“There are men missing, too,” he pointed out.
“Yes, of course.” Eleanor swatted at the argument she had heard a dozen times. “But the men have commissions. And they are to be treated as POWs if captured.” It was not that she didn’t care about the men. But they had army titles, ranks—and the protections of the Geneva Convention. The government would look for them. Remember them. Not her girls.
“I have to go see for myself what went wrong on the ground.”
“You mean to find the girls? I’m afraid that is quite impossible.”
“But, sir, a dozen are still missing,” she protested. “We can’t simply give up.”
He lowered his voice. “Eleanor, you must stop asking about the girls. There will be repercussions for yourself and for others. You have much to lose right now. And if not for yourself, you have to let it go for the families of the girls. You know as well as I do that if the Germans have caught them, they are likely gone. Your questions will only bring their families more pain.”
The Director picked up his pipe. “The investigation is classified, and being handled at the highest levels.” That, Eleanor knew, was a lie. If anyone at all was looking for the girls, they would have come and spoken to her. No, the matter had been shelved at the highest levels. “There is simply no need for you to know,” he added, before she could call him on it.
“No need?” Her voice was incredulous. They were her girls. She had recruited them, sent them over. “So you’re ordering me to stop looking for them?” she asked with disbelief.
“It’s more than that. The women’s unit has ended. Your position has been eliminated.”
“I’m being transferred then? Where am I to go?”
He looked away, not meeting her eyes. “I’m afraid we’ve been ordered to downsize.” He spoke stiffly now, as if reading words from a document he had not himself written. “We are grateful for your service, but I regret to inform you that your tenure at SOE has ended.”
She stared at him blankly. “Surely this is a mistake.” She had been with SOE for months—no, years—before the women’s unit was founded. They could not be getting rid of her now.
“We have no choice. You’ve been given thirty minutes to gather your personal belongings.” She searched for words, found none. Her insides burned white-hot with anger. She stood and fled his office, starting back down the stairs to Norgeby House.
Eleanor went to her desk and started stacking files, pulling the photos of the girls who were missing and slipping them into her bag. She knew she did not have much time. A moment later, the Director appeared in the doorway. “I’ll see you out,” he said. She reached for another file, but he stilled her hand. “Leave everything as it is.” She understood then why he had followed her. “You’re to take your personal belongings only. No papers,” he added, seeming to know before she did herself that she would not stop looking for the girls. A plan began to form in her mind.
“I can manage myself. You don’t have to stay,” she offered, hoping to buy a few minutes alone here to gather what she needed.
“We have orders to see you out,” he said, awkwardness creeping into his voice. She stopped with surprise, her hand hovering midair. In just moments, her whole world had been turned upside down. She searched his face, looking for answers, or at least some sign of the mentor she thought she knew. But his eyes were blank.
She turned away blindly. “I have to organize the files.” The thought of turning over her papers in less than perfect order was unthinkable.
“It isn’t necessary,” he added. “The military will be coming and packing everything up.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Where are they taking it?”
He did not answer. She noticed then a military police officer standing at the door of her office, waiting to escort her out and make sure she left. Something inside her hardened. She was being cast out like a foreign invader from the very place she had created.
She stepped away from the desk, trembling with rage. The Director held out papers to her. “This is for you. They came through yesterday.” Her citizenship papers—the one thing she had always wanted. They seemed now a sorry consolation prize for the girls she had lost. She pushed them back at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
And then she was dismissed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Grace
New York, 1946
The next afternoon, Grace climbed the steps of the rooming house in Hell’s Kitchen. She was exhausted, as much from everything that had happened in Washington as the trip itself, and she was glad to be back home. She was also eager to see Frankie and get back to the ordinary business of her life. It was late Friday, though, and she had already booked the day off. And it wasn’t entirely a bad thing that she had the weekend to rest and sort herself out before returning to work.
Grace reached the top floor of the rooming house and turned her key in the lock to her apartment. She opened the door, then froze.
Sitting in the lone chair, clutching her black patent leather purse, was Grace’s mother.
Her mind whirled. How had her mother found out where she lived? And how long had she been here? Grace’s eyes darted from the unslept-in bed to her wrinkled clothes from the night prior. She searched for an explanation that would make the sight less awkward, but found none.
“The landlady let me in,” her mother said in her birdlike voice, as though that explained everything. Her hair was swept back beneath a salmon velvet cloche hat that matched her Elever swing coat perfectly. Grace could imagine it, the charming smile, little tinkle of a laugh as she talked her way into the apartment.
“Darling, I know it’s awful just to pop in like this,” her mother continued, smoothing the gloves she’d laid neatly on top of her purse. “But you didn’t answer my calls. I was so worried.” Really, that was only part of the story. Grace’s mother wanted to see what she was doing here, what her life was all about.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I went in to Hartford to do some shopping and I ran into Marcia in the dressing room at G. Fox.” Grace flushed at the mention of Marcia’s name—her alibi. She imagined the scene in the department store. Marcia would have been nervous, caught off guard by the unexpected encounter. It wouldn’t have taken much pressing for Grace’s mother to get the address, which Grace had given Marcia so she could forward mail.
“I’m sorry for not telling you myself,” Grace said, perching on the edge of the bed.
“It’s all right,” her mother replied, putting her hand on Grace’s. “We were just so worried.” It hadn’t been just about the appearance of things for her mother—she had genuinely cared. Somehow lost in the haze of her own problems, Grace had lost sight of that.