It’s the quiet that gets to me. With little petrol, the streets are cleared of cars. With no children, the parks are emptied of laughter. They carried away all our hope with them, I think, and left behind the robbers. Crime is trebled in London at last week’s report. That makes me so sad. Shouldn’t we all be on the same side? War should rally us and draw us tight, not make us turn on each other and regard another’s loss as easy pickings.
Did you tell me Father has meetings at White Hall next week? If he does, please ask him to call on me. I would love to see him. I need to apologize for my last visit home. My behavior was inexcusable. It is past time for me to stop fighting. I need to forgive Mother and Father for not being who I needed them to be. That sounds self-absorbed and patronizing as well, but I don’t mean it that way. I simply mean they strive to be the best parents they can—I see that now—and simply because it’s not what I wanted does not mean their efforts aren’t right and true.
Does that make sense, dear Margo? I guess a more appropriate way to state it is that I need to forgive the gap between what is and what I want or need. It is wrong to believe my perception is the only reality, and a true one at that. There are absolute truths in this world, Margo, and I am slowly learning I do not determine them.
I’m sorry I sound blue. I don’t mean to burden you, and I’ll be better soon. You pick yourself up and you move on, right? You always did when we were kids. You always bounced up, brushed off your knees, and tried again. A tree. A river. A fish. A nest of squirrels. Nothing got you down. Nothing stopped you.
You still have that fight in you. You are the bravest person I know. Could you share a little with me?
I love you, Margo, with all my heart.
Caro
I turned the page. The next letter had a pink Post-it on it, marking it as one of Margaret’s “favorite four,” as I’d dubbed them.
I read her August 26, 1940, letter again, with new eyes and insights gleaned from the SOE files. It was so clear now that Martine, from the House of Schiaparelli, hadn’t written to Caro at all. Rather Caro had traveled to France to talk with her in person. Caro wrote to her twin of Schiaparelli’s political leanings, German movements in the streets, German “gluttony” alongside the “cold efficiency” of their troops—things hard to convey in a letter from France to England, as they would have been censored by those same cold and efficient soldiers—but easy to see in a visit. Caro wrote with too much texture for it not to be, as Mat called it, a “lived experience.”
She also wrote that “other work” was important and needed her now. This played in stark contrast to earlier letters in which she’d written of feeling weak, impotent, even cowardly, while at the same time yearning for action—needing to help more, do more, and be more.
As of August 26, her tone became calm, directed, and focused. She had found her place to stand and, perhaps, even that lever to wield. According to National Archive files, the August letter came right after Dalton had accepted her into the SOE.
I also noted that Caro’s closing lines to her twin signaled the beginnings of her double life, the rivalry in her heart between action, affection, and loyalty—the start of secrets.
Remember that. Remember that no matter what happens tomorrow, next week, or next year, you and I are one—and you, of course, are our better half.
Mat emerged from his bedroom as I laid the letter aside. “Finally,” I quipped, but it was only seven in the morning. His hair was tousled, his feet bare, but he was sporting a smile.
“I thought I heard you out here.” He gave a sleepy squint toward the window.
“I couldn’t leave them alone. I just revisited all the 1940 entries and letters and am moving on to ’41. You were right—they read very differently now.” I poured him a cup of coffee from the thermos I’d brought up. “If Margaret didn’t have access to the files like we did yesterday, I don’t see how she could guess beyond what she was told. To be fair, no one could read between these lines unaided.”
“I wondered about that.” Mat stepped up to the other side of the table. “But they were twins. There are nuances they’d understand that no one else ever could.”
“Maybe. But if Margaret didn’t glean them, it doesn’t leave any hope for us.”
“Wait—” He put his hand up as if tamping down my negativity. He then reached for his notebook, splayed upside down and open on the table. “I couldn’t help myself last night and worked a little . . . I made a note . . . Here, listen to this:
“‘I find solace tonight in remembering everything between us, every story we’ve shared and every tidbit of our letters. They tell our story and, feeling lost and alone, they lead me to you. Do the same when you need me. Please? Pull out our letters and find me in each shared story and in each detail. It’s all there.’”
Mat laid the notebook down, both palms pressing into its green cover. “That’s from Caro’s last letter and I believe her. It’s all here. We just need to stay the course.”
One sister’s last words led me to the other. Needing to read Margaret’s final, heartbreaking entry again, I pulled the last diary toward me . . .
20 October 1941
Caro is gone. She is gone and she’s taken a part of me with her, a part of all of us, and I don’t think we’ll survive.
An officer came tonight. I don’t remember his name, only his message. At first, Father was delighted to see him. The officer’s father was one of Father’s closest friends, forged in the Great War, and Father said there wasn’t a stronger bond than that. The young man’s face lost colour as Father walked down memory lane. That cued me that something wasn’t right. Father noticed and shifted into a discussion of the Army’s requisitioning of Parkley and our plans to move to the South Cottage next week.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be ready for you,” he boomed.
The officer cleared his throat twice before Father stopped talking. “Dr. Dalton asked me to come in person, sir. He didn’t feel a letter alone was appropriate.”
“Dalton? What letter?” Father stiffened. I could see the soldier in him.
With a grim expression, the young man handed the letter to Father.
He raised a brow as he grasped it, read it in silence, then handed it to Mother. I couldn’t help myself. I hovered over her shoulder, and for the first time ever, she didn’t stop me.
It was short—only a few lines—but certain words will remain seared within my mind. “Transport . . . identified . . . Gruppenführer . . . loss.”
“Thank you.” Father nodded to the officer, who glanced to me and left.
His face was so full of sympathy in that quick look, I wondered what he wasn’t telling us. The note didn’t say Caro is dead. It implied she has been having an affair. It implied she ran away with her German lover. It implied she is a Nazi now. But that she is alive—isn’t that good?
As soon as we heard Trent close the front door, Father walked to the sitting room door and shut it as well. We three stood alone.
Mother clutched the letter between us. “What do we do? What does this mean, John?” Her voice tipped up in a plea for reassurance.
Father had none to offer. He held out his hand for the letter and she passed it to him. He threw it into the fire.