I Survived Swiss
Boarding Schools

Part 2 “Victim”
1958-1963 Le Rosey, Rolle and Gstaad Switzerland
Chapter 6 — Famous Names Lead to a Lock Down

Monsieur Johannot was always the quintessential Swiss Army Colonel.  He also enjoyed the luxurious position of having a two year wait list for students to attend his, the most expensive, boarding school in the world. He was adamantly opposed to any accelerated acceptances that would allow one student to bypass others who were awaiting acceptance at Rosey.

Charlie Chaplin learned this when he phoned the school after he moved to the lake side town of Vevey, not far from Rolle. Monsieur Johannot’s secretary took the call:

“Simonne Bonnemain,” she answered in the Swiss custom of stating one’s name instead of saying “hello.”

“This is Charlie Chaplin.” He spoke proudly. “I want to enroll my son at Le Rosey starting in September for the next academic year.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Chaplin,” she replied, “but there is a formal acceptance procedure and a two year waiting period.”

“I don’t think you heard me correctly” the male voice continued “I am Charlie Chaplin…”

In what became a famous, often repeated tale in Rosey history, Mademoiselle Bonnemain interrupted him, “It is you who do not understand, Monsieur. There is a two year wait list and I am Simonne Bonnemain.”  She ended the conversation there.  The Chaplin children attended other Swiss schools.

Chapter 10 — The Punishment

“I am hot and do not want to talk to you yet,” my father said as they brushed past me. “You will eat in the kitchen and I’ll see you after dinner.”  Later I went to a den off his bedroom. He was seated in a tall, Spanish wing tipped chair, looking like an angry, grand inquisitor. Fearfully, I stood before him.

“Are your sex organs normally developed?” he began. “Do you masturbate? How often? What do you think about when you do…?” The questions seemed endless.  Not one focused on what happened or how I felt. Never did he ask for “my side.” He simply believed that I had committed the crime. I was prepared for him to order me to drop my pants for an examination, as if an “abnormally developed sex organ” was a scarlet letter identifying a homosexual. I guess he accepted my answers about my physical condition. Then, he issued his orders.

“You will not be allowed to use your boat and you’ll go to tutors and see a doctor all summer,” he announced and dismissed me.

The “doctor” turned out to be a Catholic priest who was inept at dealing with children’s problems. During our first session he announced, “Ten years ago we would use electro-shock treatments. Luckily, today, I can cure you with hypnosis.”  Although I had never heard of shock therapy, it sounded a lot worse than hypnosis. I knew I could fake a trance — after all I had been in one for several weeks.

I did not use my little boat with its pretty, new, red engine moored in a slip by the house that summer. I had, however, convinced my father that the new motor needed to be run. So, between tutors and useless “therapy” at the rectory, I’d pull the hand starter, sit on the bow for as long as possible and cry.  I hoped that the wonderful sound of the engine would drown out the noise, as well as the cause, of my sobs. Mercifully, the summer eventually ended. My father and I flew to Geneva and drove to Rosey for a meeting with Johannot.