I didn’t want that to be true, but it needed to be said. It needed to be faced.
Mat answered his own questions, talking more to himself this time. “There’d still be a record. Something. Somewhere . . .” He sounded unconvinced and discouraged. He bumped my elbow as a train approached. “Is your mom expecting us back for dinner?”
“She had plans with friends she couldn’t cancel.”
“Then let’s catch this train.”
I looked up to find a District line train approaching. Edgeware Road flashed on its side. I pulled Mat back. “We want the Upminster. This one won’t go through Victoria.”
“Trust me.” Mat stepped on the train as the doors opened.
I hopped in after him right before the doors closed.
Neither of us said anything as we balanced in the center of the crowded car and were carried back toward London. While I had no clue where we were headed, I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Mat led me off the train at Notting Hill Gate. A few blocks south and I stalled in front of what looked to be a corner pub—under an explosion of flowers. Hanging baskets of bright blooms covered almost every visible inch of the pub’s exterior. Looking between and among them, I found a painted sign for The Churchill Arms.
Mat opened the door for me. “Seems appropriate after our day, and they have the best Thai food you’ll ever taste.”
“In an English pub?”
He led us through the crowd to the back corner and an open doorway. The quintessential English pub experience with pints, flags dangling from the ceiling, and gleaming wood morphed into a Thai paradise with green plants everywhere—mounted on every wall, hanging from the ceiling, and positioned on pedestals between tables.
A waitress came over and left us two menus after taking our order for a pint of Dark Star Hophead for Mat and a pint of London Pride for me.
“I needed this.” I sank deeper into my padded plastic chair and relished a long sip as soon as she placed the beers before us. “We have no idea what happened to her any more than we did before.”
“Yes and no.” Mat leaned forward. “I thought about this the whole way here . . . SOE records state Giliana Gerson, active as of May ’41, was the first female agent sent to France, closely followed by American Virginia Hall in August. We read, in official SOE files today, that your aunt became an agent in the fall of 1940. She was the first, Caroline. That changes history . . . Between your letters and the files, we can match her person with her code name and with operations. That’s huge, any way you look at it.”
He reached across the table and tapped the back of my hand for my attention. “I seriously doubt she was a traitor. What we read indicates she was a hero. That should make you smile. Your family should be proud of that. You need to tell them.”
“I agree.” I dropped my head, absorbing all he said. I discovered I felt more disappointed than elated. “My definition of success has changed.”
“It always does. The never-ending chase.” Mat lifted his pint. “Here’s what we know. She was valuable to the SOE, and whatever happened occurred during Operation Clementine. Nothing we read today implied they purposely forgot her. Rather, I believe they lost her.”
“Paul Arnim?”
Mat lifted his hands. “I don’t have an answer for him yet. Why the romance angle? A ruse? A lie? A grain of truth? Was he an informant? A German traitor? We know he warned her at Schiaparelli’s salon. We’ll keep looking, or maybe we’ll never know. But . . . don’t forget. Everything you wanted to prove to your dad, you did.”
“What are you going to write?”
A genuine smile emerged. His eyes crinkled shut. “This. It’s big enough to warrant a series. I’d like to start with your family and the original story, hinting at the truth. That’ll give me time, with your permission, to solidify all the research. I’d also ask you speak to your dad and request the British government open an official query. Your aunt should be honored. Not forgotten.”
“I can’t.” I slumped in my seat and Mat’s expression morphed from happy crinkles to wary surprise. “It feels risky. I don’t know the ending.”
“True. To a degree. But you are the ending, Caroline. You must see that. Being here. Doing this.” Mat’s gaze flickered. He reached across the table and didn’t merely tap this time. He held my hand within his own and repositioned them halfway between us. “Even with what we know, good can come from this.”
I felt my eyes water and my focus shift inward. His assurances pulled like a lifeline, dragging me from someplace gray. Yet the moment I envisioned holding tight and claiming that bright hope, I saw my dad, heard his calm dismissal, and felt his rejection all over again.
“What if Caro did live for years in Germany for some unknown reason? She could have run away with Arnim. We can’t be sure.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“You said yourself we have no proof it’s not true.” I jerked his hand as if that would make him see and agree. “I need the end of the story. Dad warned me it would cost me everything, but maybe if I knew the end, that’d be okay.”
“You’re not going to lose everything, Caroline.”
I picked up my phone from the table, tapped it open, and handed it to him with an email displayed. “Let’s see . . . Dad said goodbye. That felt pretty final. Then this arrived a couple hours ago. Either I’m back at work by our staff meeting Friday afternoon or I’m fired.”
“Then we go home. You can’t lose your job over this.”
“I’m answering questions I’ve had my whole life. Questions I didn’t realize were always there. It’s a good job and I’m good at it, and in this economy those aren’t small things, but . . . what about Margo? What about Caro?”
What about me?
My voice cracked with need. I covered it with a sip of beer.
“Okay, then.” Mat handed my phone back. “We’ve got two days. We’ll take a morning flight Friday and still get you to work midday. Will that do?” Without waiting for an answer, as I suspected he’d already supplied his own once more, he picked up his menu. “Let’s order dinner, walk back to your mom’s, and start on the letters again.”
Twenty-Six
Revived by another pint, pad Thai, and The Churchill Arms’ congenial atmosphere, we stepped out onto Kensington Church Street. During dinner the sun had dipped and its last rays of summer glow shot across the horizon under the growing clouds to the west.
I turned to Mat as we walked down the sloping hill to Kensington High Street. “Tell me about you . . . I remember siblings and Sunday dinners, but update me.”
Mat’s sudden grin surprised me. Then I recalled more than siblings and Sunday dinners. Stories of a close-knit family and antics beyond imagining flooded in.