other marvels there is a huge smoked ham. They explain to him that he will be crossing the border between the two zones that evening — in an oxcart with a secret compartment!
After a magnificent lunch, Postel-Vinay retires for a nap in a large bedroom upstairs. Three hours later, he is awakened by the farmer’s wife: Time to go.
The farmer removes a plank from the oxcart to reveal his hiding place. It’s so narrow he’s grateful that his months in prison have made him so thin. After a short ride, the oxcart comes to a halt, and the plank beneath him disappears so that he can climb out.
The farmer kisses him on both cheeks and sends him on his way. After a couple of hundred yards on foot, he reaches the zone libre. And his next guide — “small, round, and dark” — appears out of the darkness to lead him to the automobile he has borrowed from a local doctor.
Another two hundred yards and they reach the car. “I will take you to Ribérac,” the new guide explains. “You will spend the nightin a hotel there. At seven o’clock in the morning you’ll catch a bus for Brive, and from there, the train to Marseille.”
The next day, he travels for sixteen hours, reaching Marseille Saint-Charles station at eleven fifteen, just forty-five minutes before the curfew. Outside the station, there is a taxi driving by — and it stops for him!
Two more miracles.
“I’ve sprained my ankle and I need a hotel for the night,” Postel-Vinay tells the driver.
“Well,” he replies, “all the hotels in Marseille are full. But I’ll help you out. I know a woman who will put you up in her house. And it will be cheaper than a hotel! Will that suit you?”
“Perfect!”
The driver delivers him to a mansion that shows no sign of being a commercial establishment. The proprietress welcomes him and gives him a room with a big bed and a lovely bathroom. Not even a registration form to fill out!
He leaves the house the next morning and walks out into a beautiful Mediterranean light “that chases away unhappiness.” It is Friday, September 18, 1942. He asks another “suitable-looking” passerby for directions to allée Léon Gambetta, the home of his fellow
Résistant
Georges Zarifi.
Georges is an old friend, who has been in the Resistance as long as Postel-Vinay. He is about twenty-five, thin and athletic, a member of the French national tennis team. He comes from a wealthy family from Greece.
When Postel-Vinay reaches Georges’s house, he is welcomed by his father. As with so many other young
Résistants,
it is never entirely clear how much his parents know about what Georges is doing. So Postel-Vinay assumes his father’s ignorance and repeats his usual story about having just sprained his ankle. The father greets him warmly and tells him Georges will be back home for lunch.
When Georges arrives a few hours later, he tells Postel-Vinay that he has arranged for him to leave for Gibraltar — with forty other escapees!
The next morning when he arrives at nine o’clock at Saint-Charles station, Postel-Vinay is reunited with Patrick O’Leary, a man he particularly admires for his judgment and his organizational talent — qualities that he did not find often enough among many other Resistance leaders. O’Leary himself is in charge of the operation. The escapees break off in groups of three or four to take their places on the train. The RAF pilots with him have fake papers identifying them as deaf-mutes, so they won’t betray themselves with their accents. The others include French and Polish agents, and even one German, Paula, who has been Patrick’s secretary.
The train takes them to Perpignan in the south of France, not far from the border with Spain. Postel-Vinay’s ankles begin to give out on their walk to the beach, and two big Canadian airmen carry him between them.
Hiding behind a dune, he is approached by an RAF pilot from New Zealand — whom Postel-Vinay has actually rescued one year earlier from the
After a magnificent lunch, Postel-Vinay retires for a nap in a large bedroom upstairs. Three hours later, he is awakened by the farmer’s wife: Time to go.
The farmer removes a plank from the oxcart to reveal his hiding place. It’s so narrow he’s grateful that his months in prison have made him so thin. After a short ride, the oxcart comes to a halt, and the plank beneath him disappears so that he can climb out.
The farmer kisses him on both cheeks and sends him on his way. After a couple of hundred yards on foot, he reaches the zone libre. And his next guide — “small, round, and dark” — appears out of the darkness to lead him to the automobile he has borrowed from a local doctor.
Another two hundred yards and they reach the car. “I will take you to Ribérac,” the new guide explains. “You will spend the nightin a hotel there. At seven o’clock in the morning you’ll catch a bus for Brive, and from there, the train to Marseille.”
The next day, he travels for sixteen hours, reaching Marseille Saint-Charles station at eleven fifteen, just forty-five minutes before the curfew. Outside the station, there is a taxi driving by — and it stops for him!
Two more miracles.
“I’ve sprained my ankle and I need a hotel for the night,” Postel-Vinay tells the driver.
“Well,” he replies, “all the hotels in Marseille are full. But I’ll help you out. I know a woman who will put you up in her house. And it will be cheaper than a hotel! Will that suit you?”
“Perfect!”
The driver delivers him to a mansion that shows no sign of being a commercial establishment. The proprietress welcomes him and gives him a room with a big bed and a lovely bathroom. Not even a registration form to fill out!
He leaves the house the next morning and walks out into a beautiful Mediterranean light “that chases away unhappiness.” It is Friday, September 18, 1942. He asks another “suitable-looking” passerby for directions to allée Léon Gambetta, the home of his fellow
Résistant
Georges Zarifi.
Georges is an old friend, who has been in the Resistance as long as Postel-Vinay. He is about twenty-five, thin and athletic, a member of the French national tennis team. He comes from a wealthy family from Greece.
When Postel-Vinay reaches Georges’s house, he is welcomed by his father. As with so many other young
Résistants,
it is never entirely clear how much his parents know about what Georges is doing. So Postel-Vinay assumes his father’s ignorance and repeats his usual story about having just sprained his ankle. The father greets him warmly and tells him Georges will be back home for lunch.
When Georges arrives a few hours later, he tells Postel-Vinay that he has arranged for him to leave for Gibraltar — with forty other escapees!
The next morning when he arrives at nine o’clock at Saint-Charles station, Postel-Vinay is reunited with Patrick O’Leary, a man he particularly admires for his judgment and his organizational talent — qualities that he did not find often enough among many other Resistance leaders. O’Leary himself is in charge of the operation. The escapees break off in groups of three or four to take their places on the train. The RAF pilots with him have fake papers identifying them as deaf-mutes, so they won’t betray themselves with their accents. The others include French and Polish agents, and even one German, Paula, who has been Patrick’s secretary.
The train takes them to Perpignan in the south of France, not far from the border with Spain. Postel-Vinay’s ankles begin to give out on their walk to the beach, and two big Canadian airmen carry him between them.
Hiding behind a dune, he is approached by an RAF pilot from New Zealand — whom Postel-Vinay has actually rescued one year earlier from the
Similar Books
