Page 55 of The Paris Agent
“What we read about in reference texts is the equivalent of viewing the events of the past from a thousand-foot view. When you narrow your focus down to individuals you realize that what makes these lofty events world-changing is that they change a whole lot of individual lives, and through that, they change the future. Just look at your father. If this agent hadn’t saved your father’s life at Salon-La-Tour in 1945,youwouldn’t exist. Professors speak of history at university in generalist, abstract terms, but when you break it down, it really couldn’t be more personal.”
“So history has been a lifelong passion for you?” I ask him. He hesitates for just a moment.
“My degree says I studied ‘modern history,’ but my passion is narrower than that. My birth parents died in the war and I never had the chance to know them. My fascination stems from there.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve made peace with the fact that I’ll never understand who I might have been if things had worked out differently, but it took me a very long time to reach that place. I remember what it felt like to know that there were questions about my past I could never resolve. I love the idea of helping others to avoid the torment of working through that. That’s probably why I want so badly to help your father.”
The waitress places our food on the bar and Theo flashes me a smile.
“Bon appétit,” he says.
I get halfway through my bacon sandwich before I pause to ask, “Do you think I’m right? Do you think Dad might feel better if we find a way for him to honor Fleur somehow?”
“I’m not sure you should ask me for advice on this, Charlotte, given my efforts so far have only made everything worse,” Noah says wryly. “Perhaps we can make some inquiries and if we find out something of herthenwe could let your father know?”
“That’s not a bad idea. But we really are back to the drawing board.”
“Looking for a female agent might be easier than looking for a male agent,” Theo muses. “There weren’t nearly as many, for a start.”
“How many were there?”
“There were hundreds of men but maybe only a few dozen women. There were media reports about some of the women of the SOE in the first few years after the war ended. There were even some biographical films, you might recall.”
“Yes, I watched a few of those films at school,” I murmur. “That’s probably why I assumed this would be easy. It’s such a contradiction that those films were made and readily available to the public, yet decades later, there’s still such strict secrecy around other facets of the SOE.”
“It was a hugely controversial program and I can see why. When it all boils down, women with no combat experience to speak of were dropped behind enemy lines. At best, they had a few months of intensive training. Many had even less than that. They were treated very harshly if they were captured, and I suspect that many died in terrible circumstances. It makes sense to me that the families of the wives and mothers and daughters who never came home would want their heroism to be known...that some might contact newspapers or work with filmmakers whether the government wanted them to or not. If you like, I can search through the microfiche at the university library to see if I could find some of those newspaper articles. Perhaps we’ll get lucky, and this ‘Fleur’ might belong to one of those families who spoke to the press early on.”
“Genius!” I exclaim. “Thank you. And do you think perhaps we should try Professor Read again?” Theo’s face falls, and I hastily explain, “I just meant because he did manage to help us find Remy. And quickly, too.”
“Yes, he did rather,” Theo murmurs. He looks down at his plate, sighs, then looks back to me. “Charlotte, Harry is quite upset with me so I suggest you contact him yourself this time. Mrs. White will probably let you through now that she knows you, but you should leave me out of it—for your own benefit.”
“Oh, yes,” I mumble, wincing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest... I can call the office on my own.”
“Don’t apologize.” Theo smiles sadly. “I made an error of judgment, and Professor Read caught me out in it. Don’t hold that against him, please. He has every right to be angry with me.”
I want desperately to ask him for the details, but that feels like invading his privacy, and so I leave it there. But as we part that day, he reminds me that he’ll go searching for those news articles, and we agree to meet again for coffee the following afternoon.
“Tell me you have good news,” I greet Theo when I open the front door the next day. “I called the university six times today. Six! The phone is just ringing out. The same thing happened last week when I called, but at least then, Mrs. White finally answered after lunch. No such luck today.”
“Ah. Harry barely answers the phone even when Mrs. White tells him he has to and he never touches it when she’s not there. Mrs. White does work some interesting hours over the summer, so you might have to keep trying for a while,” Theo says, just as Wrigley hops down the hallway toward us. Theo’s face lights up. “Cute dog! I always wanted a golden retriever when I was a kid but my dad is allergic to dogs.” Wrigley, clearly recognizing a new ally when he sees one, makes his way toward Theo. His tail wags vigorously as Theo crouches to scratch his head. “Hello, boy. Who’s a good boy, then?”
“He is indeed a very good boy,” I confirm, watching as Wrigley looks up at me, deliriously happy to have the attention from this new friend, and without pausing to brace myself or consciously deciding to say it, I add, “He lost his leg trying to get help to my mum last year. He’s a hero.”
Theo frowns as he rises to his full height again, his gaze gentle as he looks into my eyes again.
“I’m sorry about your mum, Charlotte. I’m not sure if I’ve said that before now.”
“Thanks,” I say. I look away and blink to try to clear the tears that rise.
“That sounds like quite a story,” Theo says gently. “I’d like to hear it one day if you want to talk about it.”
“Let’s make some tea and we’ll see how we go,” I sigh, welcoming him inside. Theo follows me to the kitchen. I take two cups from the drawer and flick the kettle on.
“This house is beautiful,” he remarks.
“My parents’ dream house,” I say, but when I turn back to face Theo, all I can see are my mother’s favorite features of the house—the pine paneled cathedral ceiling, the dark exposed beams, the cork floor. Behind him, through the double glass doors that lead to the backyard, I see the garden where Mum and Dad spent so many weekends side by side.
