Within the week, Iris had papers for Mac, and a plan to get him to Nice. The following morning, Mac would jump on a truck hauling Christmas trees from Belluno, in the Veneto region of northeastern Italy, heading for the French Riviera. He would pose as the son of the tree farmer, his papers reflecting his new identity, rather than that of a man from Palombara Sabina. There would be time enough for Mac to get to know his new father on the way to the border, and about the part of Italy where the man was from. Antonio provided Mac with a red flannel shirt, a heavy pair of oilskin pants, and a warm red lumberjack coat to play the part. Iris spent the evening before grilling Mac in Italian, in preparation of what he could expect should he be caught.
“Thank you, Iris. I am sure I can handle myself. You are sure to be worse than any German guard would be.”
“Don’t be so cocky, paisan. A wrong word, and you are done.”
“I will be careful. Let's have one more glass of Antonio's best before I get some sleep for the trip tomorrow,” said Mac, as he held out his crystal goblet towards Antonio.
“Perhaps you would like to take a bottle or two with you,” joked Antonio. “You are the only person who appreciates my efforts.”
“Your wine is delightful, Antonio, but I will pass.”
The following morning, after breakfast with the Origos, and their tearful goodbyes, Mac waited at the foot of the gravel driveway for his ride. Before long, Mac could hear the roar of a diesel engine before he could see anything on the road. As a flatbed truck approached, Mac could see its trailer filled with green boughs and various girths of trunks, while the smell of pine invigorated the surrounding air. The truck stopped, and the passenger door opened.
“Tommaso!” yelled the man, across the young boy who sat beside him. “Come on, let's go. Squeeze in next to Franco. He is my other son,” laughed the driver. “I am Salvatore; but you will call me Papa.”
“Yes, Papa,” said Mac, as he climbed into the cab of the truck, next to the man's teenage son. “Nice truck you have here.”
“It will get you where you have to go,” said Salvatore, as he grinded the truck into gear. “We have four or five hours to get to know each other on the way. Let's get moving before my trees wilt.”
The two men and the boy chatted most of the trip to Ventimiglia, on the border of southeastern France, just mere miles from his destination. By the time they pulled up to the same green wooden guardhouse that Mac had been to before with his wife, what now seemed like many years before, Mac was comfortable with his cover story, and the courage of his fellow travelers.
As the truck downshifted to stop at the metal gate with the red and white “Arresto” sign, Mac could immediately tell that things were different than they had been a couple of years before. These were no longer sloppy looking Italian guards manning the gate, having been replaced by men in crisp German uniforms, who were standing steadfast while paying close attention to what they were doing. Guns were raised as the men approached the stopped vehicle from both sides, both soldiers motioning to the occupants to lower their windows.
“Papers!” barked the soldier at the driver's window, in perfect Italian.
Salvatore, as cool as a cucumber, produced the papers for himself, and his two sons, without saying a word.
“What is your business,” barked the soldier at the driver's window.
“My sons and I are delivering Christmas trees to the German soldiers in Nice, from the Alps, sir. I am hoping to get them there before Christmas if you please.”
“Wise guy,” yelled the soldier. “Get out of the vehicle! Now! All of you!”
Mac got out of the vehicle, with Salvatore and Franco. All three were pushed up against the side of the truck, face first, while other soldiers held guns on them.
“What have you got in the truck, wise guy?”
“Trees, sir,” jumped in Franco. “We are delivering our trees from Belluno, sir. For your troops, for your soldiers, in Nice.”
“Belluno? What the hell is a Belluno?” barked the guard.
“It is our town,” jumped in Mac. “We are from Belluno, sir, headed to Nice. With your permission, of course.”
“I will give you my permission, you scum,” said the soldier, as he jabbed the butt of his rifle into Mac's back. “Why aren’t you fighting? You look like a strong guy. Or are you just a coward?”
“I was shot, sir, on the Eastern front. Do you want to see my scar, sir?” said Mac defiantly. “I had been recuperating at my father's home, helping him with his trees, for the time being. I cannot wait to get back into the fight!”
“No, no, that is not necessary, son. Get back in your truck, all of you! Let me check the back, and then you can get on your way. You cannot be too careful. A man of fighting age not fighting immediately raises questions. You could be a spy, or something.”
“I understand, sir. I would have done the same if I were in your position.”
Few words were spoken between the occupants of the truck before arriving in Nice, all still feeling the lump in their throats over the danger they had survived. Mac offered to help Salvatore unload the truck once they were safely on the Promenade des Anglais, but the father and son were eager to bid him farewell, along with the continued danger he posed. Salvatore dropped Mac off a block or two away from the Palais de la Mediterranee, not wanting to be too conspicuous about the arrival of his guest.
Things had changed somewhat since the last time Mac found himself on the Promenade des Anglais. The streets were still overrun with German soldiers, but this time, they did not look like they were in the mood to enjoy their stay on the beach. Everyone seemed on edge, as the fully armed combatants marched the streets, seemingly looking for a fight. There was no frivolity this time. The few women Mac saw on the streets did not seem reputable, or even presentable. Barricades and barbed wire powerfully lined the beach side of the promenade, seemingly on alert, as if it were expecting to be breached at any moment. Men were stationed along Mac's route to the Palais, fortunately with their eyes trained on the sea, many with binoculars in hand, and not on the street behind them.
Mac wisely chose not to tempt fate, entering the hotel through the workers entrance on the side of the building, thus avoiding the Gestapo festooned in the main lobby, smoking French cigarettes and sipping cognac. He realized that his lumberjack clothing would be very out of place within the finery of the grand hotel, so he mingled in with the delivery men and the backstage hands. He traded his heavy clothing for a white Palais kitchen coat and trousers that he found hanging outside of the work area. Speaking now in French, he inquired as to the whereabouts of the Goulds.
“Oh, excuse me, sir,” replied one of the kitchen help. “I did not realize that you were a friend of the Goulds. Are you a prince, perhaps?”
“Not exactly,” laughed Mac. “Mrs. Gould happens to be a friend of my mother, back from her Paris days. I just want to pop my head in and say hello.”
“Well, you better change your clothing before you leave the kitchen, if you intend to pop in on anyone in this hotel, particularly the owner. I do not believe she is receiving the kitchen help on this day,” said the kitchen worker snidely.
“Thanks for the advice, mon amie.”
Mac disregarded the advice, making his way to the hotel elevators, acting as if he belonged where he clearly did not. The men smoking cigarettes in the lobby either did not notice or did not realize he was out of place. Mac took the elevator up to the floor where the Goulds maintained their residence, as he had been there before, albeit dressed differently, and he knocked on the door. A man dressed in butler's attire answered the door to the suite.
“May I help you?” the man sneered down his nose at Mac in his kitchen worker's attire.
“I am here to see Mr. or Mrs. Gould.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the man chuckled at Mac.
“Who is it, Pierre?” came a man's voice from inside the suite.
“It is a kitchen worker, sir. I do not know how he got up here.”
“It is Mac Martin, Mr. Gould. I was here with my wife Carla a few years ago on our honeymoon. You and Mrs. Gould were so gracious to us.”
Frank Gould came from inside the suite to greet his visitor, more out of curiosity than anything else.
“Mac? What are you wearing?”
“Sorry, Mr. Gould. It was the only way I could get up here to see you.”
“What can I do for you young man? Florence would be tickled to see you, but she is up in Paris. She should be back any day now, though.”
“May I come in, sir?”
“Oh sure, how rude of me, come in. Would you like me to provide you with some proper clothes? Pierre, fetch my friend here some proper clothes, top to bottom. A shower, perhaps, Mac? Smells like you could use one,” laughed the scion of great wealth. “You smell like toilet bowl cleaner.”
“I would appreciate that, sir. It has been a long trip, I can assure you.”
“It's Frank, Mac. Call me Frank.”
“Yes, sir, I mean Frank.”
“I want to hear all about it, after you clean up. And then you can tell me why you are here.”
As Mac allowed the hot hotel water to beat on the skin of his tired body for what seemed like an hour, the shower curtain was pulled harshly across, exposing his naked body.
“Well, I’ll be!” yelled Florence Gould. “It really is you! In all your glory, no less,” laughed the beautiful older woman. “What are you doing here? Get yourself decent, then come out and entertain us with your stories,” she continued, as Mac was doing his best to discreetly hide his attributes.
“I would be delighted to, Mrs. Gould,” laughed Mac, as he tried to pull the shower curtain back, but the older woman was insistent on holding it open.
“Florence, Mac. I think we can be on a first name basis after just having been so intimate,” offered the elegant woman, still holding the curtain open, admiring her young guest.
“Florence, it is. It has been a while since a beautiful lady has been with me while I am naked.”
“Well, son, I admit I am tempted to jump right in there with you, but Frank is waiting for you to entertain him as well. Maybe later,” she continued, as she finally let go of the curtain, and left the bathroom.
Mac entered the marble-appointed salon, fully coifed and dressed at this point, to find the Goulds sipping champagne by the open veranda facing the sea. The weather was mild for mid December, but there was still a bite in the sea air, necessitating the two elder hosts to wrap scarves around their necks.
“Come, join us, Mac,” invited Frank Gould. “That's better, son. Now you look human. Florence tells me you look very healthy,” laughed the older man.
“Thank you, Frank, Florence! I am so happy to be here. You have no idea.”
“So, tell us what's happening, Mac,” said Florence. “We are sure it has been exciting.”
“That it has been,” said Mac, as he accepted a flute of champagne. “I have been a very busy guy. Back and forth to America, Africa, Italy, Sicily, and to Canada in between.”
“You were rushing back to see the president, as I recall,” said Florence. “Had to cut short your honeymoon with that charming young lady of yours, Carla, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Carla. She is home, in America, at least. With a child, waiting for her man to come home.”
“How long have you been away?” asked Frank.
“Well, they sent me for training, and then to North Africa, then to Sicily. Now I am trying to get home to my family.”
“What were you doing in North Africa and Sicily?” asked Florence.
“Working for my country, Florence.”
“So secretive! A spy I bet. Yes, you are a spy, aren’t you Mac?” asked Frank Gould.
“Well, if I were, sir, you know I could not talk about such things. I would not want to put you two in any danger.”
“I suppose not,” laughed Frank. “Oh darn, that's no fun.”
“Well, I will say this. I was in Sicily long enough to see our boys land on the shores there. I guess you could say I helped in that effort.”
“Oh boy, a saboteur!” giggled Florence, the champagne obviously getting to her sense of decorum. “What did you do, Mac? Blow up bridges or something?”
“No comment,” laughed Mac. “But I was hoping that you could help me. I need to get home to my family. Can you help me get out of France and back home to my wife?”
“Has someone told you that we can help you?” inquired Frank Gould with concern in his voice.
“No, I haven’t heard that. But I was hoping that you would have some contacts that could help me.”
“Well, Mac, there are some things that we are not at liberty to talk about ourselves,” slurred Florence, as she eyed her husband. “Let's just say that this is not the first time we have been called upon to help in such matters. We will see what we can do. In the meantime, please enjoy our hospitality. We will give you a room overlooking the sea. Just stay there, and enjoy the beautiful view, and the sea air. We will have food brought up to your room; we’ll tell the staff you have the pox or something. Do not leave the room under any circumstances. In fact, do not open the door for anyone but us. We will have the food left out in the hall, with a knock on your door. You cannot trust the French. You do not know what side they are on. Are they Vichy French, or are they waiting for the Allies to save them? In any event, trust no one. We will get you out. I hope.”
“Thank you, Florence, Frank. I will trust in you. Carla would be delighted that I came here. You inspired her, Florence. When we landed in New York, she got herself involved in the theatre, and she loves it. She wants to be a star. She wants to be like you!”
That is so sweet, Mac. You give that young girl a hug from me when you get home. Perhaps, we will get together again after the war. I would love to see her again. Delightful, that girl! Maybe, we can duet. That was so much fun.”
Mac spent Christmas alone, albeit in the comfort of the Palais de la Mediterranee. He neither ventured out of his hotel suite, nor was he visited by anyone, including the Goulds. Much to his surprise, he was invited to the dinner table of Mr. and Mrs. Gould the day after Christmas, which he was only too delighted to accept. It had now been over a week that he had been sequestered away like a delicate bird. Clothes were brought to him, as were his meals. The staff knocked on his door and left before he could respond, leaving his things out in the hallway outside of his suite.
“Florence, Frank, it is so good to see you! I feel like I have been back in Chieti the past week, a little stir crazy. Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”
“I assure you, son, it was for your own good,” said Frank Gould. “The Germans have been very nervous lately, as the Americans are beating on the doors of Rome. They know that France must be next. Panzer divisions are lining up across the Riviera, just waiting for the inevitable. Nice is a little out of the way, thank God. Mostly near Marseille and Toulon, I understand. The ports. But still, not a safe time for an American to be out and about.”
“I understand, Frank. It would make sense that the Allies would look to capture the important port cities of southern France. From there, they can drive up the Rhone to the heart of France.”
“I think it is even more important than that, Mac,” continued Frank Gould. “I hear that the Allies are readying a cross channel invasion to the north of France. The Rhone would be a natural supply line to the troops pressing across France towards Germany.”
“I suppose the Germans know that too,” said Mac. “Their fight to the death in northern Italy would be for naught if they allowed the Allies to March up the underbelly of France.”
“Boys, please, enough talk of war,” pleaded Florence Gould. “So tedious, all this scary talk. How I wish I were back in Paris conducting my salon. It is so beautiful here, but the war, how depressing!”
“Depressing here?” offered Frank. “At least the Germans allow us our autonomy here. Paris is closed, my dear, unless you are entertaining the Germans.”
“Germans, who cares? Entertaining is entertaining. It is irrelevant. I just came back from Paris, remember? It is all the metal, the tanks, the guns, the trucks, and what-have you that make me so scared and depressed. There is no longer any gaiety whatsoever. The Germans are so stern. It's depressing!”
“Florence, the war will end, and life will go on. Your gaiety will return, I assure you my dear. Mac, we need to talk about getting you out of here.”
“Yes, sir, I am ready to go, Frank.”
“On New Year's Eve, while the Germans are busy partying, you are going to be put on a fishing boat in the harbor. At dawn, you will ship out with the rest of the fishing boats, for the day. You will be met by a PT boat some two hours out and transferred to the American Navy. I have been told that you are being brought to Bastia, Corsica. General Eisenhower wants to see you. Apparently, he is there. That is all I was told.”
“General Eisenhower? What does he want with me?”
“I have no idea, son. That is what I was told. Your retrieval from Nice was given the highest priority. They want you back as soon as possible.”
“Well, at least I will be on friendly soil. How do I get to the fishing boat?”
“You will be taken there, from your room, close to midnight on New Year's Eve. Your clothes that you arrived in will be provided to you, cleaned of course, so you will look the part of a French fisherman. You speak the language, so you should be ok. You still have your Italian papers, right?”
“Yes, I still have them.”
“Well, they will have to do if you get stopped, so think up a story. There is no time to get your proper French papers.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gould. I really appreciate what you have done.”
“Such excitement, boys. Now can we order dinner?” urged Mrs. Gould. “I’m famished. Coquille St. Jacques, fellas?”