CHAPTER 4
In Big Trouble

There were many escapes from St. Denis camp. Frankly, to escape was not very difficult, but how could a man with a family on the outside escape? His family would be taken instead. We, the younger men without outside contacts, did talk a lot about escaping but Jack Maguire, our superior, asked us to be prudent. Besides war would soon be over and we would be free, "Annuver free months!" as one Cockney big mouth would shout whenever things got darker or depressing.

It must have been shortly after the New Year of 1942 that I was in contact with Mademoiselle Demeur, a French woman who spoke English with an Irish accent. She invited me along with my friends to escape and she allegedly would get us safely over the Line to the zone non-occupé (south of France). I talked about it but did nothing until my friend Geddes asked me to give the name and address to Jock Phelps and his friends who were going to make a break.

Jock, no last name available, (see photo below) was a Scottish soldier who had been left behind after Dunkirk. He ditched his uniform, put on civilian clothes and was picked up as a British civilian and then was directed to our camp. I wrote out the name and address and Geddes later gave this to Jock. The boys escaped from a work party and that was that, or was it? What must have happened was that when these young men got outside they went and got an alcoholic drink. This was a poor judgment on their part because this was not allowed in the camp and somehow it went to their heads. Jock spoke poor French and had a strong accent and besides he was rather noisy. The Gestapo got on their trail, following them to the house of Mademoiselle Demeur. She was not home but the boys got nabbed and thrown into prison for escaping. But can you guess where they got this address? That was not at all a wise decision, Father Wiseman!

Jock, the Scot, (bottom front row, extreme left) escaped and involved my name

Now the Gestapo was on my tail. I was interrogated and they informed me that the woman was to be shot as a spy, thanks to my carelessness. I was sad and they left me to stew in my anger and shame. It was hard. I had another interview with the Gestapo along different lines. They were asking questions about my background. How did I come to France? Why? They also asked for different dates. I was so confused and when Ash Wednesday came (February 18, 1942) I was scheduled to leave the camp under armed guard. The officer in charge told me he had orders to shoot and the last bullet would save me. I think he had been reading stories about cowboys.

My guard and I walked along the street and and then I think we took the Metro for downtown Paris. It was exciting to be out and see people. By the way, I had just turned 21 the previous week. I had a black beard, cropped hair and wore a white habit with a black coat over it. I wore a pair of boots two sizes too big for me.

My guard and I crossed the Place de la Concorde where there was no traffic. In later years my thoughts would bring me back to this day every time I tried to cross this intersection. We went to Rue Boisy L'Anglais and the Hotel Crillon. This had been a beautiful hotel that had been taken over by the German authorities. I was led a room where civilians and their guards were sitting around.

One man was taken into another room and later came out telling us he had been convicted of selling on the black market and was given six months in prison. There was also a lady who spoke to me but I can't remember what her crime was.

Soon I was called into the room. There must have been six or seven German officers sitting behind this huge table. The one in the middle did most of the talking. The fat one with a shaved head spun his revolver on the table. I can't remember what the others looked like. I was asked if I spoke German, to which I replied, "No." "What about French?" I said I could manage but was not too good at it. So they agreed, "Fine, we have a student lawyer who is your advocate and your interpreter in English."

I was interrogated between these two lines: first of all, they wanted to know about my relations with Mademoiselle Demeur, which was quite simple. Secondly, they asked about my life since the beginning of the war. How did I come to live in France? Was I a soldier? What regiment did I belong to?

They repeatedly bombarded with me the same questions but were not satisfied with my answers. What they basically wanted me to do was admit that I was a British soldier and this suggested that being a British soldier, my crime would not be considered serious and I would then have to be sent to a military camp. If, however, I persisted in claiming to be a civilian, they would then have to apply the fullness of the law and would treat me as a spy. The penalty for this would be death by shooting. I was exhausted.

My mind was made up. There was little time for rumination. I simply told them the truth concerning the woman. I was also truthful concerning myself. This way, my conscience was clear. They could shoot me but I wanted to stick with the truth. The president of the officers said, "It is your choice. We can only condemn you to be shot as a spy, but your lawyer-interpreter will be able to file an appeal for mercy on your behalf. Have you anything further to add?" "Yes," I said, this time in German. "What about the woman?" He smiled and said, "She escaped, so you are taking the rap." I was relieved. I saluted him in a military fashion. I went back to the waiting room and told the others my bad news. Mine must have been the last case for the day. I had spent an hour to an hour and a half in front of this military tribunal.

I left the courtroom and was escorted to the waiting room where a guard took me outside to join the others. On the way down the wide stairs, I looked at this large glass window and had a negative thought, "Why wait? I will be shot! If I jump through the window, the broken glass would cut my throat and I would land outside dead!" That was a scary thought, so I dismissed the idea. (Now I'm glad I didn't because fifty-seven years later, I am able to tell my story, especially to the people who are close to my heart, and tell everybody the true essence of not giving up.)

We were all escorted and gathered outside and into a truck with two wooden benches for us prisoners Once seated in the back of this truck, I began to listen to the others talking. Someone asked, "Does anyone here speak German?" I said I could manage, so was invited to be the interpreter.

There was a pretty woman of my age who had been convicted for foretelling the ultimate victory of De Gaulle and the Free French. I think she got six months. She was quite clairvoyant and the German soldiers found out that she had this gift. So they called me. She held the hand of one soldier and said, "Your brother . . . has been killed . .. in the East . . . something with his head." The soldier replied, "Yes, I got a telegram this morning. My brother was in Russia and a bomb blew his head off." Wow!

There were other predictions but shortly before we reached the women's prison of Cherche-Midi, someone in our group asked her to read my hand. At first, I hesitated because I thought I was going to die and God would be angry with me believing in this magic. The woman smiled and said, "Your life is in grave danger . . . you will not killed . . . a very important personality will appeal for you . . . your life will be spared because you have a special job to do with little ones."

The truck stopped and the young lady fell into my arms and kissed me. Another lady, Agnes, and I were alone when we reached Fresnes, a very famous prison reserved for the really big boys. I remember the phrase, 'Abandon hope all ye who enter here'.

I was taken to Cell 59 in Section 3 (see sketch). It was dark and cold; I felt very much alone. I smoked a cigarette halfway through and saved the other half for the next morning. Agnes, the director of the Museum of Modern Art in Paris, persuaded the guard to bring me a packet of candied fruits to cheer me up. It was a special gift from someone who had nothing.

My dark and cold cell

I laid myself down on the wet mattress, pulled the damp blanket over me and went to sleep. It was my first night in a solitary prison cell that lasted for 93 days. It was very frightening. I was there to be shot. I was hungry. Everything was wrong, so I took stock of my situation. I had a cold and a handkerchief on hand.

Life began in prison. There was a noise outside and a soldier opened a little latch door and shouted at me. He pointed to a tin can (which was called a gamelle) so I put this on the ledge and he filled it with some kind of hot liquid disguised as coffee. It tasted so and so; I was grateful. I felt some heat generating inside me immediately after drinking it. A guard opened my door and came in to check my cell. He decided I should get another blanket and I thanked him for it.

After some hours there was another commotion in the corridor and this time there was a distribution of soup. It seemed to be a concoction of boiled cauliflower with some cucumber in it. It was warm and I was grateful. A third time before dark we were all given a piece of bread and a slice of sausage. I gobbled it up and fell asleep. The next day was the same performance except that they took away my shoelaces, my cigarette case, and my wallet. What could I do? I was helpless. I was left with my rosary beads. Many thoughts were going through my mind, mainly about death, about God and the important things that mattered to me most. Seemingly appropriate, I began praying the rosary.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

It became an obsession, a ritual. I ate whatever food was given to me. I read this one newspaper that I had spread out on the table that was attached to the wall. I prayed the rosary. This went on for about a week.

I think it was on February 26 when I received a visit from the president of the tribunal. He had another officer with him and his interpreter.

"It is my sad duty to tell you that your appeal for mercy has failed and you will be shot today at 3.00 p.m. Have you anything to say?"

I replied, "If I had something to say would it help me or someone else?"

He replied "No."

"So I have nothing to say."

Again, he asked, "Is there any thing you would like?"

I did not know what to answer, so he said he would give me a pencil and paper to write my last will and testament and then they left.

Feeling so alone, my first thought was that I was glad I did not take too much notice of that pretty lady, so God would not be mad at me. The guard brought in a paper and a pencil and I wrote to my parents:

Dear Mother and Dad, This is the hardest part of the whole affair. For acting unwisely, yet at the same time "hoping to do my bit", I have been condemned to be executed today. Your photograph is in front of me and I don't know what to say. You have both cherished great hopes for me, and when I wanted to become a Mission (sic) you did a lot of things to help me, and encourage me. It must be a terrible grief and disappointment to you, but try to bear it well. I am not unhappy. Almighty God gave you a son, Kevin, that is. He gave life and I in return offered this life to Him as a priest and you gave it to me. But the Holy Will of God chose that I should end my life otherwise and in the "flower of youth", what does it matter? We all must die sometime, though perhaps this is sadder than usual, but Almighty God is, I hope, going to find my soul acceptable and take me to Heaven, where I will be able to help you all and help the White Fathers. I am waiting for a priest to come and visit me, after which I am going to place myself under the protection of Our Lady, and of the 'Little Flower'. Try not to think upon me as a loss, but rather as a gain, for in Heaven I can help you more than I could have done here on earth. May Marie, Carl and Paul, and Bernie comfort you. And, remember I am going to die bravely dressed not as a 'Tommy' but as a 'Soldier of Our Lord'. It is impossible for me to write to everybody, but assure all the relations and all my friends of my prayers, and I humbly beg yours and theirs for my own immortal soul. So I say good-bye, calmly and tearlessly, and begging of Our Lord that since happiness is not now possible on this earth, it will be a very happy one in Heaven. Your ever-devoted son, Kevin

I also wrote to Father Maguire, who was in charge of the White Father group, and to my other confreres (see Prologue). I told them to share among themselves whatever belongings I left behind and to save my wallet for my mother. I confided to him that it was difficult for me to say my prayers at this time but I hoped my efforts and my prayers from last week would bear me through. I couldn't even shed tears. I wrote, however, that I was happy, or was I? I forgot to mention that I was assured I would have the visit of a Catholic priest before I would be shot. I also wrote my last will.

Writing took up some time although I was told later that it served no purpose. Ambiguity surrounded my being. They brought me some soup and my guard was feeling sorry for me, thinking it was to be my last meal and thought the soup was quite substantial. Without hesitation, I swallowed a spoonful but suddenly remembered that I should be fasting if I was going to receive Holy Communion. Instinctively, I dumped the thick soup down the toilet. I had important things to do.

The door opened and the Austrian guard came in and he was very excited. He told me in pidgin German that the Kommandatur had phoned and I was not to be shot! He was happy for me, but I broke into tears and my first thought went to the pretty lady, the one who predicted that I was not going to be shot.

The priest did come. His name was Father Stock, a German national who had lived in France and was used by the army to visit prisoners such as myself. Of the little things said, I remember him saying that I should be grateful that God had spared me. He also couldn't administer Holy Communion to me because I had eaten a spoonful of soup. He left me hungry! It had been a stressful day.

Perhaps I should jump ahead and tell you what happened that day on February 26.

Each day a list of those to be shot was prepared and Father Stock got his copy so that he could see the sentenced prisoner before he was to be shot. He did stand with them till they fell at the end. He helped thousands of people. Father Stock later died of heart failure, perhaps because of the stress. That day he spotted my name in the list as a student-priest. He ran to the general and told him that I was a kind of churchman and it would be a very bad German propaganda to kill a priest since they were trying hard to get the co-operation of the church in France. The General, who was new to Paris, said he would take Father Stock's word, and took a pencil and crossed out my name. This was how my life was spared.

Life in prison continued for few more days, or so. On March 2nd the tribunal came back to my cell with the upsetting news that my case had been brought to them and they had passed the same sentence. I was furious but didn't want to show it. I asked what had taken place the previous week and they said, "Das war dummheit" (meaning "that was nonsense"). And now, because of that nonsense, my case would have to go to Berlin to be approved by the authorities and that could take time. In the meantime, I had to stay put where I was. I was given permission to write letters, so they supplied me with paper and pencil. I wrote to Father Maguire of the White Fathers in Paris. I also prayed a lot.

The long haul began. The days and nights seemed endless. Father Stock came back to see me and brought me Holy Communion and I was on a high for two days. I thought I was in heaven. He also gave me The Imitation of Christ and Prieres du Prisonier. I received small extracts from the gospels, and some prayers. I began a spiritual feast of prayer, reading, and meditation. Because I was so elated, I started to remember all sorts of books and of talks, and also got a sign from God. My cold got better despite the cold and damp living conditions. Then I got rid of it. I decided that God told me that I was going to live — otherwise, why take the trouble to heal me? I took solace in a novena (the powerful Nine Days of Prayer that made God listen). I made a novena and decided that I should also make a good retreat. I was prepared for a new lease on life. I wanted very much to join my friends in the internment camp.

The first novena did not work because no good news came. The second novena (a series of nine days) didn't work either since there was no change in my situation. So I started a third one. Three would do the trick, I thought, but when the ninth day of the third novena came, I knew it was not meant to be. I was disgusted with everything, including God and prayer.

The days were getting longer and lighter. By now, some warm air was drifting into my cell. Laying down, with my blanket over me, I cried in misery.

The door opened and a strange German sergeant came in wearing carpet slippers. I jumped. The rules demanded that I should be at attention before a guard. He waved me down, sat on the chair and asked, "Why are you here?" I told him I was to be shot. "No, that is not so," he said. He offered me a cigarette but I declined. I don't know why. He told me that his brother was a Jesuit and his son was a priest, that he just wanted to chat and try to comfort me.

Finally, he stood up and said in accented Latin, "In te Domine speravi non confundar in aeternum." ("In you, O Lord, I have put my trust. I shall not be let down forever.") With those words, he left me. I always interpreted this visit as if an angel had been sent from God.

Again, God was hearing my prayer. I was preparing for my release and my future. I was called to be a servant, to be a priest. I remember another incident. One day I was very hungry and I spotted a snail climbing up the wall, leaving a slimy trail behind. I looked at my cell companion and thought to myself that Frenchmen ate snails, but they fried them and I had no means of doing that. Should I eat it raw? That was too much and I decided it deserved to live. I could share my hunger in that cold, lonely cell with this snail.

There was another aspect to this whole story. I was not yet ready to die. I wanted to live to do many things. I cannot pinpoint exactly when or how but I finally came to some terms with God and got down on my knees in prayer. I turned to God and said, "You are the boss and should you decide to have me killed, then I say that is fine with me, as long as I am in harmony with your wishes." It almost seemed as if I had tasted the company of God and wanted to stay with God forever. To die and be with God was more consoling than to carry on living, even in freedom. This was a major hurdle in my days of retreat and those were special days of feeling the closeness with God.

What was happening on the outside? My letter did reach Father Provincial of the White Fathers. He went to see Father Stock, the German national who was instrumental in having my name struck off from the doomed prisoners' list the first time. Father Stock explained that his ability to help me was limited to giving advice.

The Provincial went to the Swiss authorities that were legally the protectors of the British. He also went to the Archbishop of Paris. Germaine Crussard, my marraine, also got into the act. Although she didn't believe in prayer, she began to pray. She also solicited the prayers of the priests and nuns she happened to meet in the streets. She also went to see every possible contact she had and could dream of. (For more on Germaine, see "In Retrospect", Chapter 11.)

Unaware of all these happenings outside, I was almost resigned to being locked up in Cell 59. I felt the presence of God, the closeness with God. I also had moments of depression, of depletion and dryness in prayer but overall I could see the route that the Lord was leading me. I thought of myself as being guided by God the way Ignatius was guided in his retreat at Manresa. In my nearness to God (or was it in my hunger?), I became aware of what was happening around me. I knew when something was due to happen. I knew beforehand that this or that would not happen. I looked upon myself as some kind of a clairvoyant, guided by God. My Higher Self was prevailing. For instance, I knew the date we would go home. I had the date right but I was two years premature. Everything seemed to "pan out" according to our plan (God and I). There was the blessing of the Trinity . . . three of this and six of that . . . always a multiple of three. I received Holy Communion six times from Father Stock but he never mentioned what he had done to expedite my release or what was happening outside.

My mentor, Father John Maguire, wrote me this letter dated March 14 :

My dear Kevin, It would have been very hard to read that first paragraph of your letter to the others, had I not been able to find out the facts and announce them to all the day before your letter arrived. As it was, your letter was a great help to us in our anxiety for you, for we were able to admire your grit and courage, together with your confidence and faith, in this the greatest crisis of your young life. Kevin, old fellow, you have no fear of being accused by us of "getting holy or going daft." You were just yourself like what you wrote me, saying things freely, intimate sentiments you have felt all along, but which ordinarily you just could not get out. There is nothing for me to add to the intentions you already mentioned. They are excellent like that. Try to remain in the same sentiments all the time, putting up your whole confidence in Mary, Our Immaculate Mother, and offering up your sufferings in union with our Blessed Lord, for your parents, relatives, friends, and for the salvation of souls. A terrible consequence has followed from what you thought sincerely to be an innocent act. Jesus has noted to your merit the generosity with which you forgive the mistake made against you. In your case, I am fully confident that He will not require that you pay with your life for such an act, so harmless and so charitable from your point of view. My confidence was firm at this point and, based on solid reasons — spiritual ones. First of all, God is not going to turn a deaf ear to your prayers and sacrifices and to the storm of prayers the priests and students of the camp are sending up to Heaven. Secondly, temporal reasons. Father Boudon has seen the Cardinal who has sent an appeal to the Swiss Legation in Berlin. This organisation has the British interests in mind and has been informed, and started acting straight away upon receipt of a memorandum that I wrote on the case ten days ago. This letter was sent to the authorities in Paris and I am now preparing a new one, giving fuller facts. These and other means are being taken, and they can have only one result. So keep up your courage, Kevin, and your confidence. Everything is going to come out right in the end. That you are realising many things during this trouble, I can readily understand. In fact, it is my belief that Jesus has taken you in hand himself — my poor efforts are being put to one side for the moment — and because He wants you as His priest and missionary, He is taking extra means to ensure a good preparation. You know the comparison, as steel is tempered by fire, so is a man's soul formed and strengthened by suffering and adversity. When all this is over and you are back with us, the last line of Kipling's '"If" will ring time for you. "And what is more, you'll be a man, my son." A man in the truest sense of the word, i.e., one who had found himself, after Our Lord's own heart, ready to go forward towards the priesthood with much surer steps and greater certainty. God bless you, Kevin. Remember that we are one in spirit with you, and that you are all the time in our prayers. I shall write you again as soon as I am able. Yours affectionately in Christ, John Maguire, White Father

There were two more letters from him dated April 17 and May 8. There were also some letters from my good friends, Philip Carles, Tom O'Donnell, Tom Rathe, Gerard Taylor, all the other students I was close to, Father Moran and from Germaine as well. (There were weekly letters from my mother which I didn't receive until May 26.) Their thoughts helped sustain me.

On May 17, I knew that the pregnability was reaching its final stage; I went into a deep depression. I gobbled up what little reserve of food I had — a couple of bread sticks, I think.

I will never forget that day, May 20, 1942. I was waiting. There was something in the air. There was the usual sound of stiflen or German boots as the guards went about their duties: distribution of coffee, checking on each prisoner but otherwise, nothing. I think it was mid-morning. Light had come through the translucent Was is das, (as the French called it), the window that lets in the light from outside.

My thoughts were disturbed as I heard footfalls approach my door and the key inserted in the hole to open it and the unusual visit of my Austrian guard. He was visibly excited when he came this time. "Wiseman. . . Good news... Telefon Aus Kommandatur . . . you are pardoned by the Chancellor of the Reich, Hitler. You will go back to your internment camp . . . "

The news hit me. I froze. What did it mean? I would not be shot? This was clear, but until I returned to St. Denis, what would happen? I had so many questions that no one seemed to have answers for. Why had I been pardoned? Why had Hitler got involved? I tried to tell myself this was really happening. All those days when I used to wake up thinking it would be my last day were now over.

Back to my Austrian guard. This sergeant had come to my cell a few weeks before this and saw a bar of chocolate biscuit on a ledge in one of the corners of my cell. He was going to Austria at that time for a two-week leave and asked for the biscuit to take to his family. He stated then that I wouldn't be around when he came back. During this chat, I said to him that Austria would be independent from Germany. He was surprised.

Let me tell you, it was like a heavy bomb that was removed from my chest (to preclude its explosion). It gave me some relief all right. I was no longer under death sentence but physically I was still in the same cell and was now getting really exasperated. Another four days passed and the same Austrian sergeant came again with a paper and basically gave me the same message, to which I replied, "Scheisse, Hitler! When do I get out of here?" This situation surely brought out the worst of me. Then something motioned me to take it easy. Another four days maybe and this whole nightmare would be over.

It was May 22, the Vigil of the Pentecost. My time was up. I had started my retreat on Ash Wednesday and appropriately ended with the feast of Pentecost, the outpouring of the Holy Spirit and my renaissance. I was spirit filled. I was charismatic before I knew of the word or the movement of the 1960's.