by Pam Jenoff
Grace flipped through the pages. “There’s to be a parliamentary hearing on what happened to the girls. And look...” She pointed to one of Eleanor’s notations: “Need Marie to substantiate the Director’s role.”
“So she wasn’t coming to tell me what happened. She needed my help to prove that she had nothing to do with the radio game.”
“Do you believe her?”
Marie brushed the hair from her eyes. “Absolutely. The Director’s story never made sense. Julian told me before he died that Eleanor was worried about the radios and they wouldn’t let her cease transmissions. Whoever did this, it wasn’t her.” Marie’s face fell. “Eleanor needed me and I failed her. And now it’s too late.”
“Maybe not,” Grace said suddenly, an idea forming. In the end, Eleanor had died fighting for her girls, just as she had in life.
“But of course it is. Eleanor’s dead.”
“Yes. But what did she want more than anything?”
“To learn the truth.”
“No, to make sure the world knew. She died too soon to tell them. But we can do it for her.” Grace stood, holding her hand out to Marie. “Come with me.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Grace
New York, 1946
One month later, Grace walked out of Bleeker & Sons at the end of the day and took the subway north to Forty-Second and Lexington. She reached the street and found Mark, waiting for her at the corner. “You do have a way of turning up,” she teased. It was a joke, of course; this time she was expecting him. After abandoning him at Frankie’s office to find Marie and then figuring out how to help her, Grace had returned to work to find him gone. He was needed back in DC on business, he’d told Frankie. She phoned him to apologize. She didn’t want him to think the kiss they had shared had put her off (very much to the contrary). He had been understanding, and though he was expected back in DC that night for work, he promised to let her know the next time he was in New York.
Mark was as good as his word: he’d phoned the previous night to say he would be in town for work and could she meet him for a drink? Grace had said yes straightaway, had taken care through the seemingly forever day at work not to mess her curls or smudge her makeup. She was genuinely excited to see him. She could get used to these fun meet-ups every few weeks, without obligation or surprise.
“So the British government itself betrayed the girls?” Mark asked.
Grace nodded. “They wanted the Germans to think that everything was fine and that the circuit was still active. So they kept broadcasting, as if everything was normal. They kept broadcasting and deploying agents and weapons. They wanted the radios in place so they could plant false information about the time and date of the invasion.”
“But that would mean that they sent the agents into a trap.”
“Yes.” Even confronted with absolute proof, it was still impossible to believe. Grace shuddered. The girls had been arrested and SOE had let them disappear, just as surely as the Nacht und Nebel program had intended. “That governments could do such things to their own people...” But of course that was the lesson of the war. People had scarcely believed the things the Germans had done to their own people. In the other countries, too, Austria and Hungary and such, people had turned on their Jewish neighbors who had lived beside them for centuries.
“Who’s to say that it stopped with the British?” Mark said. “The Americans had great stakes in misleading the Germans right before D-Day, too. They might have been in on the radio game as well somehow. We’ll probably never know.”
Or would they? Grace mused. If Raquel could get them back into the archive at the Pentagon... She pushed the thought from her mind. “Why didn’t the truth come out after the war?”
“No one wanted to think about the past. It all changed, you see, the players and the sides. The Russians were suddenly the Soviets. German scientists, who had helped kill people by the millions, were being brought to the US instead of prosecuted in order to work on the atomic bomb. The British government was happy to leave the whole thing buried.”
“Except Eleanor. She wouldn’t leave it alone. They had kept up the radio game intentionally, undermining everything she had built—Eleanor wanted the world to know.”
“What happened after you saw Marie?”
“When we realized the truth about what had happened and Eleanor’s innocence in the matter, I knew we needed to finish the job she’d set out to do—getting the real story into the proper hands. I helped Marie prepare a testimonial about what had happened during the war. Frankie used a contact of his to reach out to the British ambassador in Washington and get Marie’s statement to Parliament.” Grace had wondered if Marie would need to return to London to testify. She didn’t know if the poor woman would have what it took to return to the country she’d left behind. Fortunately, they’d received word that the statement would suffice. They had not known if it would do any good.
But just a few days earlier, Frankie received word. “The girls’ dispositions have been changed, too. From ‘missing, presumed dead’ to ‘killed in action.’” Three words that could mean so much. “Josie is going to be nominated for the George Cross.”
“And Eleanor?” he asked. Grace shook her head. She would remain a footnote in history, unknown but to a few. But of course that was what she had always wanted.
So much of the truth had died with Eleanor and would never be known. Of course, there was much they would never know. Who knew among the British? Was it MI6 that had made the calculated decision to sacrifice the agents or had SOE betrayed its very own?
But it was a reckoning, a start.
“Two champagnes, please,” Mark said to the waiter when they were seated in Stiles’ Tavern, a simple, unpretentious spot not far from Grand Central. “We have to celebrate.”
“Are you back in New York for a case?” she asked after their drinks had come. She lifted her glass.
“Not exactly. I’ve been offered a position with the War Crimes Tribunal. Not Nuremberg, but one of the satellites.”
“Oh, Mark, that’s wonderful!”
“I should thank you. Working with you on finding out the truth about Eleanor and the girls made me realize how much I missed that sort of work. I decided to try again.”
Grace raised her glass. “To your new position,” she offered.
“To second chances,” he said, a deeper note to his words. They clinked glasses. “I wanted to see you.”
To see her, Grace realized, before he left. Her hand hovered in midair. He was going back to Europe for good. She took a sip, the bubbles tickling her nose. She had no right to mind. They’d shared a few fleeting moments together and she couldn’t expect more. Still, she had gotten used to the idea of him, and the thought of him leaving made her sadder than she expected.
“I was wondering...” He faltered. “I was wondering if you would like to come with me.”
“I’m sorry?” She thought she had heard him wrong. To go to Washington was one thing, but to upend her life and move to Europe...with him.
“I could arrange a position with the tribunal for you. With your investigative skills, you’d be a real asset.” She considered it for a moment.
“You could even follow up more on SOE and the other girls.” He held the chance to continue Eleanor’s journey out in front of her like a promise. Part of her wanted to take it, to follow him to Europe, to pursue the work she had started. But it would still just be running.
“Gracie, there’s something special between you and me.” Her breath caught. He was acknowledging aloud what they both felt, but had not dared to admit to one another until now. “I’ve felt it since the moment I ran into you a few weeks ago. Don’t you?”
“Yes.” She felt it, too, and couldn’t have denied it, even if she wanted to.
“Life is too short to let something like this pass us b
y,” he pressed. “Why not take a chance on that?”
He was offering her not just a job, but a life together. The idea of picking up and moving to Europe with Mark was outlandish, even crazy. Yet a not-small part of her wanted to say yes. She had finished with the story of Eleanor and the girls. There was really nothing holding her back.
Except that it was time to write her own story now. “Mark, I’m honored, and there’s nothing I want to do more.” His face rose with hope and she cringed, bracing herself for what she had to say next. “But there are things I have to take care of here.” The office was teeming with more clients every day. And Frankie, caught up in getting Sammy adjusted to school, needed her more than ever. “I’m not saying no, just not right now. Maybe in a few months when things are more settled.”
But the future, they both knew, was promised to no one. He pushed back from the table, accepting.
“One last thing,” she said, when they walked outside of the bar. “I’d like to pay for Eleanor’s funeral. That is, if it’s still possible.” She deserved a real gravesite with her name for someone to remember—the girls had been denied that. Grace took the check from Tom’s attorney out of her purse and signed it over to him.
He looked at it and whistled low. “That would be one hell of a funeral.”
“If you could send the rest to Marie to use to care for her daughter, I’d be grateful.” Though Marie had been grateful for all Grace had done to help set the record straight for Eleanor and the girls, there had been a part of her, Grace could see, that wanted to be free of the past. Grace had decided not to bother her further and let her get on with her life.
“I’ll see that it’s done.”
“Goodbye, Grace,” he said, his hazel eyes holding hers. He kissed her once, sweetly, and just long enough.
She fought the urge to lean in once more, knowing if she didn’t leave him now, she might never go. “Good luck, Mark.”
She crossed the avenue toward Grand Central, unencumbered and unafraid, and started through the doors of the station, headed for the life that awaited her.
* * *
Author’s Note
A few years ago, I was researching topics for my next book when I discovered the amazing true story of Vera Atkins and the women who had served as agents for Special Operations Executive (SOE) under her leadership in Britain during World War II. I was immediately captivated by the heroic endeavors of these brave women, who went unheralded for many years after the war. I was struck, too, by the fact that many of the women never came home.
As an author of historical fiction, I must constantly navigate the delicate balance between the needs of the story and the obligation of historical integrity. While some of the characters and events in The Lost Girls of Paris are based on fact, the novel is first and foremost a work of fiction. There was no way I could adequately capture the heroics of the many women who served at SOE, and so I have created composites in Marie and the other female agents in the book inspired by them. Eleanor Trigg, Colonel Winslow and all other characters in my book are fictitious. I have taken great liberties with the ways the women trained and deployed. The places in which they operate and the missions they undertake were created for purposes of the story. And without saying too much and spoiling it for those who read the Author’s Note first, the ultimate explanation as to what happened to the girls, while inspired by the many articulated theories, is also a product of fiction.
For those who are interested in reading more about the real women of SOE, I recommend A Life in Secrets: Vera Atkins and the Missing Agents of World War Two by Sarah Helm and Spymistress: The True Story of the Greatest Female Secret Agent of World War Two by William Stevenson.
Acknowledgments
In creating The Lost Girls of Paris, I needed to research and write the individual stories of three women across three different time frames and five countries. This was both the most rewarding and most difficult endeavor I have ever undertaken as a writer and it would not have been possible without my editor, Erika Imranyi. Working with Erika is a novel-writing master class every single day (usually by email at 5:00 a.m.) and I count her time, talent and patience among the great blessings of my life. Erika is the captain of my dream team at Park Row/Harlequin/HarperCollins, which after a decade just keeps getting better. I am especially indebted to my publicist, Emer Flounders, for his tireless work. Deepest thanks also to Craig, Loriana, Brent, Margaret, Dianne, Susan, Shara, Amy, Heather, Randy, Mary, Merjane and Natalie.
I am forever grateful to the true powerhouse of my publishing world, my agent, Susan Ginsburg. Susan, her assistant, Stacey, and their team at Writers House bring energy, foresight and zealous advocacy to my writing career every single day. Susan’s vision and faith have made my deepest dreams come true, and I don’t know where I would be without her.
Writing a book can be a lonely endeavor. I feel so fortunate to be part of a community that values and sustains books. This includes my local booksellers, Julie at Inkwood Books in Haddonfield, New Jersey, and Rita at BookTowne in Manasquan, New Jersey (representative of the many wonderful independent bookstores across the country), and the many librarians at the Cherry Hill and Camden County libraries. And the book world has been buoyed as never before by the internet and social media. I am profoundly grateful for my author pals, reader friends and generous book bloggers and reading websites. I fear if I start mentioning them by name, I will leave someone out. Special love to my sounding board, Andrea Katz at Great Thoughts.
I am also deeply appreciative for the entire community in which I live. After spending a decade all over the world, I feel so blessed to live a mile from where I grew up and to see people I’ve known my whole life on a daily basis. I am particularly thankful for my colleagues at Rutgers School of Law for their constant support, to the teachers, administrators and families at our elementary school, and to the folks at the JCC who come up and ask about my new book while I am half-naked in the locker room.
I have in the past said that it takes a village to write a book. With the passage of time, I have decided that it is more like an army. I am so thankful for my husband, Phillip, who shares the front lines with me; for my mom, Marsha, and brother, Jay, who are our active duty, and make our lives better every day; for my in-laws, Ann and Wayne, who are the precious ready reserve; and to my forever friends in the trenches, Steph and Joanne (thank goodness my memory is longer than yours!).
And finally to the three little muses who share me so begrudgingly with the writing world, perhaps not always understanding why they have to, but trusting me that it is for the best. Without them, none of this would be possible, or worthwhile.
Questions for Discussion
The title The Lost Girls of Paris refers to twelve female intelligence agents who disappeared while on their missions overseas. But the title has greater significance as well. In what ways are the three lead characters—Grace, Marie and Eleanor—lost, and how are they ultimately found?
The women in the novel defied common conventions about gender during the 1940s. How do you think the characters’ experiences might have been different if they lived in today’s world? In what ways might their experiences be similar?
Grace, Marie and Eleanor have very different backgrounds and come from very different worlds. But what are some commonalities between them and their stories? Which of the three women did you relate to most closely, and why?
Bravery and sacrifice are important themes throughout the book. In what ways did you see these themes playing out in each of the story lines?
Why do you think the mystery of the suitcase and its contents resonated so powerfully with Grace? If you found a mysterious suitcase abandoned in a train station, like Grace does, what would you do?
War makes ordinary people do extraordinary things—whether it’s going to great lengths to survive, or sacrificing one’s own life to save others. What impacts do
es the war have on the characters in the book? How might the characters’ lives have unfolded differently had the war not happened?
Each of the women in the book are put in a position of having to make a choice. Were there things you wished the women had done differently throughout the book, or did you agree with their decisions?
Read on for a spellbinding excerpt from Pam Jenoff’s
runaway New York Times bestseller,
The Orphan’s Tale, available now.
The Orphan’s Tale
by Pam Jenoff
1
Noa
Germany, 1944
The sound comes low like the buzzing of the bees that once chased Papa across the farm and caused him to spend a week swathed in bandages.
I set down the brush I’d been using to scrub the floor, once-elegant marble now cracked beneath boot heels and set with fine lines of mud and ash that will never lift. Listening for the direction of the sound, I cross the station beneath the sign announcing in bold black: Bahnhof Bensheim. A big name for nothing more than a waiting room with two toilets, a ticket window and a wurst stand that operates when there is meat to be had and the weather is not awful. I bend to pick up a coin at the base of one of the benches, pocket it. It amazes me the things that people forget or leave behind.
Outside, my breath rises in puffs in the February night air. The sky is a collage of ivory and gray, more snow threatening. The station sits low in a valley, surrounded by lush hills of pine trees on three sides, their pointed green tips poking out above snow-covered branches. The air has a slightly burnt smell. Before the war, Bensheim had been just another tiny stop that most travelers passed through without noticing. But the Germans make use of everything it seems, and the location is good for parking trains and switching out engines during the night.