August 1949
The sun was shining and somewhere a bird was singing. Fluffy white clouds glided through the blue sky, slipping past the rooftops of the quaint little French town without a care in the world.
He envied them.
Colonel Robert Hogan felt a weight on his shoulders that would make Atlas shudder.
Standing on the steps of a little building, he jammed his hands into his pockets, not sure whether he should knock on the door or not. He didn't want this. He wasn't ready for this. Was he?
No.
His life was too busy. He was trying to rebuild a country. Trying to ward off yet another war- a cold war that threatened to heat up all over the world. A child was the last thing he needed.
But it wasn't just any child, was it? It was her child.
His mind travelled back to the end of the war. It had been so chaotic. And he had been too concerned with surviving, with making sure his men survived, that he hadn't even thought of the Underground or their safety. Too busy trying to evade the Gestapo who were hell bent on catching him and his men. Too busy fighting his way through a war zone, too busy trying to get home. The last months of the war were nothing more than a blur in his memory. He barely remembered how he had made it through alive.
He had stumbled upon Dubois almost by accident. The man had survived the war, beyond all odds. The life of a spy after all, was hazardously short. Unlike Hogan, Dubois was intimately connected with the Parisian Underground and shared his knowledge with Hogan.
He remembered when he heard. Remembered it like a punch in the stomach. The anger, the pain, the sadness, the loss.
The end of the war was in sight, close enough to touch, when she had died. Died, he had been told, protecting him and his operation. He hadn't known. Hadn't been told. And it occurred to him in that moment that his operation was much bigger than what happened within the tunnels under Stalag 13. There had been an army of nameless, faceless spies, agents, and soldiers protecting Papa Bear. He wondered how many others had died without his knowledge. How many unsung heroes were there?
But there was more, Dubois had told him.
A child.
She had had a child. Sometime near the end.
He remembered feeling- what had he felt? Stunned? Yes. Angry? Possibly. Hurt? Yes. Had she seen him after giving birth? While pregnant? She must have. And she hadn't told him. Maybe she didn't feel the need.
He had asked, not sure he wanted the answer, who the father was. He wasn't naïve- the life of a spy was full of many perils. One found love when one could. Happiness was fleeting and every moment could be the last. And at times, it was even necessary to sacrifice one's integrity, one's dignity to stay alive or receive information. Tiger had been cunning, brave, and dedicated- surely he had not been the only man to hold her in his arms. There had probably been plenty, good and bad, who had either loved her or used her. Or both.
Dubois had shaken his head and answered his question with one of his own. "Does it matter?" he had asked. "She only had one love."
Him. She had loved him.
The revelation shook him. Shamed him.
She had loved him. She had died for him.
Perhaps he had loved her too. He had certainly been willing to sacrifice his life, his operation, even his men for her. It was she who occupied his dreams at night while curled up in his bed at Stalag 13. But when the war was over, those dreams of her had faded, and he had to wonder if the love he had felt for her was a result of proximity, of the constant danger, of the need to feel connected and loved when nothing else was certain.
Perhaps if she had lived to the end of the war, her passion would have also faded. But there was no way to know now.
He had left the meeting with Dubois confused, unsure of what to do. She had loved him, but did that mean he was responsible for her child?
It took a long time, too long, for him to start the search. All he had was a name and a birth date. He had been told where she had left the baby, but the church was long gone- nothing more than a pile of rubble in a broken and damaged city. Perhaps the child was no longer even alive. Perhaps the war had claimed another life connected to his own without his knowledge.
He continued his search off and on throughout the years, sometimes half-heartedly, still unsure if he really wanted to find the child or not. Eventually it had led him here, and all his doubts, new and old resurfaced.
The door in front of him opened. He had sent word he would be coming. Had explained the situation. Perhaps someone had seen him walk up the steps and stop. Had watched him debate with himself and had decided to make a decision for him.
An old woman stepped out, ushering a child ahead of her.
Hogan's heart leapt into his throat. It was like looking in a mirror. Dark black hair framed a slender face, and though the child was playing shy, he saw a mischievous glint in dark eyes that reminded him very much of his own.
His decision was made. He should have made it a long time ago, and he was ashamed that he had only made it now.
Hogan wasn't sure he knew what true love was, but as he stepped forward, he knew he was going to find out.