Churchill's Secret Agent

by Max Ciampoli

  The Countess Hannah von Bredow, a leader in the German Resistance and a descendent of Otto von Bismarck, received an urgent plea from Churchill to somehow get “the man with the Russian sock,” my code name, out of prison. Earlier in the war, I had delivered bombs in the form of attaché cases to her group in the vain attempt to assassinate Hitler.

  The countess devised an audacious plan to get into the prison at Compiègne. A group of her German anti-Nazi volunteers would pose as a sanitary detachment responsible for cleaning the prison. She would provide intricate instructions, uniforms, trucks, and all the appropriate equipment necessary to successfully deceive the officers in charge. As a pretext, they would announce that a German military health inspection was scheduled later that day.

  By the time the “cleaning crew” arrived at the prison door, I had been hanging by my thumbs for several days and nights. The countess had organized five German military trucks, each with four men inside, to clean this labyrinth of a prison. They arrived at about five in the morning. Everyone at the prison was taken by surprise.

  “We have orders to clean the prison and remove all the garbage,” said the captain responsible for the cleanup brigade, as he presented the orders to the guard at the gate. “There is an inspection this afternoon.” The guard looked at the orders with suspicion and went to look at his log. “There is no inspection scheduled this afternoon, Captain,” he responded curtly.

  “Of course there is, soldier. The notification was sent to your commander a week ago,” he insisted.

  “I’ll call my commander, sir.” He stepped away, and when he returned, he said, “The officer in charge received no orders to prepare for a health inspection. My superior is coming right away to inspect these documents.”

  The commander soon appeared and examined the paperwork thoroughly. The orders looked exactly like an official document with all the requisite stamps and signatures needed to satisfy those responsible for making decisions.

  “Open the gate and allow the trucks to enter,” he ordered brusquely. “Have all the cell doors opened immediately; however, those prisoners chained or otherwise restrained are to be left as they are. Have the guards shine their boots and change into fresh uniforms before noon,” he commanded the officer at his side. Then, addressing the captain of the cleaning contingency, he ordered, “Begin at the bottom floor where all the garbage is gathered.”

  My cell was apparently located on the floor above that, but the countess’s group didn’t know where I was. I woke up to voices and doors clanking as they opened and shut. At each cell, someone asked, “Are you the man with the Russian sock?” When they were a few cells away, I heard the question and softly answered, “I am here.”

  Two men entered my cell while two waited outside. “We are here to help you escape,” one said as he reached up and cut the leather straps. Gratefully, I was on the floor. At that moment, a guard passed by. “What’s going on here?” he demanded, as he reached for his sidearm. One of the men responded in German while another poked a needle filled with poison in his neck. He died instantly.

  The men continued their cleaning and casual conversation as if nothing had happened. They put the guard in a barrel and put it to the side. I looked at my hands. My right thumb was elongated by a centimeter and the left by a little less. They put a blanket over my head and upper body. One of the crew gave me a shot of morphine. They lifted me up and stuffed me into a garbage barrel and filled it with excrement and other garbage. The agony was unbearable. I didn’t want to be awake. I kept trying to turn my thoughts to something else, but it was futile. The pain was consuming me.

  One of the crew said in a loud voice, “What should we do with that barrel?” Later, it was explained to me that they were trying to figure out whether to take or leave the dead guard. Another responded, “Just leave it. We have enough garbage for this haul.” The barrel in which I was hidden was placed on the dumbwaiter. “Wait,” someone said. “We have enough room for that other barrel after all.” I found out later that they decided it was safer to take the dead German guard with them. The barrels of garbage were sent up to the first floor and lifted up onto the truck. Someone whispered, “How are you doing?” I answered, “Give me another shot.”

  From that moment on, things happened quickly. I am so impressed with the daring and courage of this group of Germans. Just thinking of the sacrifice these men made, putting their own lives in such jeopardy, amazed me. Today, I gratefully realize that without the countess’s help, I would not have survived.

  Much later, when I finally returned to England, Mr. Churchill’s secretary told me a secret and made me promise not to tell the prime minister. “When he learned you were in Compiègne, he dictated a message to the Countess von Bredow that ended in words to this effect: ‘Dear Countess, I beg of you to somehow rescue this man because he is close to my heart. I know that this prison has a particularly brutal reputation.’ It was put into code and sent urgently to the countess.”

  She went on, “Mr. Churchill suffered throughout the time that you were taken prisoner. He ate very little and drank too much. He told me that he wanted to be contacted the moment I received any news of you, no matter the time of day, where he was or with whom. He said, ‘The most important thing is that they rescue Marc. I’ve been informed that he is being tortured, and it’s breaking my heart.’

  “He reminisced about your youth. He told me you were a little boy when he first met you playing with your friends in front of the villa where he sometimes stayed in Cap d’Antibes. He thinks of you with such fondness, Monsieur Marc,” she said. “I am telling you this because I want you to know that he loves you like his own flesh and blood. But you must not tell him what I told you. He would be furious with me. I just feel it’s important that you know. May God bless him. We are so fortunate to have him as our prime minister.”

  The commandos worked very quickly. Within about an hour from the time I was lifted up onto the bed of the truck, all the garbage was loaded, and the trucks were ready to move out. The commando who had given me the two injections kept me up with what was going on. I felt some relief from the morphine. It had dulled the pain. I was very groggy.

  “We’re completely loaded and ready to move out,” he said. “Our truck is third in the line of five trucks.” I heard the sound of another truck moving, but we didn’t. “There’s a problem,” he said, “but don’t worry. They can’t start the truck in front of us.” Some time passed, and then I heard his voice again. “They attached a chain to the front of the second truck so the first one can pull it. We’ll be starting any time now,” the commando said. I dozed off. It must have been the effect of the morphine.

  The trucks pulled out of the fortress and made their way to the dump outside Paris. That took a few hours. Finally, I heard the words, “We’ve arrived.” The commando explained, “We have to stop at the gate for permission to go through. Then we’ll drop you off at the home of the dump manager. She’s trustworthy.”

  The truck stopped momentarily when it came to the gate and then moved on. Suddenly, it came to an abrupt halt. I felt my barrel being lifted out and put on the ground. The cover was removed, and they pulled me out. “There is something that’s burning my eyes,” I told them. They pulled the blanket off my head. “We will take care of your eyes soon,” one of the commandos said kindly. “There may have been some live ashes from cigarettes or cigars in the garbage.”

  The pain in my hands was becoming unbearable again. I was naked and very cold. They tried to put a sweater on my body, and I screamed involuntarily. The pain was excruciating. My hands and arms hurt. So did my testicles and thighs. “My eyes are burning. I can’t see. I am blind,” I murmured as I realized this alarming truth with sudden heartbreak.

  “Don’t touch my hands or arms,” I told them. They carried me inside the manager’s little house. Many hands were supporting my neck, head, torso, and legs. They lay me down on the floor. One of the commandos asked the woman, “Do you have any men’s pant
s in the house to put on him?”

  “Yes, I do. They’ll be too big for him, but they’ll work for now. Let’s get him washed up before we dress him. He’s a mess. Go outside. You’ll see a bucket next to a large container of water. Fill it up, and bring it here while I get some washcloths and towels.”

  I know she tried to be careful as she washed my body, but it was a painful process, especially when she handled my arms and hands. Then a couple of men pulled the pants on me and asked her, “Do you have a belt or a rope to hold them up?”

  “No, I don’t,” she replied, “but I have a strap that I use to tie things on my donkey.” She returned with the strap, and a commando tied it around me.

  The woman took over after that and began giving instructions. “Move the bed over to the right and pull up the rug. Push the lever that’s at the head of the bed. You’ll see a trap door.” One of the commandos asked, “Where’s the trap door? I don’t see it.” She retorted, “That’s as it should be. I told you to push the lever. When you do, you’ll see the door pop up.” He did as she said, and the door opened.

  Apparently, the sandy floor underneath the house was partially covered with a pile of empty flour sacks. It was basically a crawl space less than a meter high. The area equaled the size of the house. The little house was mobile and was moved from one area to another on the dump site.

  One of the Germans jumped down into the space. “Do you have the nerve to say that this man is going to lie down in the sand surrounded by these old jute sacks after all he’s been through?” She didn’t reply. “I’m going to give you a chance,” he said to her. “Find an extra mattress for him or for you because he is not going to lie down on that sand for long.”

  I was lowered into the space by the men. The commando who was already in the space caught me by the legs and helped lay me down. Someone said, “I’m going to give you another shot of morphine. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Then he addressed the woman, “Take very good care of him, or we’ll take care of you.” They left abruptly.

  As soon as the door closed, she came down to see what she could do for me. “I’ve only eaten two crackers in four days as best as I can remember. I would appreciate something to eat. Also, I really need something to help me eliminate.” She replied, “I’ll go upstairs and make you some herb tea. That will help.”

  “But, madame, I’m going to have a problem. I can’t use my hands to lower the pants.” Then I joked, “I can’t even scratch my nose much less reach the rest of me.” In good humor, she retorted, “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of any scratching you need.” Then, changing the subject, she said, “I’ll go get you a bedpan, and I’ll be right back.” When she returned, she began, “Here’s the plan. I’ll cut open the back seam of your pants. I’ll bury the bedpan next to you in the sand. I’ll help you roll over and open the seam when you need to go.”

  “Now I’ll get you a bowl of Ovaltine to give you some strength. Then I’ll bring you some herb tea, and I’ll find my boyfriend’s razor blade so that I can cut your pants.”

  When she came back, she started talking again. “Since we’ll be spending quite a bit of time together, I want to introduce myself. My name is Yalena. I am French now, but I’m Russian born. I don’t understand what’s going on. Will you explain something?”

  “Before I explain anything to you, isn’t it time to give me a shot?”

  “No, it isn’t. The men only left twenty minutes ago. They’ll be back in two hours to give you a shot. Now, will you answer a question? My boyfriend told me that Germans would be bringing you here and that we needed to hide you from the Germans. I know I’m old, forty-nine, and time seems to speed up after the age of forty. But why did these Germans who are occupying our country want to hide you from other Germans? This is really beyond my understanding.”

  Her naiveté was astounding. She didn’t understand that not all Germans were in favor of occupying France. I told her in a simple way, “These are good men. They disagree with what Hitler is doing.”

  “My boyfriend, David, said to do anything I could to make you comfortable. I have the razor. Turn a little if you can, and I’ll cut your pants. No, wait. I completely forgot your Ovaltine! Let me go up and get it for you.” Up she went again. She seemed to have a good heart but was not at all organized.

  She returned with the hot Ovaltine. “And now, finally, for the third time, I’m going to cut your pants.” Then, changing her mind yet again, “No, first I’ll help you to drink. Be careful, in one hand I’m guiding a glass straw to your mouth to make it easier for you. In the other hand, I have David’s razor and it’s open.” I had no idea why she didn’t put the razor down first. I guessed that she was simple or nervous. I took the straw in my mouth. “Finish the Ovaltine. Then I’ll go fetch something for your eyes. Pus is seeping out.”

  A while later, she returned and held two warm compresses on my eyes. They smelled like tilleul. Just the smell alone was soothing. Then she gave me the tea to sip. “I have a hard time moving around in this space. The ceiling is so low,” she complained.

  “Yes, I know about cramped places,” I reflected as recent memories raced back to me.

  Interrupting my not-so-pleasant reverie, she said, “I’m not sure how I’m going to do what I need to do for you because I’ll have to do some things lying down. I’m not a young chicken anymore. All right now, I’m beginning. Roll over totally on your side. Don’t make any quick movements. If I see any blood, I’ll stop and try again. I don’t see any blood, so I’m continuing. Now, I have a beautiful view over the courtyard. There is a lot of merchandise here.” She was speaking of my inflamed testicles. “I’ll be careful not to cut anything off,” she said with humor. Then she changed the subject again. She must have been uneasy. She talked so much. “I need to warn you that we have about two dozen cats and two fox terriers. We really need them to take care of the enormous number of rats.”

  I shuddered and mumbled, “More rats.”

  She continued, “David is coming over tonight. He’ll get a mattress down here with the help of his friends. He is meeting with the head of the Resistance group Combat and the leader of the PPF. I am very proud of him. He’s very active in the Resistance. His wife and six-year-old little girl were among the thousands of Jews taken prisoner in the raid of the Vel’ d’Hiv. He never saw his family again. He was informed that they were taken to a camp outside Paris, at Drancy, where his daughter came down with pneumonia and died. His wife was sent with the others to a camp in Poland where she was killed. So many heartbreaking stories.”

  After a few hours, the herb tea had an effect on my system and I was able to eliminate. I called for Yalena to help, and she came right away. She wiped me and cleaned me up. I was so grateful for her help. She was truly very kind. As soon as she left, I fell asleep, soon to be wakened again by someone giving me a shot of morphine. I fell back to sleep.

  Later, I woke up to the sound of male voices. Men were in the house. Who were they? The trap door opened. It was then I met David and his patriot companions. They spoke to me with concern in their voices. Though I couldn’t see them, it felt wonderful to speak to Frenchmen who were not pro-Nazi.

  “Thank you. Thank you for your kindness and your work for our liberation,” I told them gratefully. It had so sickened me that the French in the militia were working for the Nazi occupation. How could they? It was incomprehensible to me.

  Soon, the others left, but David remained. He came down and explained what had been decided regarding my recovery period. “There will be a doctor who will come here twice daily. We’ll get you up on your feet as soon as we can. Through the British, we’ll arrange an identity for you with the government of Switzerland. You’ll be a Swiss railroad brakeman who has been burned by steam and is returning home to Villeneuve, located a couple of hours from Geneva. They’ll provide you with a temporary Swiss identity card with your photo showing you in bandages.”

  He continued, “In about three weeks, de
pending on your recovery, someone will come to pick you up, and we won’t see each other again. I’ll be going to the south of France because the English will be landing there soon.”

  Good. The rumor has spread. I can rest easy now. I’ve accomplished my mission.

  The French doctor who visited me worked closely with the Swiss. “Monsieur,” he said, “we are going to bandage up your head, your eyes, and both hands for the trip to Switzerland. Then we’ll take a photo for your identity card. We must hide your face,” he continued, “because posters are up all over Europe offering a reward of a million francs for your capture, dead or alive.”

  Every day for three weeks, this doctor came, once in the morning and once in the evening. He gave me antiinflammatory injections between the thumbs and forefingers and gave me pills for something, I don’t know what, which made me nauseous. He injected me with shots of morphine for the pain. Yalena always brought me something to eat before I took the pills because I would vomit if she didn’t. I probably also threw up from the pain itself. My hands burned all the time. The bones in my arms felt like fragile porcelain that would break with the smallest of movements. It felt like the muscles were going to burst and melt. My neck ached. In fact, everything hurt. I could not find a position on the mattress that did not hurt some part of my body.

  During the entire time I stayed with her, Yalena gently took care of all my needs. The pants became a problem because they became soiled each time I eliminated. “Michel, it’s just not worth the effort to wash and dry your pants every day. Anyway, it hurts me to put you through the agony of putting them on again. I’ll cover you with a sheet and a blanket, and all will be fine,” she said.