Something is going terribly wrong here. I can feel it and, for the first time, I am frightened.
A couple weeks ago that German industrialist, Paul Arnim, came into the salon. Remember I’ve told you about him and his lovely wife? They remind me of us . . . Anyway, he pulled me aside and said I needed to get out of France, and to take Martine. He didn’t say more, but he scared me. He has the palest blue eyes that looked like the sky when he was with his wife and like ice as he warned me.
I’m sorry I didn’t telephone or write to you immediately—I thought I was overreacting, that my panic wasn’t rational. I felt dizzy and shaky and didn’t want you to see the worst of me . . . my cowardice. But it wasn’t irrational. To not see it for what it was—that was the cowardice. I am so sorry.
I should have known when Schiap left Paris at the beginning of the month. We thought it was another of her “inspirational jaunts,” but she’s running the business from Lyon. She says she is on vacation, but instructions, telephone calls, and couriers arrive by the hour. She is not on vacation. Bettina is tense as well. She seems antagonistic now, like sides have been chosen and she stands with her husband, a man with definite German affinities, and no longer with us.
I suspect that is closer to the truth than anything we’ve been told. Sides have been chosen and no one will escape unscathed. This Phoney War has soured to something new. The fear and tension are palpable. They thicken the air. They cling to us. The propaganda says the Germans are trying to peacefully work toward solutions and the British, supposedly on our side, are harming us out of spite. But I know that to be false—I’ve sat through countless dinners with your father and mine.
Only now do I trust my instincts. They tell me to be afraid and they tell me I am too late.
I’ll write to Father next to ask if I should go see Ambassador Campbell. I don’t want to ask favors I have no business asking, but I’m not sure where else to turn.
If I’ve been a fool, I’m so sorry, George. I thought I was being modern and mature. I conclude I’ve only been young and spoiled.
I love you—remember that. I hope to be able to tell you this in person and hold you close soon, but—
No, I will not think like that. I will reach you.
All my love,
Caro
London House
22 November 1940
George—
Please come see me tonight. I told you things were tense and busy and upsetting. But it’s war. It’s supposed to be all that and more, right? I shouldn’t have been so rude last month when you visited.
I got scared, George. I hope you can understand that. I let my dark imaginings get the best of me and I regretted my behavior as soon as you left for base again. We don’t get enough time together and I wasted an entire evening with you.
Thank you for coming on my birthday. I am also sorry I didn’t hear you knock at the door. I wasn’t avoiding you and I didn’t lie. I had planned to go home, but I got terribly sick. Other than a stuffy nose and a headache, I am well now—and desperate to see you.
Come to me tonight, George. Forgive me.
Caro
London House
15 October 1941
Dearest George,
You’re on duty tonight. You’re somewhere above me and I can’t reach you. I pray you are safe. I trust you are because I think I would feel if you were not—it would wrench something deep within me. I’m not sure I’d survive.
I always told you that you could trust me—and I betrayed that trust. When I told you in August we should stop seeing each other, I wasn’t honest about my reasons. I got scared. I got scared about your work, my work, and all the secrets between us. You said you thought I was cheating on you and, perhaps I am, but not in the way you think. I want to explain. You deserve my honesty. I want to share with you what I can. Although I can’t share everything, at least not yet, I hope it’s enough for you to love me again.
I told you I was typing, driving, and working fabrics these past months. I never told you I knew or did anything that might put me in harm’s way. That was my lie. My only lie. Given to serve my country—just as there are confidential things you’ve done and secrets you’ve kept in serving as well. War has required it.
I leave tomorrow on a research trip. My commanding officer says communications are spotty at best and not to assume I’ll be able to maintain contact while I’m gone. I’ve had such trips before and they’ve been fine, but this one fills me with trepidation. I don’t want to be outside your reach. I don’t want you to be outside mine.
Marry me, George.
I know after all I have put you through, this feels out of the blue. But it’s not—we’ve been heading this direction since I was sixteen and you invited me for our first stroll through Mayfair. Goodness knows, you’ve asked me before—now I’m asking you. Put aside all your doubts, fears, hesitations, and jump with me. This war is stealing our time and our love. And, if we don’t prevail, I want to leave this world as your wife with no regrets. Right now I carry so many—I regret every missed kiss and every night you aren’t lying next to me.
If for some reason my return is delayed, try not to worry, my love. You do that so well, but I can’t have any of your mind on me during your missions. Trust I will be well and I will race home to you as soon as I am able.
If you hear anything that— Never mind. You and Margaret know me. With the two of you in my corner, I will always succeed.
God bless you, my beloved.
Caro
Thirty-Three
I felt myself melt into the seat with my exhale, unaware I’d been holding my breath while reading. It was so tender.
She loved George—always had, always would. It broke my heart again that Caro never married her George as much as it broke my heart that he waited nine years for her and kept the letters his whole life. He must have felt so lost and confused. From what Caro wrote, she knew he’d doubt her—he’d been taught that, modeled that, his whole life—but her letter had to have inspired hope. It was that powerful.
So powerful it haunted my grandmother as well. How could such tender sentiments, written by a sister she loved to the man she married and once adored, not always bring fresh pain?
I looked out the window and found myself, in the blackness of the Chunnel, staring at my own reflection.
How alike we were through the generations, I mused. How resistant to trusting, feeling, relaxing, being . . . loving.
I shifted my focus to watch Mat through the window’s reflection. He was bent over the table again, paging through his notebook, that same lock of hair having fallen over his eyes, shielding them from view. So intent. In many ways, so caring.
“Have you ever been in love?” I blurted out. “I mean, have you ever had a serious girlfriend?” My rudeness, and my assumptions, surprised me. “Or . . . I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer . . . Do you have one right now?”