Or . . . you could have been here to watch it with me. We would have then gone out for dinner and wine, curled up in my apartment, and laughed all night together.
Come to Paris, Margo. We’ve been apart long enough. And while you’ll counter my request and say “you come home,” please know that is impossible. Someday, perhaps, you’ll understand. Someday, perhaps, the veil will be lifted between us and we can see each other clearly again. Everything changed when you were sick. I can’t think about that summer and the despair I felt that I might lose you, without catching my breath and growing hot with panic. But you are well now and we are nineteen. We are our “own women” as Mother used to say—though I doubt she says that now. It was fine when we were young and she felt she had time to mold us. Now she keeps calling me a “girl,” as if saying it can turn back the clock.
Nevertheless, we are grown and we could have such fun here together. We could breathe deep, work, and be free. Father is worried about nothing. He and Sir Churchill have been sounding the doomsday gong for years and, yes, there is turmoil in Germany, but when isn’t there? Our new prime minister says all is well. If Father can’t trust an old friend like Chamberlain, who can he trust?
You need this, Margo. You need to spread your wings, and Paris is the perfect place to fly. It’s alive, moving, and racing—and I am here to catch you.
No more . . . Just come.
Love,
Caro
Paris
5 September 1939
Dearest Margo,
Try to understand. I’m not being hardheaded or stubborn, petulant or selfish. I endured hearing all that from Father. I wouldn’t have telephoned if I had known what was coming. Schiap was furious with me for using the salon’s telephone, and then to have everyone in the room hear Father yell . . . It was beyond embarrassing.
But your cold silence was worse and your parting shot—“Tresse”—was completely beyond the pale.
How dare you say that to me. How dare you call me that. I’m doing what’s right, Margo. How is me staying here, working where I love, in a country I adore, a betrayal of all Father believes in? He’s the one who taught us to think, listen, and stand up for what is right. France is equally at war! And on England’s side!! I can do my bit for the war effort here. People here will suffer just as much, if not more than in England, and this is my home now.
Fine . . . I was wrong about the Munich Agreement. I’m sorry I ever quoted that “everlasting peace” bit. But Father didn’t need to throw it in my face. I wasn’t the one who said it. Remind him it was the prime minister.
And what makes him so sure Herr Hitler will turn his eyes west from Poland? Hitler has what he wants and now France and England have made their stand. It’s probably all over and, in days, we’ll see Hitler back down. Even if he doesn’t, I refuse to accept I’d be safer in one country at war than in another equally at war, simply because Father says so.
I expected vitriol and disdain from him, Margo, but not from you. Never from you. Has the gulf between us grown so wide you couldn’t stand beside me? Even if I am wrong, you are my sister, my twin. How can you not support me? I never asked to leave, by the way. I was sent away. Do you feel I betrayed you on that front as well? Because if you do, you are wrong. I was the one betrayed.
I’ll have you know I sat outside your bedroom for days until Father hoisted me into that car to London. Do you have any idea how horrible that was? To leave you? Fearing your death every moment? I lived banished from everyone I loved and just when I thought I could come home, I was cast off to Switzerland. Brilliantmont was wonderful. I’m not saying it wasn’t, but I didn’t choose it, Margo. None of it was my choice. Now when I finally find a home I created and I love, you condemn me? I expected it from Father. I have endured it for five years from Father. But you? Who is the real Tresse here?
I will always love you, but this struck deep.
Caro
P.S. I can’t believe I’m doing this . . . I’ve enclosed a jacket I designed. I’m so angry with you right now, I can barely write, but I still want you to have it. I made it for you, and England is now required to carry identification papers just like we must. Martine and I have been working on this for weeks. Schiap likes it and may offer an iteration of it in her next collection, but you get the first model. My model.
It has twelve pockets sewn into it. Clearly you can see the six across the front. Don’t you love the buttons? Now search for the other six . . . I think it will take you some time. Sliding precious items into those will protect them. I defy anyone to find something thin and sleek in a few of those pockets. And, speaking of thin and sleek, I’m getting diabolical . . .
For some reason this idea of concealment has captured my imagination. I started with one of the basic brassieres Martine developed for the Lobster Dress a couple years ago and, rather than reinforce it with the bone, I rolled sheets of paper tight and slid them in. I then left a one-centimeter thread hanging loose, right beneath the arm. That tiny thread allows the wearer to release the rolled papers at a second’s notice. Rolled, however, I don’t think anyone else could ever find them, even in an official search or interrogation. Martine couldn’t find them and she’s brilliant. I have no idea what use it is, but it was a challenge and right now, Martine and I stay in more often than we go out. I need ways to focus my mind and thoughts.
I won’t deny the declaration of war has brought changes. Paris has ramped up in a frenetic passion that Martine and I find unsettling. I used to love the pace and flavor of the nightclubs and parties, but they’ve soured. I’m sure it’s the same in London. Perhaps only dear Parkley remains untouched in its northern woods.
But, despite all this, dear sister, there’s no place I’d rather be. Try to understand.
C
Tears had smudged the ink and wrinkled the paper with pock marks, and somehow I knew they hadn’t come from the first reading. At that reading, perhaps Margaret had been too angry to hear Caro’s hurt beneath her defiance. But as time wore on, I felt sure my grandmother felt all her sister’s love.
The postscript revealed the depth of their connection. And by the soft folds and worn edges, it was clear my grandmother had returned to this letter, to this moment, and to this pain again and again.
I sat back and considered the four letters, tied together in their own black ribbon, apart from the rest. Each represented different aspects of my aunt, different aspects of her relationship with her twin, and different moments my grandmother felt compelled to revisit.
They meant something then and I couldn’t help but feel they were equally important now.
Ten
“How late do you think you’ll be up?”
I tapped my phone to reveal the time. Eleven o’clock. I’d been reading for over nine hours with only a short dinner break.