In a time that necessitates reaching for the past to understand our present and navigate our futures with greater intention, there is a call to memorialize our shining moments, our sacrifices, and our heroes. As we grapple with the aftermath of a world pandemic, tumultuous elections, social upheaval, the rise of sectarian interests, intolerance, and financial uncertainty across the globe, we find ourselves examining the past to find the firm footing our present fails to provide. Some contend that by studying humanity’s victories, we set our course toward the future on a more durable foundation.
Contrary to popular ethos, I have found greater growth and understanding come from our failures. It is the fallen who reveal to us our humanity, our perseverance, our yearning for right, our resilience, and our determination to stand after stumbling. While such stories of human frailty, weakness, and betrayal are ones we’d rather forget, as they leave us vaguely uncomfortable, I contend their fragmented light is more reflective of truth and provides a more substantive ground upon which to build a better future. They remind us of our shared experiences, mercy, and grace.
The past several years have seen burgeoning interest in WWII, from memorials to books, films, television shows, and even fashion. We’ve read about British and American citizens enamored with the Nazis; we’ve seen reenactments of the lives and loves of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor; and we’ve read several bestsellers introducing us to the Mitford sisters in England and the scandals surrounding Americans Florence Gould and Charles Lindbergh, whose loyalties lay with Germany as well. Yet their betrayals and sympathies danced in the periphery, away from battle and the front lines. We can accept or dismiss them as fits our will.
However, some crossed those lines. They carried their sympathies to battle and betrayed their countries, to the devastation of their families and, had it been known at the time, to the scandal and heartbreak of their nations. Such stories were not made known then. They were hidden, buried in files, and locked away. If known, they could cause a break in morale, a fracture in the united front, and harm a nation’s will to endure and to ultimately succeed.
Caroline Amelia Waite is one such name and hers is one such story. To understand who she was and what she did, one must examine her roots.
Born in 1918, an identical twin to Margaret Georgiana Waite, Caroline was the daughter of John Thomas Waite, the sixth earl of Eriska, and his wife Ethel. Lord Eriska served as an admiral in the British Fleet from 1915 to 1917 and was awarded the Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath for his service in WWI. Beyond that, he was close friends with David and Bertie growing up—men we remember as the short-reigned Edward VIII, turned Duke of Windsor, and King George VI.
Upon returning home in late 1917, Eriska married the young Lady Ethel Blaremont in February 1918. Later that year, daughters Caroline and Margaret were born. They were the girls in the twin bows, the patent shoes, the lace dresses, and the winning smiles. They were the girls playing on the lawn while their nannies looked on and their mother and father entertained their king and queen on numerous occasions and conversed on the most familiar terms with Winston Churchill, a close family friend. They were the girls with the idyllic life one now imagines while watching Downton Abbey or early episodes of The Crown. In fact, the two families were so close, some historians surmise that Princess Margaret, while named for family, was also named for Margaret Waite—only twelve years her senior.
At sixteen years of age, in 1934, the inseparable twins parted ways. Margaret stayed at the family estate, Parkley, in Derbyshire, while her twin sister attended Brilliantmont in Switzerland, an international school still educating Europe’s elite. At eighteen, rather than return home to Derbyshire or to the family’s London residence, Caroline set off to Paris to work with modernist dressmaker Elsa Schiaparelli, one of the twentieth century’s most famous designers, known for her avant-garde styles, artistic collaborators—Salvador Dalí and Jean Cocteau, to name two—and her Communist leanings. In the late 1930s, Schiaparelli was setting the fashion world aflame with innovative designs, such as the wrap dress as well as her knits, and provocative stylings like the Lobster Dress (1937) worn by the Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor, on her honeymoon, and the even more shocking Tears Dress unveiled a year later.
It was at the House of Schiaparelli’s place Vend?me salon, commonly referred to as the Schiap Shop, that Caroline met a German industrialist turned Gestapo officer and began an affair. Although relations between France and Germany were contentious from the 1939 declaration of war, the two sides existed in a tense stalemate during the Phoney War, with ideas and business mixing between private citizens from each side on a daily basis. All that ended when the Germans flooded France on May 10, 1940.
At that time, Caroline returned to London to work for the Auxiliary Transport Service and found her way to the offices of Churchill’s newly formed Special Operations Executive, under the cover of the Inter Services Research Bureau. This new division of “ungentlemanly warfare” was tasked by Churchill to “set Europe ablaze” and was modeled after IRA tactics learned in the Irish War of Independence. Led by Dr. Hugh Dalton, the minister of economic warfare, the SOE was charged with everything from gathering intel to fomenting discord and revolutions in occupied countries.
While Caroline most likely worked in the typing pool at the SOE, her intimate knowledge of Parisian customs, culture, and events at the highest levels of society would have proved invaluable for a spy organization desperate to gain a foothold in France.
In October 1941, her work at the SOE ended in betrayal and the following letter was sent to her parents:
[INSERT PHOTOCOPY OF ORIGINAL LETTER HERE – TO COME]
The implications of the letter are staggering. Dr. Dalton and Eriska had worked several committees together under Prime Minister Chamberlain and his successor, Sir Winston Churchill. The men knew each other well and one can only assume this missive, what was said and what was left unsaid, was presented in the most personal and discreet terms both to uphold Eriska’s honor and privacy and to protect SOE secrets.