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previous: Chapter 9 This webpage reproduces a chapter of Captured by Bessy Myers published by D. Appleton Century Company, New York and London, 1942 the text of which is in the public domain. This text has been carefully proofread and I believe it to be free of errors. If you find a mistake though, please let me know! next: Chapter 11

 p256  10
Vichy

The French flag flying over the Hôtel Parc Majestic gave the impression that France still lived; but I felt more in sympathy with the ragged poilus of Soissons than with the soldiers thronging the streets of Vichy. The clicking spurs, the polished boots, the brilliant uniforms, left me with the feeling that within the shadow of the swastika I was watching the last act of a musical comedy which satire had twisted into tragedy.

The Hôtel Parc Majestic, where Maréchal Pétain and his entourage were staying, was the center of social and political life. Huffer went there to book our rooms; he returned in a few moments, accompanied by an old friend, Captain Escudier, A. D. C. to Général Douminck, Major-Général (Quartermaster-General) of France. Vichy was full to overflowing, there was not a room to be had in the town, but Captain Escudier thought he might be able to arrange with the Général for us to stay at the Hôtel Mazarin, which had been re­quisitioned for sixteen officers who were helpful with the reconstruction of France.

We walked around to the hotel. The shops, as in Paris, lacked no display of goods, and prices were normal but it was glaringly obvious that when the present stocks gave out there would be no means of replacing them. Had the factories in the north been working they would have found it almost impossible  p257 to transport their goods to the unoccupied zone, and what extra produce the unoccupied zone might have could not be sent north. The German-made frontier was a steel band, and neither zone had much information about the other. There were no means of communication by telephone, telegraph, or letter. Traveling between the zones was legally possible, but extremely difficult. One first had to prove a vitally necessary reason, and only after every detail had been corroborated, endless documents filled in, and after waiting for weeks was there any hope of getting the official pass, which was seldom granted.

We felt jubilant. We had arrived in Vichy without a hitch; we saw no difficulties ahead — we seemed all but home.

It was strange walking along the well‑lit streets after the accustomed black‑out; it was even stranger when Captain Escudier led us up to three comfortable rooms, and we were able to open the windows wide, with the lights on and the curtains not drawn. Général Douminck had not only given permission for us to have the rooms, but had invited us to breakfast with them in their mess during our stay.

Captain Escudier, who arranged the food for the officers' mess, fetched us for breakfast; he told us that at the moment there was plenty of food in France, but he feared there would be a great shortage during the winter. He showed us the luncheon menu — roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, etc. — which Churchill had had near Tours when he came over to France on the 11th of June.

We were amazed to learn that we could wire London, and cabled to our families; with luck we might receive a reply within a day, and we visualized the excitement there would be at home on hearing we were in Vichy and on our way back.  p258 Huffer in his delight looked quite boyish when I showed him the reply I received from my father later on in the day.

We had an appointment with Bob Murphy, the chargé d'affaires of the American Embassy, and we arranged to meet Captain Escudier at the Cintra before lunch.

At the American Embassy Bob Murphy introduced us to Dick Warner, who later took over his work; they gave us all the information they could. The first thing to be done was to get an exit permit — one could not leave France without. We went to the Préfecture with a personal letter of introduction to the Chef du Bureau de la Circulation, Vichy. He explained that before he could make out an order for an exit permit we must tell him from which town we wanted to leave, as the name of the town had to be specified on the exit permit, and one could leave France only from the town stated. We asked to leave from Cerbère, and the Chef du Bureau told us that when the order was sanctioned we must take it to the Préfet of Marseille, who from these orders would make out exit permits for the towns along the south coast. When our exit permit had been issued in Marseille, it would be valid for eight days from the date of issue. The Chef du Bureau hoped to get the order for our exit permit sanctioned within a few days.

Waiting for us at our hotel we found Dan Brigham, the correspondent for the New York Times. He had 'phoned Huffer for an interview. We readily answered the questions he asked, and were thrilled when he said he would cable our story to New York at six that evening; the New York Times would recable it to The Times of London, and our story would be in both papers by the morning. We thought how pleased our parents would be to know details of us.

It was late in the afternoon, when Darby and I were having  p259 tea at the Cintra, that, knowing nothing of journalism, I was wondering what sort of caption Dan Brigham would use for our story. "Germans Beat Up Their Own Soldiers." "Imprisonment without Trial." "Girls Escape Nazi Clutches." "Two Ex‑Prisoners Escape from Paris." "English Girls Escape Paris for London."

"Darby, we must find Dan Brigham."

"Whatever for?"

"If he writes that story sensationally and quotes us as saying the Germans treat their prisoners badly our chances of getting home are nil."

It was half-past five; we had half an hour in which to stop the cable. We dashed madly along the street and ran into Huffer, coming out of the American Embassy.

"God dammit, God dammit, what's all this rush for?"

"If Dan Brigham wires anything we've said about the Germans we're sunk. We've got to get hold of him before he sends his cable."

Huffer was rather annoyed. "I'd never have thought you'd do anything so silly."

"Well, we're not used to giving interviews," I said, "for heaven's sake don't let's waste time."

There were no taxis in Vichy; if one was lucky one could get a carriage, but there was none in sight. Vichy, which can be grueling in the summer, was excelling herself; perspiration fell from us in streams as we rushed into this office and that, trying to find Dan Brigham. Huffer suggested he might be in the bar at the Majestic. He was not there, and even the clinking of the iced drinks did not tempt us to pause. I said, "If we can't find him the only thing to do is to cable the New York Times and ask them to cancel the story about us."

 p260  Huffer thought that probably they would not take our cable as authentic. Both he and Darby said that not only had they never seen me in a flat spin, but they never imagined I could get into such a one.

"Well it's so silly. If one is taken prisoner it's just bad luck, but to ask to have the gates of prisons opened for one is idiotic."

Huffer repeated, "I can't think how you could have been so stupid."

We had five minutes left. I suggested the post-office: we tore toward it. Dan Brigham passed us in his car: "Hello, what's the hurry?"

Huffer explained. Dan Brigham gave me some typewritten sheets. "I was just going to cable this to New York, but I'm glad to be rid of it; trying to tone down red‑hot news into a milk‑and-water story has given me a headache the whole afternoon. My advice to you is not to talk too much before you get to England."

I sighed with relief.

We were dining that evening with the Brazilian Ambassador Senhorº Souza Dantos, and his wife. It was getting late, and Dan said he would take me to a coiffeur in Vichy.

"Have you any ideas in the coiffeur line?" Dan asked.

"None at all."

"Well the best one I know is the bar at the Majestic."

The bar was full; several of Dan's friends joined us. The stories were amusing; prison seemed far away. A rather exciting tale was being told in a hushed whisper.

"Why all this secrecy?" I asked.

"Vichy is full of Gestapo agents," Dan said.

"Even in here?"

 p261  He pointed out three.

"Are they in the hotel as well?"

"I'll be able to show you five or six this evening."

On the way back to the Hôtel Mazarin Dan said, "You ought to keep an eye on your friend; she looks as though she may have a nervous collapse. If I were you I'd se that she goes to bed fairly early and doesn't rush around too much."

Darby had already changed; she looked very tired. The trouble was that she did not sleep well.

Huffer had left strict instructions that we were to be at the Parc Majestic by eight. We arrived as the clock struck the hour and were the first guests. Madame Souza Dantos said she was sorry there would be few young men in the party. In an attempt to be tactful I replied, "Oh, please don't worry about that, your Excellence. Darby and I have done nothing but live with men for the past two months.

Her Excellency smiled, "Do your parents know that?" She waved aside my attempt at explanation.

The evening, like the rest of the time we spent lunching and dining with Huffer's friends, passed all too quickly. The restaurant was packed, the food was plenti­ful and good. Laval, wearing as usual a white tie, had his pet corner table. Later in the evening Dan pointed out several Gestapo agents. One in particular was awe‑inspiring; his carnivorous face so marked him out from his fellow‑men that I should have thought he was far too obviously an evil type to have gained any one's confidence.

I soon got to know the Gestapo agents by sight — there were always several sitting around in the lounge; and when a few evenings later Senhor and Senhora Souza Dantos invited the  p262 Swiss Ambassador and his wife to dinner I hoped the carnivorous creature would be impressed at seeing me in such ambassadorial circles.

There was no fixed rule for breakfast at the Mazarin; sometimes we had it early alone with Captain Escudier, at other times the mess was crowded. We usually breakfasted before eight, and, as I am never chatty in the early morning beyond the few polite remarks which the occasion might demand, I generally breakfasted in silence. I muttered, "Merci bien, monsieur," when some one passed me a croissant.

As we left the mess Huffer said, "Of course, Myers, you would call the Quartermaster-General of France 'monsieur.' "

"What should I have called him?"

"Didn't you learn anything at school?"

"Nothing that I can remember. What's the matter with 'monsieur'? I thought that covered everything."

Apparently it did not cover the Quartermaster-General of France. Huffer said, "Since you've been working under Général Morrison, you should address the Quartermaster-General as 'mon Général.' "​a

"As he has asked us all to lunch, I don't think 'monsieur' can have upset him very much."

The lunch turned out to be a pleasantly informal affair. Général François Kergoat was interested to know how we had been taken prisoners. We were constantly being asked to tell our experiences, and we had found that men, especially soldiers, roared with laughter when they heard we had been imprisoned in the Cherche-Midi. Général Kergoat was no exception; when we mentioned the prison a broad grin spread over his face.

"Why is it so funny, mon Général?" I asked.

 p263  "Pardon merely smiling at your misfortune, but to a soldier it seems fantastic that you should have been imprisoned in the Cherche-Midi."

Later on in the day I found a letter awaiting me in our hotel from Mrs. James Corrigan. We had lunched with her several times, but as so often happens at large luncheon parties I had had little opportunity of speaking for long with my hostess. I had generally sat next to the Comte de Frijs, who had been helping Mrs. Corrigan.

I had heard quite a lot about the marvelous work she had done in Paris during September, 1939. She had arranged cinema shows at the front, and once took her ambulance to the front under source-fire. She was godmother to the 110th Regiment and an honorary corporal in the 27th Tanks, and had herself practically kept both these regiments in comforts. She was now visiting the various camps and supplying the fundamental needs which the prisoners of war lacked.

I might have left Vichy knowing her only casually had she not happened to pass through the lounge of the Parc Majestic and joined Darby and me while we were having tea. She told us that at eighteen she had worked very hard and had many responsibilities. One of her chief interests was the study of religious philosophy. She had to rush away, as with most of her day spent working for the Red Cross, she had very little time to spare.

We were dining with the Comtesse de Villeneuve Bargemont. I showed Darby a letter which I had just received from Mrs. Corrigan: it was chiefly quotations.

One of them, "Success begins first in the mind," became our motto during our ups and downs on the Côte d'Azur:  p264 I think it helped to prevent us from sitting in Cannes for, possibly, the duration of the war.

The Comtesse de Villeneuve Bargemont was a grande dame of France. She had a cream-and‑peach complexion, bright blue eyes, a perfect figure, and lovely features crowned by beauti­fully dressed white hair. She was perfectly delightful, and looked so like a Dresden figure that it almost surprised me when she spoke or moved. The Comtesse had given a tea party at the Sports Club, when we had met Madame Wellington Koo.

Before Madame Wellington Koo left she had most sincerely would us bon voyage and hoped we should not have a difficult journey home.

The Comtesse quoted a few lines about Madame Wellington Koo quoted from a Chinese newspaper:

It was after dinner, while we were having coffee in the lounge, that the Comtesse said, "I think you will be presented to the Maréchal to‑night."

Ever since we had met the Comtesse she had brought all her influence to bear to arrange this for us. We had already been introduced by her to Madame Pétain. I had expected to see a frail old lady; instead she was tall, handsome, looked young, practical, and capable of dealing with any situation.

The Maréchal in the evenings generally sat for a while in the lounge; a corner was screened off for him. Comte Hector de Béarn came over and said that we should be presented to  p265 the Maréchal in a few minutes. The Comtesse was overjoyed.

"I hope to goodness we don't have to say anything!" I remarked.

Huffer said, "I hope not, but if you do, Myers, for heaven's sake remember to address the Maréchal as Monsieur le Maréchal."

The Comtesse thought that we should thank him for having received us.

"In English or in French, Comtesse?" I asked.

"In French," she says, and we all put our heads together to think of the shortest and most courteous way.

I asked Darby to say our little piece. "At least you'll remember to say Monsieur le Maréchal!"

There was a general flutter of excitement; the Maréchal was waiting to receive us.

Two officers escorted us behind the screen. Standing among a crowd of diplomatic and military officials was a white-headed man; his fresh complexion and bright eyes made me wonder if this could really be Maréchal Pétain. I had not imagined that any one over eighty could look so alert and alive.

He spoke to one of the officials: "So these are the two American ambulance drivers?"

"Non, non, Monsieur le Maréchal, they are English, but have been driving for the Château de Blois, an American unit."

The Maréchal looked very surprised, "Ah, mais alors, elles sont anglaises."

He turned to me: "You understand French?"

"Mais oui, Monsieur le Maréchal."

He spoke slowly and distinctly to make sure we understood.

"I thanking for the excellent work you have done for us. I regret that the relations between our two countries are at  p266 present a little strained, but there is no real animosity between us, and I hope it will not be long before we both know happier times."

Everybody smiled and bowed. We were about to go when Darby stood her ground and said our little piece; every one looked immensely surprised and pleased. As we left both Huffer and I congratulated her.

"Well, I was determined to get it in," said Darby.

I saw Dan Brigham in the lounge and told him we were leaving to‑morrow.

"I knew; you're catching the six o'clock train for Marseille."

"Have you been taking lessons from the Gestapo?" I asked.

"It's not necessary; you're on our day book."

"What's that?"

Dan explained; it contained the names of people whose movements were followed day by day. As there was no publishable story about us yet, apparently we should be news if we disappeared. Should we do so the New York Times would from their day book know the last place where we had been seen and from there start to make inquiries.

"It sounds like the New York Times versus the Gestapo!"

Dan hailed Huffer as he passed and said, "Don't worry about the girls; we shall check up their movements."

It sounded rather ominous.

The tables around us had been empty, but two men Dan had recently pointed out came and sat as near as possible to us; the obvious manner in which they were straining their ears toward us seemed childishly stupid.

The Comtesse came over to bid us a final farewell.

"Be careful you don't step backward, Comtesse," I said  p267 quite loudly. "I'm afraid you'll knock over one of the Gestapo."

"Tiens, ils sont partout." The two agents slipped away.

"Sales mouches vertes," I heard forcibly expressed — it was the latest term for sales Boches.

Darby joined us, and the Comtesse brushed aside all our attempts to thank her for the infinite trouble she had taken to have us presented to the Maréchal.

We did our final shopping in the morning. I was buying some powder, and without noticing gave a German mark. The vendeuse looked at it aghast.

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's worth twenty francs; it was given as change to me in Paris."

"Well, it's not negotiable here," the vendeuse said vehemently.

There were no banking arrangements between the two zones, and rumor had it that the dollar was to be blocked. Fortunately, Huffer had an account in francs in Vichy. He had given Darby and me ten thousand francs each, which would be more than sufficient to see us to Lisbon, provided we were not held up. He had, moreover, arranged with his bank in Vichy that should we at any time cable for money they were to send it to us. My father had already wired me that he had deposited money in Lisbon and had paid and reserved our seats in the plane from there to England.

Huffer thought we should call on Général Morrison, who, he believed, was now in Marseille, but whose address he did not know. He gave us a letter of introduction and wrote on the back of his card, "Demandez au Commandant de la place où se trouve le Médecin Général Morrison."

When I asked who and where was "le Commandant de la  p268 place" he replied somewhat airily, "My dear girl, everybody knows him in Marseille."

We quite firmly said we were going off to buy a suitcase. Huffer would not hear of it; he considered his cook's shopping bag quite good enough to see us home.

In Paris one of our most urgent needs had been a suitcase; we were both sick to death of tying and untying our improvised peasant's bundles with pieces of string and rope. Huffer considered suitcases waste of money, and said they were heavy things and we should only have to pay overweight on the 'plane home. We did, however, manage to persuade him to give us his cook's shopping bag, which, if not elegant, was one step forward.

Huffer's parting gifts were some flowers and a pot of jam; he came to see us off, and while we were waiting for the train to come in we tried not to show how we dreaded leaving such a pillar of strength.

"Good‑by, Mr. Huffer. We simply can't thank you enough."

"Don't forget to wire New York when you reach Lisbon, and Myers, don't call Général Morrison 'monsieur'!"

The train steamed out before I had time to think of a suitable reply; his tall figure soon became a speck in the distance. To‑morrow he would return to Paris, and it would be a long time before we should meet again.

We sat back in the comfortable first-class carriage, which we had to ourselves. Our thoughts did not dwell on the journey to Lisbon; we were used to taking things as they came, and we saw no hurdles to jump in the future. We thought our exit permits and visas would take two or three days at the outside to obtain at Marseille — then home, James, home. We  p269 had already halved the distance; we had the order for our exit permits sanctioned, introductions galore, and plenty of money.

Life after Vichy might lose a little of its luster, but we saw no dirty weather ahead. We knew how much we should miss Huffer, and taking leave of his friends had given us a sinking feeling; we had received such kindness and hospitality from them all, and so much might intervene before we met again.

It was the 21st of August, and little did we think that within three weeks we should be trailing back to Vichy in a third-class carriage, weary, bedraggled, and filthy, the only bright touch about us being the new suitcases which we had bought in Marseille. Our wildest flights of imagination would not have credited that Henri, shabby and down at heel, would be carrying them for us.

---

Thayer's Note:

a As I type this in 2020, a sudden waft of memory from my own childhood in 1962. Arriving at a tiny country house in Barbazan (Haute-Garonne) to vacation for the first time with some of the French side of my family, my parents impressed on me that I should address the owner of the house, my great-uncle Jean Bercher, then in his late seventies, as mon Général; he had retired as Médecin Général in the French Army. (He quickly became oncle Jean, and it is to him that I would eventually owe my love of walking, my love of medieval churches, and my ability to read a carte d'état-major — a military map. He died the following year and is buried in the churchyard of the same nearby Romanesque church he first took me to see, St‑Just-de‑Valcabrère.)

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