“Do you really not know?” His gaze flickered. “It’s true, Caroline. This is your aunt.” He spread his hand across the paper. “And it’s not dangerous, if that’s what concerns you. This story can’t hurt your family. It was eighty years ago. But it does have a great angle and contemporary significance. How we deal with pain and adversity remains relevant no matter how long ago it happened.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off with a raised hand. “I’ll be gentle with her, but I’m not wrong . . . I did some digging. Dr. Dalton and your great-grandfather knew each other well. I expect Dalton wrote this personally because they were friends.”
Mat opened the folder again. “I have this.” He handed me another page. “And this.” Another. “Your aunt met with Dalton and the SOE head, Sir Frank Nelson, a couple times. She worked there for over a year before this final note was sent to her family.”
He sat back and stared at me for a few moments before running his hands through his hair and leaning forward, as if ready to go into battle again. “Don’t you see? When she joined the Nazis, a lie had to be created. Even if she just typed memos, the truth would’ve hurt the narrative. If it had been made public that a peer’s daughter had worked for the SOE and defected that early in the war, it could have ended it right there. British morale was low and the country was vulnerable. That’s part of my point. Your family didn’t get to grieve her loss properly, because this hung over her . . . There’s a lot to say here.”
“There’s nothing to say, Mat.” I pushed at his paper pile. “That’s not my aunt.”
We sat at a stalemate for five seconds or five minutes. My head spun too fast to process time properly. All spinning stopped with his next sentence.
“Your father says I’m right.”
“What?” I tipped back so fast the legs of my chair snagged on the uneven stone floor.
Mat lunged for me, grabbing my arm. He let go the instant I was upright.
“You talked to my father?”
“Briefly. I thought that was the more direct connection, and you and I haven’t spoken in years. He threatened legal action.”
I felt my eyes widen. Threatening legal action did not sound like my dad at all. “That proves you’re right?”
“His tone did. A person doesn’t get that scared or stern over a lie, but over an unfortunate truth . . .” Mat started to replace each of his memos within his folder. “Look, Caroline, I don’t know why your dad got so upset or what you’ve been told, but your aunt knew Paul Arnim and she ran away with him.”
I gripped my coffee cup tight. The warmth felt good against my now freezing fingers. “How does the Arnim family feel about this? They’re paying you. They can’t want you to publicize that he was a Nazi.”
“No . . . He isn’t part of the article. They knew he was a German officer and I need to tell them about this, of course, but I’m not writing about him for publication.” Mat slid his chair back. “You know what? I’m sorry, Caroline. This was a mistake. I—I shouldn’t have called.”
He returned his folder to his bag and pushed up and out of his seat. This time I reached for his arm to stay the motion. His eyes locked, first on my hand clutching his arm, then on my face. He dropped back into his chair.
“Are you sure you’ve got this right?” I asked.
In college, we’d been friends—good friends—at least for our first two years. I had trusted him, relied on him . . . had a crush on him. And while there was a distance, a coolness between us now, I knew Mat was still trustworthy. He wouldn’t lie.
“I’m sure.”
I let go of his arm and spread my fingers across the wood table. I needed something firm, something real to hold. “You can’t put anything in your article about us meeting here, and that I knew nothing about this.” I bit my lip. “Please.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t learn this . . . here . . . from you. I get that it fits. I mean, you want to know how three generations dealt with pain, and turning a blind eye is certainly one way, but you can’t understand what we’ve been through.”
My mind raced with memories, questions, implications, and consequences. Each felt as empty and dark as the thought before it, bringing an instant swirling headache and a sense of weightlessness—perhaps a little like Alice felt careening down that hole.
“No one has told me any of this. Ever.”
Mat’s lips parted in silent disbelief.
“Can you wait? A couple days?” A plan formed as I spoke, my brain barely able to keep up with its delivery. “I’ll talk to my dad, find out what is true and what is not, and in exchange for the time, I’ll comment.”
He raised a brow. “You’d do that? For a couple days’ time?”
“Today’s Friday. We can meet Monday?” I felt my voice rise into the territory of pleading and dropped it with a short cough. “When’s it due?”
“Next Friday. One week. But, Caroline, I don’t want to give you the weekend just so you can think up ways to change my mind or stop me. Marketable work like this is the difference between a tenure track hire or creating puff documentaries for rich families while babysitting undergrads. I can’t risk losing this.”
“I just want time. I promise. We’ll sit down Monday and talk it through. And I want to read the article.”
Mat ran his hand over his hair again. His dark bangs stuck up with the motion. “I’m not doing a hatchet job and you know it. You know me. The whole point of this is to do something good, to examine how history is real and messy, but that it isn’t objective or defining.”
“I need to read it, Mat, because that’s where you are wrong. If what you say is true, then it has been defining. And I can’t let it hurt my father more, not now.” This time my voice did betray me.
“What’s wrong?” Mat stilled. “Is he okay?”
I shook my head.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” I shrugged, feeling embarrassed and exposed all over again. I pointed to Mat’s bag. “Can I have that letter? The Dalton one?”
“It’s a copy. Keep it.” He pulled it from his folder.
I tore off a corner of the page and reached for his pen. “Here’s my email and cell. Send me the article and your number. I promise to call you Monday morning, if not before.”
“I’m not agreeing to change anything, Caroline, and in the end, I don’t need your permission or a quote.”
“Fair enough.” I pushed my chair back. “You won’t submit until you hear from me?”
“Agreed. If you call before Friday.” Mat glanced up as he tapped my information into his phone. “You haven’t changed a bit, you know.”
My heart skipped, then stopped.
His head shake told me that wasn’t a good thing.
Two
Coming up from the Charles/MGH stop, I stalled. Right would take me home—an airy, light, and bright two-bedroom apartment off Charles Street. Left, a couple blocks east, and a few streets up Beacon Hill, and I’d be at my dad’s house. Not my childhood home. My dad’s house.
I was so tempted to turn right. I was tired and, regardless of whatever the truth proved to be, seeing Mat again was messing with my head, and the conversation with my dad was going to be rough. Nothing was ever easy between us.