I need you. I don’t know what to do and I can’t reach you . . .
I tried to telephone you today, but you were out. Trent assured me you would get my message. Did you try to telephone me? It never rang and I’m beginning to wonder if the lines no longer work. Or it might have been that we didn’t hear it as the salon was terribly busy today—probably our last busy day.
The boutique is bare. While most can’t afford anything beyond the essentials, if they can get ahold of those, those who can are absorbing goods at a frenzied rate. Schiap is out of town—she’s been out more than in lately—and without clear direction, we closed the boutique early. Raw goods are so hard to come by we have no stock to refill the shelves. The news says it’s because the British are blockading goods to all Europe to thwart the Nazis, but looking around at the gluttonous wealthy Germans, I suspect they are the ones hoarding. Although we are at war, if you can call this stalemate a war, German private citizens still live here and still have money to spend.
Paul Arnim came in today. I thought he was coming for a gift for his wife, but he pulled me aside instead. He said his family was sailing for America, without passes, at midnight tomorrow and I was to do the same.
His words weren’t casual, Margo. They were pointed. He then said something about not being subscripted in ’35 but being sent to France to work and build capital, but now everything had changed. He had new orders. At first I didn’t understand. He’s not in the military, he’s here, in Paris.
He gripped my arm and articulated each word slowly, as if speaking in code. A chill went through me and my mind blanked.
“I want you to tell your friend Martine,” he added. “She is in greater peril than you. She doesn’t understand what is coming. Exit papers will be impossible soon.”
I am sending this through a diplomatic pouch. Before Schiap left, she said it was the only secure way to send information, and Ambassador Campbell has always been so kind to me. I’ve sent letters this way before, but now I feel it’s the only way. These words are only for you, Margo. Even Schiap cannot know what I’ve written here.
For the first time, I’m scared. Not so much for me, but for Martine. She has no family to protect her and we hear stories. We hear stories of Jews being beaten. We hear stories of them vanishing in the night. We hear stories of them being rounded up all across Europe and forced into cordoned-off areas, into ghettos. We hear stories of whole families fleeing. We hear of work camps and detainment facilities in Germany.
I know the French would never allow such atrocities here, but they exist. The wolves are real and they are at the door. I know you would never chide me for my foolishness, but I am feeling the weight of it now.
What have I done?
Love to you, dear one.
Caro
“Studying it isn’t the same as reading someone’s letters, is it?” Mat broke our focus. “I remember that about Anne Frank’s diary from high school, but I’d forgotten how much . . . This feels very real.”
“It’s why I called you. I liked Margo and Caro as soon as I read the first letters. I want to do my best by them.”
“Can’t blame you.” Mat chuffed. “I like her. I like both of them. There is something so sincere and earnest about each of them. I didn’t expect that . . . Honestly, I can’t believe Caro could be a spy, for either side. She’s so open. Maybe she really was working fabrics.”
“Where are you now?”
“I just finished the April 1940 letter from Paris. You have the next one?”
I handed him the May 17, 1940 letter. The torn letter. “Here’s where it all begins. Caro comes home and . . . It isn’t fabrics. There’s a different energy from here on out. It’s like she’s playing a game of sleight of hand. I can feel it.”
I watched him read, unable to return to my own work.
Mat sat straight. His lips parted. He cleared his throat as he reached the end. And, just like me, he turned the page over, certain there had to be more. He looked up, smiled, and jokingly pulled at his sweater’s collar. “Wow . . . Your aunt got a little steamy there.”
“Just a little.” I grinned.
Mat returned to business. “We need to follow up on George. Maybe through his records, we can prove the Arnim thing is a misdirect and figure out what really happened.”
I realized he hadn’t read any of the diaries yet. Although I handed him one, he had yet to open it. Mat didn’t know who George was. “You’re agreeing with me?”
“Caroline, my article’s current iteration is blown. If I don’t come up with something better, I’m sunk. Try to keep up.”
Without waiting for me to “keep up,” he started pacing across the room. “If the Arnim information was a ruse, who initiated it and why? Google George.” Mat pointed to my computer. “Let’s see what more we can find on him.” He ruffled through the pages. “Do you have a last name? There isn’t one in any letter I’ve read—”
“I already know what happened to George.”
“You do?” He stopped.
“He married Margo.”
“But . . .” Mat blinked. “That would make him . . . your grandfather? George married Margo?”
“Randolph George Payne married Margo in early 1950.” I scrunched my nose. “It’s about the saddest love story you can imagine. Margo loved Randolph and he loved her, but not like that letter, which she read, lots.” I gestured to it. “In fact, I think she kept it close to keep the wound fresh and remind her to never love him deeply.”
“Why didn’t you say all this hours ago? I never would have considered leaving.” Mat smirked. He was teasing me now. “This crap sells . . . Forget history. People love a good romance, and unrequited love is even better.”
After the May 17 letter, Mat was hooked. It wasn’t the unrequited love story but the tidbits of secrets and spy-craft Caro dropped like crumbs along her path. He caught hints and references that had alluded me and commandeered everything from 1938 to 1941, with a pen clenched between his teeth.
“So . . .” He pulled the pen from his mouth as the evening sun shot through the west-facing windows and French doors. “Arnim sailed to the United States? Maybe. If so, the Reich called home all officers and he’d been conscripted by that time. To not return would jeopardize his family. Then what happened?” He shuffled through his notebook, tapping his pen against the table with his other hand. “He was promoted to Gruppenführer on February 22, 1941. That’s an official record placing him in Paris, and a transfer order was issued on October 17, 1941, to Tula . . . the Battle of Moscow.”
Mat stilled and stared at me. “Then nothing more. I couldn’t find a single notation in any file on him. He didn’t report for duty in Russia. Nothing. That, along with that note to Caro’s parents, seemed to imply they both left their countries and ran. But now, maybe not. Moscow was a disaster for the Germans, so losing track of him may not be surprising.”