The Invisible Woman

by Erika Robuck

  The group starts to talk to one another, negotiating, seeking advice, deciding on their futures. In a short time, they’ve sorted themselves out. Bob is the first to look at her.

  “What will happen to Diane?” he says.

  She has been thinking about this the whole time.

  “I’m going to Paris,” she says. “I have friends there, and I’ll be able to wire HQ to update them on what we’ve seen and find out where my next mission is.”

  And search for Alesch, she thinks.

  It has just dawned on the boys that this is the end of the line with her, and some of them look like they’re going to cry. Not wanting to waste any more time and desperate to keep herself together, she pulls swarms of them into hugs, and kisses each of their heads, wishing each young man good luck in his future endeavors.

  “We’ll reunite when the war is over,” says Serge. “Under the moon in Chambon. We’ll toast the swift, wondrous career of the illustrious le Corps Franc Diane.”

  This brings smiles to all of their faces.

  The boys begin to fall away, leaving Edmund, Dédé, and Bob.

  “Are you sure you want to join the big boys?” she asks.

  “We couldn’t be better prepared for it,” says Bob.

  Edmund steps forward to receive her first hug.

  “Thank you,” Virginia says, “For sharing your village and your family with me. And for making that brilliant generator.”

  She kisses him on both red cheeks and dismisses him to face Dédé. His eyelashes are wet, and he can’t meet her eyes.

  “My man Friday,” she says. “You never called me la Madone, but you always made me feel as powerful as Our Lady of Le Puy. You took my abuse and my incessant demands, and always exceeded what I asked of you. I will miss you forever, and I pray we meet again after the war.”

  She kisses both of his wet cheeks and dismisses him. She’s unable to hold herself together before Bob. He wraps her in a bear hug and rocks her back and forth while they both cry, pulling apart to wipe each other’s faces and laugh and wish each other well.

  “I’m not going to say good-bye,” she says. “You, I know I’ll see again.”

  With that, they’re gone.

  As she watches her men go, she feels a tap on her shoulder.

  Paul.

  “Aren’t you going to be late?” she asks. “Raphael is already preparing to move on.”

  “Late for what? Paris?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Paris. Isn’t that where you said you’re going? I was dropped to serve you. As the sole remaining member of le Corps Franc Diane, I intend to see my mission through.”

  * * *

  —

  They buy the truck with the small spare off the boys headed for home, and drive back to the château, where they’ll stay the night before heading to Paris.

  In the afternoon sun, they find a grand bedroom, and beat the mattress free of dust, and cover it with parachute sheets. They build a fire in the fireplace, and Paul cooks them a dinner of roasted pigeon, paired with more bottles of wine from the cellar, and they talk about their childhoods and their jobs and all their old loves and heartaches. They discuss how they can’t wait to see the tricolor again flying over Paris, their most beloved city. To sip real coffee in a café. To hear the bells of Notre-Dame. To watch the sunrise over the Seine.

  When they finish dinner, they heat and haul buckets of water to the enormous bathtub that overlooks the miles of rolling green hills and valleys, and in the setting sun, they pause to look at each other.

  “You can go first,” Paul says.

  As he turns to leave, she reaches for his arm. He stands before her, face dark with longing.

  She reaches down and slowly unrolls his sleeves, brushing his forearms with her fingers along the way. Then she lifts her hands to his neck and unbuttons his shirt. Once it’s open, she slides her fingertips along his collarbones and down his arms, so the shirt drops to the floor.

  She holds out her arms, and he slowly unbuttons and sheds her shirt, running his rough hands along her hips, and kissing her along the shoulders. His breath coming fast, he stares at her a moment before burying his head in her neck.

  The time he’s taking is excruciating.

  She slides her fingers down his back and around to his stomach, but when they reach his pants, he grabs her hands and pulls back.

  “I don’t even know your name,” he says.

  She pulls him to her, pressing herself into his chest, reaching up to feel the softness of his buzzed hair, and running her lips along his earlobe. She gives him a little nibble before whispering to him.

  “My name is Virginia Hall.”

  His tongue in her mouth is a shock. It’s like oxygen.

  They forget the bath, moving toward the bed, where they fall into each other. He forces her to slow down, kissing along her neck, whispering her name all the way.

  “Virginia,” he says into her hair, her shoulders, her lips, her stomach.

  He removes her bra, but when he moves to unbutton her pants, she stiffens.

  “What is it?” he says.

  “I . . .”

  “I’ve seen you. All of you,” he says. “And you are perfect.”

  She’s still, weighing his words, letting them burrow into her until she believes him. When she does, she allows him to remove her pants. She shows him how to remove the garter holding her sock. She teaches him how to detach her prosthetic, and he sets it on the floor next to the bed as casually as if it were a boot. He finishes undressing and slides onto his back, pulling her on top of him.

  And all through the long night he never stops whispering, “Virginia.”

  Chapter 45

  28 September 1944

  London

  The latticed café windows filter the London light at an enchanting slant. Dust motes play in the air. Virginia spots Vera in her corner booth, smoking, moving her gaze between the newspaper in front of her and the café. Her eyes light up when she sees Virginia.

  “Still smoking,” Virginia says, sliding in the booth.

  Vera shrugs and holds out a pink container of Passing Clouds cigarettes.

  “No, thanks,” says Virginia. “You know I don’t like to be dependent upon anything.”

  A flash of a smile flickers across Vera’s face before she stubs out her cigarette in the near-overflowing ashtray. She turns her attention to her handbag, where she searches for her folding knife. Vera opens it and runs the blade along the pencil tip, slicing away wood and making a sharp point, curled shavings littering the tablecloth. A waiter joins them.

  “The usual?” he says.

  “Thank you,” they each say.

  Vera starts the crossword puzzle while she fires her questions.

  “How is Cuthbert?”

  “Stubbornly operative.”

  “Tell me about war. What surprised you?”

  “Human capacity for evil.”

  “What about yourself?”

  “Endurance.”

  As Vera completes the puzzle, the waiter arrives, placing two steaming, gravy-soaked plates of roast and potatoes before them. The women don’t waste time chatting, making quick work of devouring their feast. When they finish, Virginia asks the questions.

  “New destination?”

  Vera scans the room. She leans closer to Virginia.

  “Austria.”

  “Can Hemon join me?”

  “Though I strongly oppose wartime attachments, yes. He’ll slip right into your cover.”

  “Are you going to finally tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Why it was so important you send me to Chambon?”

  “You know exactly why Chambon was important.”

  “Yes, but not why it was so important to you.”


  Vera stares at Virginia a long moment before speaking.

  “In spite of your success, the war continues,” says Vera.

  “I’m aware of that,” says Virginia.

  “And though I’m sure you’ve divulged more than you should have to certain agents in the field, in no way do I wish to compromise my safety or that of others by giving you more information than you require.”

  “Understood.”

  The waiter returns and whispers in Vera’s ear. She reaches in her handbag, places the ration cards on the table—which he whisks away—and erases random letters on the crossword. When she finishes, she drops the pencil back in her handbag.

  “Forgive me,” Vera says. “I must go. Wild Bill and I will see you and Hemon for the full briefing tomorrow at eight o’clock.”

  Vera nods and leaves her. Virginia watches her go, noting the pointed glance she gives the waiter. Virginia waits until Vera leaves before sliding the crossword so she can read the missing letters.

  O. L. D.

  Old what?

  T. E. S. T. A. M. E. N. T.

  Her heartbeat quickens. She grabs the crossword, shoves it into her pocketbook, and hurries out into the street to look for Vera. In the distance, she sees Vera’s blue hat and glossy black hair. She rushes to catch her. When she finally does, she grabs Vera’s arm and stops her.

  “Please,” says Vera. “We shouldn’t be seen carrying on in public.”

  “Of course, I only—”

  “You only what?”

  “The missing letters. You.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now I know.”

  “Now you know. Does it change anything?”

  “Yes,” says Virginia. “You see, I had a thing I hid because I thought it would make others pity me. And I know it’s very different from your secret but, as it turns out, sometimes the things we hide make others admire us all the more for what we do. As I now admire you all the more for what you do.”

  Vera’s eyes glass over. She looks to the sky and blinks twice, dismissing the tears as she does her agents from her office.

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow?” Vera says.

  “Yes.”

  “We have a lot to accomplish in a small time.”

  “I know.”

  “And I probably don’t have to remind you, but, for a wireless operator, at this stage of the war . . .”

  Far away the bells of Saint Paul’s ring and Big Ben chimes the hour and traffic honks around them.

  And Paul waits back at her flat for her. And when the war is over, they’ll sail across the ocean together so she can see her family.

  “Are you listening to me?” asks Vera.

  “Yes, I know,” says Virginia. “I’ll have six weeks to live.”

  Epilogue

  May 1948

  Paris

  As the sun rises over Paris, the full moon lingers low on the horizon, dark and light sharing the same sky.

  The morning train from Lyon arrives, and the sleepy crowd makes its way onto the platform. Wafts of freshly brewed coffee and warm croissants drift from cafés, the aromas perking up the travelers.

  A woman disembarks. She has the day to herself before her rendezvous that evening, so she takes a long walk, passing under the French flags that line the streets and pausing to smell the tiny bunches of lily of the valley from a vendor’s cart. Not far from the École libre des sciences politiques, she stops to look up at a balcony, spilling over with flowers. She bows to the building, and to another across the street, before continuing on to the Cour de justice.

  When she arrives at the imposing, columned structure, a mass of people climb the stairs. She drapes a shawl over her head and folds in with them. It’s already standing room only in the courtroom. Familiar forms take seats behind the prosecutor while she tucks herself deep into the crowd. In a short time, the doors that admit the lawyers and the defendant open, and in he walks.

  Proud and haughty. Doughy white skin. Ice-blue eyes. The papers have been covering Robert Alesch’s story, detailing his hideous war crimes, the mistresses he kept, and the wealth he accumulated from turning over Resistance members to the Nazis for money. Once the resistors were arrested, Alesch would break into their apartments and steal their belongings, including thousands of francs’ worth of furniture, art, and jewels.

  The judges and jury enter, and the trial begins.

  The hours fall away at double speed as witness after witness—including members of the German intelligence service, the Abwehr—testifies against the vile man. A priest from Alesch’s archdiocese says that though Alesch had been defrocked, he forged a letter from the archbishop of Paris to get work as a prison chaplain in Brussels after the war. A woman takes the stand and details how she trusted the priest and even confessed to him, only to have her people dragged away and tortured by Klaus Barbie one by one. Her testimony is followed by that of a doctor’s. They both recounted how the priest infiltrated the network, and how they ended up imprisoned in death camps, though they were lucky to get out with their lives. They are like shining beacons of light on the stand, setting the courtroom ablaze with their charges.

  The final witness takes the stand. A member of the French intelligence service gives the last, damning evidence, noting how the extensive reports of an American agent—who will remain invisible because of continued intelligence work—were crucial to Alesch’s capture.

  After the long day, jury deliberations begin. The crowd stands, stretches, and drifts into the hallway. The woman relocates to sit at the end of the row, behind Alesch, where she’ll be able to see his profile. On her way, she makes brief eye contact with those who took the stand, their eyes twinkling in recognition. In almost no time, the judges proceed in, the crowd returns, and all are instructed to rise.

  “Members of the jury, do you have a verdict?” a judge says.

  “We do.”

  “What say you?”

  “In the case of Robert Alesch, charged with intelligence dealings with the enemy, theft of personal property, and war crimes, we find the defendant guilty on all charges.”

  In the rising din of the crowd, the woman struggles to contain her emotion. The gavel is banged. Alesch hisses in anger in his lawyer’s ear.

  “For these crimes,” the judge announces, “Robert Alesch is sentenced to death by firing squad.”

  The woman closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens them, Alesch is jerked to standing and handcuffed. His piercing blue eyes scan the crowd until they land on hers. His gaze nearly passes hers but tracks back. She holds his stare until she’s sure he knows whom he sees.

  Once he’s gone, she recedes with the tide of the crowd onto the street, where the evening light softens the air, and the world glows, and the setting sun turns the Seine to a river of gold beneath the lavender sky.

  As the bells of Notre-Dame ring for vespers, and the streetlamps light, the woman removes her shawl and makes her way to the café. As she nears it, she smiles at the sight of the silhouette in the window of the one who has been waiting for her.

  Since the moment her father revealed Paris to her like a gift on a grand stage, lit by the sunrise, she has loved this city. In the crowd around her, she can almost see the faces of those she has lost slipping quietly away into the shadows to rest. She can see how Paris has come back to life in spite of what the war inflicted upon it.

  Now, she may do the same.

  Afterword

  I am a writer of fiction and not a biographer. While I follow historical record as closely as possible, I’m also willing to alter dates and details to serve the story. I have included a selected bibliography of suggested nonfiction titles for those who wish to read more on the fascinating and inspiring lives touched on in this novel.

  A secret agent and intelligence officer of the highest caliber, V
irginia Hall Goillot made for an elusive subject. In many cases, I was able to pin her down, but she and her networks also covered their tracks far too well for me to discover everything I wished to know. The Lopinats, for example, are a mystery. Also, the peasants I’ve named “the three musketeers” were nameless and faceless in history; it was up to me to animate them.

  It feels like a grave sin but, because of the huge amount of people in Virginia’s networks, I had to combine and simplify characters when possible. For example, there were so many male Lebrats (Edmund, Maurice, George, Samuel, Pierre . . .) that I chose Edmund to represent his family. That decision was made based on a powerful painting I was able to view at the CIA Museum’s art gallery called Les marguerites fleuriront ce soir (the daisies will bloom at night), by Jeffrey W. Bass. It features Virginia and Edmund transmitting from a barn, using Edmund’s bicycle generator invention.

  For the sake of simplicity, I made the following decisions. If there are two safe houses mentioned in a region, there were likely double that number. If there was one train ride mentioned, there were likely triple that. Code phrases were abundant and changed often; I kept them as similar as possible. Finally, the B2 transceiver did not quite operate using the text-message style of communication portrayed in the book. For purposes of story I’ve simplified a complex process. My guides at the CIA Museum assured me it is not an easy or common process, and wireless operators were not common people of ordinary intelligence.

  In terms of character, I could find very little about Estelle, so I wrote her and her family to fit my story. The MP, Anton Haas, is also a fictional composite of the Nazis who hunted Virginia. Danielle Le Forestier did not go to Cosne to fetch Virginia. That job was done by Jacqueline Decourdemanche (one of the village forgers) and Eric Barbezat (an electrician and bookshop owner). Because they did not come up again in the novel, I replaced them with one who did. I also never delved deeper into the passeurs—guides and escorts for the Jewish children to Chambon and the surrounding regions—but they deserve their own stories.