Tribute to our Fathers: Paul Wittmann & David Shortt

His personal life was equally fulfilling.

In May 1963, he married, embarked on the adventure of parenthood, welcoming three sons in quick succession, each spaced two years apart.
Paul was a man who understood the value of time, not just in the intricate mechanics of a watch, but in its precious passage. He was a voracious reader, particularly in English, and his thirst for knowledge was insatiable. He mastered multiple languages and was a fervent enthusiast for continuous learning. Whether it was the latest management theories, the intricate world of gemology, or anything that could give Maison De Greef a competitive edge, Paul absorbed it all. He was a visionary who understood that staying ahead meant constantly evolving and expanding his understanding.
While Paul wasn’t a stereotypical sportsman, his passions were vibrant and deeply personal. Thanks to his uncle Jean Wittmann, he developed a profound love for music and art, which, in a delightful twist, extended to a fervent appreciation for old cars and motorbikes. His garage was his sanctuary, a place where he would spend countless hours meticulously restoring these vintage beauties. Imagine him, grease on his hands, a glint in his eye, bringing a classic engine back to life. The culmination of this dedication was the sheer joy of driving these restored treasures in various rallies, the wind in his hair, the roar of the engine a symphony to his ears.

My father’s career path wasn’t just a series of promotions; it was a saga of global intrigue.

He traveled extensively, always seemingly in the right place at the right time, politically speaking. It’s genuinely difficult to believe that he led a “normal” life. His story is one of constant movement, strategic positioning, and an uncanny ability to navigate complex situations. He was married, divorced, and then married my mother when I was a very young child.

Together with my mother, our very own Moneypenny, they embarked on business trips to far-flung lands that would last for months on end. These absences, while sometimes challenging for a young family, only deepened the air of mystery surrounding my father. During family dinners, he would occasionally surprise us by pulling out a piano diploma, or fluently speaking a language we never knew he knew. These moments always sparked the same question in my mind: “Who is this man I call my father? Are he and my mother secret agents?” It was a running joke, but one born from a genuine sense of awe at his multifaceted nature and the seemingly boundless depths of his experiences.

Beyond his enigmatic professional life, my father was a formidable sportsman. He excelled at grass hockey, preferred the raw power of rugby to the more sedate pace of football, and chose the agility of tennis over golf (though golf did eventually find its way into his life in retirement, once he had “retired” from the more physically demanding sports). Keeping up with him on the ski slopes was a Herculean task; he was a blur of speed and precision, effortlessly gliding down even the most challenging runs.

His true passion, however, was reading, specifically, spy books. He devoured them, yet always stayed meticulously updated on the latest world news, ensuring he was perpetually one step ahead of everyone else. It was as if he was constantly gathering intelligence, even in his leisure time.
Today, I try to visit him in France as regularly as I can, and I’m looking forward to helping him blow out the candles on his 86th birthday cake very soon. Each visit is a new opportunity to uncover another fascinating layer of this incredible man, my personal 007.