Page 69 of The Paris Agent
“Probably trying to protect him from having to relive troubling memories,” Theo suggests gently. I twist the cord of the phone around my finger as I ponder this.
“I suppose so,” I say. But why keep them for all of that time? She could have destroyed them or even thrown them away. My gut twists as I consider the possibility that my mother did not want Dad to see those letters but felt bad enough about her behavior that she couldn’t bring herself to close the door completely.
But that reminds me—those letters aren’t the only reason for this phone call.
“Oh! And I asked Dad about Chloe,” I say in a rush. “He knew her. Quite well, actually.”
“He did?” Theo gasps, but his tone is guarded as he asks slowly, “So...what could he tell you?”
“She worked on an escape line. They escaped France together in 1941 and wound up friends.”
“He knew her before the SOE...” Theo whispers, stunned.
“Her real name was Jocelyn Nina Miller. She used the name Josie. She was born in London but grew up in Paris. Dad did say she didn’t have children, but he also said she was particularly unwell around 1942 and there was a long period where they corresponded via letter so—”
“So maybe my theory about a hidden pregnancy bears out,” Theo blurts.
“What do we do now?”
“Now that we know her full name and place of birth, I can try to order a copy of her birth certificate.” I hear a rush of air as he exhales against the receiver. “Maybe I’ll even get lucky and it will list a parent or sibling we can try to find.”
C?H?A?P?T?E?R20
JOSIE
Paris, France
May, 1944
In training, they taught us that if we were tortured, the first fifteen minutes would be the worst. If we could survive that without our tongues loosening, we could survive anything.
They did give us some terrible advice in that training, but this was among the worst.
I lay on the floor of my cell at 84 Avenue Foch, dazed and confused after another day of torture and interrogation. Was this day two or three? No, it had been longer. Maybe this was day four or five.
Two of my toenails had been removed. One of my molars was cracked, and I suspect that several of my toes were broken too—one of the interrogating offices kept stomping on my feet in his jackboots. I suspected I had some broken ribs. My lungs were angry and inflamed after hours of water torture.
The worst of it was that they already knew so much about the SOE. They knew where I had trained, they knew about Maxwell and Booth and Elwood, they even knew that initial interviews were being conducted in the Northumberland Hotel. I wasn’t tortured and interrogated because I knew anything that those men did not know—after all, it was certain now that my circuit leader was workingwiththem, and likely had been for some time. This was never an exercise in information gathering, as much as they made a show of demanding I answer particular questions. I knew, from the very first blow, that this was an exercise in revenge.
The hours of misery since my arrest had collapsed into one confusing medley of memories that ran together, but one stood out from the blur: Gerard Turner, sitting opposite me as I slumped on a chair, my hands cuffed behind the backrest, bleeding and beaten down and exhausted.
“I’m trying to get you out of here,” he whispered hoarsely. “You weren’t supposed to be at her house that night. You told me you were meeting her before curfew to hand over the transmission. She was tailing me! I had no choice about her. But you?” I stared at him, seething with hatred, but I did not answer. It was a bizarre thing to see grief and shame and remorse in the eyes of the man who had, ultimately, condemned me to such suffering. His voice broke as he finished miserably, “I was trying to protect you. You werenevermeant to get caught up in this!”
“I thought you were a good man,” I blurted then, as tears of disappointment and pain filled my eyes. My lips were swollen, a heavy lisp in the sounds because of my injured teeth.
“I made one bad decision in 1941. My father’s business was going under.”
“You took money from them,” I croaked, stunned.
“I was desperate, and at first, they only asked me to pass them low-level intelligence—details that didn’t even seem important. But as soon as I took that money I was trapped, and they’ve demanded more and more from me over the years...” His eyes swam as he stared at the table. “Every time I think I’ve found a way out, there’s something more, but it’s not my fault. I had no idea what I was signing up for. You have to believe me, Josie.”
“Mr. Turn—” I broke off, then squeezed my swollen eyes closed, the disappointment almost overwhelming me. But then I felt a sudden surge of fury and I opened my eyes and I stared at him as I said fiercely, “Gerard. There is no circumstance on earth that could justify the things you’ve done. If you have a shred of moral courage, you’ll contact London. Turn yourself in.”
“It’s too late for that,” he said dully, but then the door opened, and an SS officer was there—Schulte, the one who liked to stomp on my toes. I cowered in spite of myself, but Schulte only told Turner that his time was up and he had to leave.
“I’ll try to come back,” Turner said. I wanted to tell him not to bother, but my entire body had frozen at the sight of Schulte, my throat so tight I could not force the words out.
I didn’t see Turner again after that, but I saw plenty of Schulte and his kind.
