information about the agents and their work during the war as she could.
First, though, she toggled through her emails to see if the people that she’d found and messaged on Ancestry.com had replied. There were messages from two of the relatives of different Marcus Vonsteins. Both insisted they did not have a relative who’d been in the Nazi Party nor who had been in England during the war. The third Marcus Vonstein she had found had fought for the Allies, which only left one relative, an Alex Vonstein, who seemed to live in Paris. She re-checked her inbox. He had not messaged her back, but she wondered, as she was already here, maybe she could locate him and ask him herself.
He came up straight away when she searched for him on Google, and fortunately he had a business not far from where she was. Alex appeared to be an artist. There was a picture of him with his arms crossed, outside his shop, his name depicted on the green awnings. She looked closely at the photograph, wondering if he looked like Marcus. He had broad shoulders, blond hair and blue eyes. His smile was warm and inviting, and he had a schoolboy quality to his demeanour, as though he had just run into the frame from playing a game of rugby.
After finishing her lunch she typed in the address of the shop on her phone and set off in that direction. If he wasn’t the relative she was looking for, then at least she could cross him off her list.
Walking through the streets, it was a very pleasant day. Some late-afternoon sun came out to greet her, and though it was weak and it was still seasonally cold, it was a welcome sight. Arriving at the shop, Sophie pushed through the door, and a bell tinkled above her as she went inside. The smell of burned coffee and acrylic paint met her. Through crackling speakers, loud music was playing. It had a haphazard, frantic energy about it. This was obviously the shop of a working artist.
On the way in, she browsed his paintings, mainly modern-art pieces, depictions of Paris. Walking to the counter, she waited patiently for a while, but no one came. Sophie could hear someone whistling in the back, so she called out, ‘Excusez-moi.’ Nothing. So she shouted again. Suddenly, the whistling stopped, and the face of Alex Vonstein appeared. He was tall, maybe six foot, had grown a beard since the photo on the website, and across one of his cheeks there was a fleck of red paint.
‘Forgive me,’ he said in French. ‘I was so busy setting this canvas I didn’t hear the bell.’ He wiped his hands on his apron, which was tatty around his waist and covered in paint, she guessed, from previous projects. ‘Are you looking to buy something?’ he continued.
Sophie understood the gist of what he was saying, but his French was too fast for her, so she hoped he would understand English.
‘I’m from the UK and I was looking for you to ask you a question. Do you speak English?’
‘Of course, we are all taught to speak English as children. How do you do?’ he said jokingly, putting his hand out. ‘Very nice to meet you. Would you like a cup of tea?’
She smiled at his impishness.
‘I know this is an odd question, but I’m doing some research about the war.’
His face looked curious. ‘The war?’
‘World War Two. My name is Sophie Hamilton. I had an aunt who came to Paris during that time, and may have worked for… the Nazi Party.’
He folded his arms. Was he being defensive? She wasn’t sure, but she continued.
‘Apparently she came across here with a Marcus Vonstein and with your name…’
He sucked in a breath and his face clouded. She’d obviously hit on a nerve, because his friendly demeanour became very antagonistic.
‘I got your email. I take it you are talking of my great-uncle Marcus. He caused my family much heartache. My mother has borne the burden of what that man did for all of her life; it was hard being the relative of a Nazi.’
She nodded. ‘I understand. My family too had a difficult time, but I can’t escape the feeling that there is more to the story.’
‘What more could there be? The man was a Nazi and I’m guessing that your aunt was Vivienne. My family learned about her. The two of them were like the Bonnie and Clyde of their time. I