Odile Leroux

I had the privilege of working with Odile in Paris from 1971-1981, and would like to add that the one word which typifies her was “Mega human being.”

Yes, she was a character straight out of Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop.

But, especially as a person, she was something extraordinary.

Sometime in the late 1960s or early 1970s, Odile, who was unmarried (except to Reuters - her devotion was total), suddenly inherited four or five nieces and nephews in their pre-teens and early teens, the children of a sister who had tragically died of cancer in Chile where she had gone to live years before with a Chilean husband who was unable to cope after his wife’s death.

The “children” arrived in a new country, a world apart from theirs and have since done well, as far as I know. I believe that at least one now works in the French foreign ministry and another is also a civil servant.

But they had difficulty adapting to their new lives and Odile, by then in her mid-40s and never having had children, had her hands full raising them.

I vividly remember being in the Paris slot late one evening and receiving a call from a Gendarmerie post in an isolated area of southwest France saying they had found a 15-year-old girl sleeping in the waiting room of the local train station, and they believed she had a connection with Reuters.

A very relieved Odile, who routinely worked until very late-evenings but was not in that night, indeed confirmed by telephone to the office that it was one of her brood who had gone missing.

She cooked for them seven days a week, helped them with their homework and otherwise straightened out a  difficult start to their lives.

She was also devoted to Harold King. Harold was a legendary Paris bureau chief. He’d been Moscow bureau during World War II and had a letter to him personally signed by Joseph Stalin in a frame over his desk. General de Gaulle had once answered a question from King in a news conference with the words: “Ah, mon cher King” (Ah, my dear King). Harold had only accepted to retire from Reuters when the company appointed him “Honorary Assistant Director FOR LIFE”!

I know because that is the shingle that was on the door to the cubby hole he retained in our office on the Rue du Sentier above another shingle which read: “Chief European Correspondent - Toronto Telegram.” He was probably the only European correspondent for the paper, but he was also an extraordinarily impressive character. Why hide the truth? He had also been one of the most feared and hated people in the company - especially by some of those who had worked for him. Scuttlebutt has it that the only journalist who ever worked for him who evaded Harold’s temper was Frederick Forsyth of Jackal fame.

When Harold grew too old to string for his Canadian paper, he retired with his wife - a painter if I’m not mistaken - into a retirement home for old artists in the Paris suburbs. His wife died soon afterwards and Odile voluntarily took on the role of Harold’s stand-in daughter, defending him against other residents of the old-age home who complained about Harold’s gruff manners and huge and smelly cigars.

She would travel out there (it was way out of Paris) often and took extraordinary care of Harold until his death in 1990.

When he died Odile, who was an observant Roman Catholic, arranged for a funeral service in the superb and ancient Saint Séverin church in Paris’ Latin Quarter.

The whole office trotted down to the church for the service and I vividly remember former managing director Gerald Long and his opposite number, former AFP Managing Director Jean Marin, trying to outshout each other in the front row before the service.

When it began, the priest asked if there was anyone present from Harold’s family and everyone pushed Odile forward.

But a totally unknown man came out from the back and said he was Harold’s son! Odile was in total shock because it turned out that indeed, the man was not an imposter but that Odile had never heard of him or seen him before.

Reuters counted totally on Odile when it came to French Africa and she was once given the somewhat improbable mission of tracking down a major regional office manager who had disappeared with the company’s local funds.

The man, who we all knew and respected until then, turned up dead in front of the alter of La Madeleine church in Paris some weeks later and sure enough, there was a letter in his pocket addressed to Madame Odile Leroux.

The only problem in working with Odile was that she smoked several cigarettes at once, impossibly nauseating (for those nearby) Gitanes or Gauloises. She simultaneously had one in her mouth, one in her hand, several burning in various ashtrays around her typewriter and a couple on the side of the table. Inevitably (I was again an eyewitness) she once unintentionally set fire to her wastepaper basket!

She was an extraordinary journalist and knew “everyone who was anyone” in French-speaking Africa. Paul Taylor recalled this evening of being in the slot one evening and getting a phone call from a man saying: “This is Félix Malloum, president of Chad. Put me through to Odile Leroux.” And it was Malloum.

One day, Ivory Coast president Félix Houphouet-Boigny invited Odile to Abidjan to listen to one of his speeches. He didn’t like the story she wrote and had her put her under house arrest in her hotel. Fortunately, since he had invited her, it was the best hotel in town.

They don’t make them like her any longer. They probably didn’t before either. ■