.” When the man finished talking, Andre explained the new plan in more detail and answered my questions.
The trip to La Spezia took about three days. It was an unpleasant journey because we had to stay in the hold behind the fuel tanks where it was filthy and foul-smelling. The family and I stayed in one tug, and the rest of the group stayed in the other. That little boy put up a fuss several times, but at least the noise couldn’t alert the enemy while we were on the boat, so I didn’t say anything.
Upon our arrival in La Spezia, we learned that the ship was too large to be put into dry dock. We would have to go to Genoa where the port could accommodate her. When we docked, there was an ambulance waiting for us. It was driven and escorted by “Fascists,” dressed in their all-black uniforms. One of them identified himself immediately to me as a member of the maquisards, the partisans.
“There has been a change in plan,” he inf
ormed me. “We’ll take you in the ambulance on the route to Mondovi. Before we arrive in Cuneo, an Italian doctor will join us. He’ll be waiting at the side of the road just before we enter the city. The British are providing him passage to London.” As we approached the city, we spotted the man. He quickly got into a car, and we continued on.
The ambulance was escorted by three “Fascist” cars. The car in front had all the appropriate papers. The ambulance followed. The grandmother-to-be was instructed to lie down on the stretcher just in case anyone checked. Behind the ambulance were the other two “Fascist” cars. Two Gypsies, besides Andre, rode along in one of the cars.
In a little more than an hour, we arrived at the Col de Tende, a very arduous pass to drive because of all the hairpin turns going up one side and down the other. On the top of the pass is a tunnel that goes into France. Before the entrance to the tunnel, we confronted the Italian border guards. We had no problem with the Italians or with the French guards at the other side of the tunnel. A French ambulance met us, escorted by “French Militia,” actually partisans dressed in the pro-Nazi Militia uniforms. They transferred the “patient,” the family, Andre, and me to the large ambulance, and the rest of the group climbed into a black and green “militia” bus and a black Citroën car. We continued along the pass and arrived in the village of Allos. From there, we took the road toward Saint-Martin-Vesubie, where we picked up provisions and then went to the gas station on the outskirts to fill up the vehicles and use the bathrooms. One of the “militia” stayed behind at the gas station, and the caravan headed toward Draguignan.
After several hours on the road, the caravan arrived in Draguignan, where it was stopped by a militiaman who turned out to be a partisan. He asked to speak to me.
“We must change the plans,” he explained to me. “Go to the gendarmerie in Brignoles, about a half hour’s drive from here, and ask for Victor Bonelli.” I knew of him, as did everyone deeply involved in the fight against the Germans. Victor, a Corsican, worked closely with the anti-Nazi gendarmes of France who were fighting on the side of the Resistance.
