The Wolves at the Door
The True Story of America’s Greatest Female Spy
Judith L. Pearson
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2005, 2008 by Judith L. Pearson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition May 2014
ISBN: 978-1-62681-292-5
This book is dedicated to the men and women whose bravery, sacrifices, and vision in the little-known world of espionage turned the course of a world war.
This is no time for ease and comfort.
It is the time to dare and endure.
—Winston Churchill
Prologue
MARCH 1944
The old woman bent her gray head against the frigid wind blowing in from the English Channel as she struggled along the rocky Brittany seaboard. The French province had 750 miles of coastline, all of it inclement during the month of March. And on this particular March day in 1944, the wind seemed set on toppling her over. She was determined to stay her course, however, and shuffled on.
The old man traveling with her also struggled. He appeared less steady than she was and occasionally took her arm to regain his footing. It was obvious from his gait, even to the most casual observer, that his left leg caused him pain. To make matters worse, the wooden sabots they wore were not suitable shoes for hiking along such a rutted road.
Each carrying a battered suitcase, they struggled against the cold wind for a little more than five miles before they finally arrived at their destination: the city of Morlaix. There, the elderly couple made their way to the railroad station and purchased two second-class tickets for Paris. When the time came to depart, they sat in adjacent seats, her bulky woolen skirts taking up a great deal of room on both sides. The train ride took nearly six hours, and it was late when they arrived at the Montparnasse station in the southwestern part of the city.
Paris looked nothing like it did when the old woman had been there on a previous visit. That had been in the spring of 1940 when national spirit ran high and the tricolore flew proudly from many buildings. Then, even the spring sun had made an effort at encouragement, shining through the smoke of burning structures and exploding shells. The French army was fighting furiously to repel the powerful advancing Nazi forces. Under the leadership of seventy-two-year-old General Maxime Weygand, the French had hastily prepared defenses. The old woman had done her part for the war effort too, transporting wounded French soldiers as an ambulance driver.
The German onslaught continued, and just before the invaders dealt their sledgehammer blow on June 5, the old woman had left the city. The French line soon crumbled and by June 14, Paris was declared an “open city,” a request to the enemy to cease firing upon it. On the twenty-first, Hitler himself was at Compiegne, 80 kilometers outside the capital and the precise spot where the Germans had been forced to surrender to the French at the close of World War I. The Führer had malevolently chosen the same location to dictate his harsh terms for this surrender.
It was now almost four years later. Blackout curtains kept the “City of Lights” in the dark. Signs of war were everywhere—burned-out buildings, abandoned military vehicles, looted shops. But nowhere was the war more apparent than on the faces of the passersby the old couple encountered on the streets. Fear and mistrust, borne out of the hell of brutal control under the Nazis, was common among French citizens.
A few among them were oblivious to the condition of their beautiful city. They pranced by, dressed in furs, their pampered poodles on satin leashes. They were the collaborators—the kept women of the Nazi officers.
The old woman did not feel fear. Rather, the ravages of war that had destroyed the city repulsed her. The farther she and the old man trudged, the more that repulsion festered into anger and determination. She drew her shabby valise closer in an unconscious effort to guard its precious contents.
Despite their appearances, the feeble, elderly couple’s true identities couldn’t have been further removed from their current personae. He was Henry Laussucq, code-named Aramis, a sixty-two-year-old American agent of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS). She was Virginia Hall, code-named Diane, the accomplished, thirty-eight-year-old spy who had built a reputation among colleagues and enemies alike while working with the British Special Operations Executive (SOE). Now also a member of the OSS, Hall was returning to France despite a price on her head and a Nazi pledge to “find and destroy her.” Together with other OSS agents, they were to assist the newly formed French Forces of the Interior in coordinating Resistance efforts.
The couple’s elaborate disguises had been created out of a necessity to camouflage Hall’s more recognizable features. She had dyed her soft brown hair a shade of dirty gray and pulled it into a tight bun, giving her young face a severe appearance. Then she hid it all under a frayed babushka. She disguised her slender figure under peplums and full skirts, topped with large woolen blouses and a shabby oversized sweater, to give her a look of stoutness. Her most identifiable feature, however, the limp caused by her artificial left leg, couldn’t be eliminated. But it could be altered. An accomplished actress, Hall taught herself to walk with a shuffle, a gait suitable for a woman of her assumed age.
The couple spent the night at a safe house, resting and enjoying a fairly substantial meal, considering the scarcity of food in Paris. The next morning, they made their way to the Saint-Lazare train station, passing numerous Nazi soldiers who paid them little, if any, attention. What, after all, would be the purpose of harassing an impoverished, elderly French couple? Still, Hall’s heart skipped a beat at each encounter; a combination of trepidation, knowing the fate awaiting her should she be caught, and anticipation, knowing the damage her work would wreak on the Nazi war machine.
Their train journey southward to the city of Crozant took a little over two hours. After walking another mile to a nearby village, they located a farmhouse belonging to Eugène Lopinat. M. Lopinat was not a declared member of the growing French Resistance, but neither was he a Nazi sympathizer. The Resistance had chosen him for his reputation of being short on conversation and asked him to find the old woman lodging. He had chosen a one-room cottage he owned at the opposite end of the village from his farmhouse, a shack with no running water or electricity.
Aramis had orders to install himself in Paris and departed soon after Hall settled into her cottage. She was glad to be free of him. She thought he talked too much and was somewhat indiscreet, two qualities that could bring a quick and painful end to an OSS agent.
In exchange for rent, Hall was to work at Lopinat’s farmhouse cooking meals for the farmer’s family, taking their cows to pasture in the morning, and retrieving them each evening. It was then that Hall’s real work began. The suitcase she had carried since landing in Brittany contained a Type 3 Mark II transceiver. Hall used the set to transmit messages to the London OSS office, giving coordinates of large fields she had located during the day while moving Lopinat’s cows to and from pasture. The fields were to serve as parachute drops for agents and supplies in support of the French Resistance. The work carried high risks. Hall had to be vigilant of Nazi direction finders, instruments used to zer
o in on radio transmissions. She would need to relocate quickly if it became apparent that the Gestapo was moving in.
During the day, Hall kept the worn suitcase and its valuable contents hidden in the loft of her cottage. Its location would be imperceptible to a casual observer, but she didn’t expect visitors. Trained Gestapo agents, however, would tear the cottage apart for even the slightest suspicion of collaboration with the Resistance. Each time Hall returned from her day with the Lopinats and their cows, she carefully surveyed all sides of the cottage from a distance to make certain she would not be walking into a trap. For several weeks, all seemed secure.
Hall’s feeling of security came to an abrupt end. Making her way through town to the Lopinat farmhouse one morning, she saw a small crowd gathered. Curious, she shuffled toward them until an appalling tableau came into view. Three men and a woman, all dead, hung from iron fence posts, spiked through the neck. The Nazi soldiers who stood guard over the grisly scene held the villagers at bay with their rifles, insisting that the bodies remain as a reminder to all who dared resist the Führer.
That night, Hall sent her last message to London from the little cottage. Its meaning would be understood by the few with a need to know: “THE WOLVES ARE AT THE DOOR.”
1
Altered Course
To walk the streets of Smyrna was to exploit all of the senses. The ears were assaulted with the whine of kemence violins, the shouts of children at play, the horns of impatient motorists, the Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. The pungent odor of roasting lamb filled every breath, while dust from the narrow streets parched the throat. Strings of drying laundry waved from buildings like semaphore signals and colorful rugs brightened even the darkest thresholds. This was Turkey—a paradise of sun, sea, mountains, and lakes; a land of historic treasures and mystery.
On this day, Friday, December 8, 1933, a crisp winter sun reigned high in the sky, with temperatures pleasant in the mid-fifties. The weather reminded twenty-seven-year-old Virginia Hall of an early fall day in her native state of Maryland. And in Turkey, as it would have been in Maryland, it was a perfect day for a hunt. While most of Virginia’s days were consumed with clerking duties at the American Consulate in the coastal city of Smyrna, her spare time allowed her to pursue her passions, which included horseback riding and hunting.
Virginia had learned to handle firearms at an early age from her father and had spent many summer days hunting birds and small animals on the family’s 110-acre Maryland estate, Box Horn Farm. Never one to shy away from the slightest challenge, Virginia grew up a tomboy in every sense of the word. At five foot seven, she was taller than most of the other girls in her class at school. She was slender and pretty, with high cheekbones and a determined chin highlighting her face. Her soft, brown hair fell in natural waves, and her eyes, clear, bright and deep brown, never caused anyone she encountered to think twice about where she stood on an issue.
W. Perry George, the American consul in Smyrna and Virginia’s boss, considered the consulate lucky to have her on staff. In his 1933 annual efficiency report, he described Virginia as “absolutely reliable as to honesty and truthfulness” and having a “good sense of responsibility.” And while he said her typing was not always accurate and she was somewhat absentminded, he reported that she was “very conscientious and helpful with a charming personality.” For her part, Virginia considered her position at the consulate in Smyrna one step closer to her dream, that of becoming a Foreign Service officer.
The city of Smyrna rendered many of the facets that had always been important in Virginia’s life. She was an avid reader. Smyrna was the birthplace of Homer, the father of dramatic literature. She greatly appreciated nature, and the city’s mild climate made flora and fauna plentiful. The constant, refreshing sea breezes tempered the summer sun’s heat and kept the winters mild. Virginia loved any kind of outdoor activities, and she was in her element in Smyrna. The city was situated at the head of a long, narrow gulf dotted with ships and yachts. Fishing and hunting were readily available to anyone willing to devote a few hours of leisure time.
Virginia had arrived in Turkey in April 1933. Her job at the consulate gave her the opportunity to brush shoulders with Turkish diplomats and statesmen. Although the post had no great importance other than for goodwill purposes in view of the political and business calm of the time, Americans had heavily invested in business and education in Turkey. If anything was to disrupt this element of calm, the consulate would be extremely active helping to protect those interests.
Smyrna was in remarkable contrast to the atmosphere Virginia had left in the United States. The Great Depression was raging and had been the topic of the newly elected president’s inaugural address the month before her departure. Virginia had listened on the radio, along with some sixty million other Americans, as Franklin Delano Roosevelt spoke to the rain-soaked crowd at the Capitol.
So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance. In every dark hour of our national life a leadership of frankness and vigor has met with that understanding and support of the people themselves which is essential to victory.
They had been grim days. One of every four American workers was unemployed, thirteen million in all, and almost every bank was closed. And since the United States had never before faced such a disaster, there were no federal programs to address the needs of the populace.
Roosevelt intrigued Virginia. He had been raised in a world of privilege and wealth, with the patina and optimism of his class. It was a world not unlike the one Edwin Hall had provided for his family. Yet Roosevelt was able to sympathize with the downtrodden and meant to put the full force of his executive powers into smashing their economic despair. He gave Virginia the impression that he would be a man of action, something his predecessor, Herbert Hoover, had not been.
Nor was Roosevelt a stranger to suffering, though of a different kind from what now gripped the United States. And it was this fact that most fascinated Virginia about the man. In the summer of 1921, at the age of thirty-nine, Franklin Roosevelt had been stricken with poliomyelitis. Polio had left him partially paralyzed, able to stand only with the aid of heavy metal braces locked around his legs. Virginia found his indomitable courage remarkable; he refused to be held back by his disability. Rather, he was intent upon carrying on his life and achieving his goals.
But the American economy was a world away in Virginia’s thoughts on this particular day in December. She and the four other members of her hunting party were going after snipe in a bog about fifteen miles from the city. The group consisted of two fellow consulate workers, Maria and Todd; Todd’s wife, Elaine; and Murat, a Turkish man from Virginia’s neighborhood. The five met at Todd and Elaine’s house around noon, each bringing a contribution for their picnic lunch. The day had been carefully planned. Snipe are more prevalent during the late afternoon hours, so the party had decided to begin their excursion with lunch and then hike through the wet meadow in the afternoon in search of their prey. In truth, their camaraderie was far more important than whether they actually shot any birds.
Their mood was lighthearted all the way into the country. They had their picnic and packed the remains in the trunk of Todd’s car, then donned their hunting clothes and took their firearms out of cases. Virginia was using her favorite gun, a twelve-gauge shotgun that had once been part of her father’s collection. Todd complimented her on it.
At this point, Maria begged Virginia to tell the others about her family. The Halls, Maria exaggerated, were practically the most fascinating clan on America’s entire eastern seaboard. Virginia didn’t think her family history was that spellbinding, but the group pleaded and Virginia obliged with tales of her legendary grandfather, Captain John Wesley Hall. At the age of nine, Hall had stowed away on one of his father’s clipper ships. After a multi-year adventur
e at sea, he had saved enough money to buy his own ship and ultimately became very successful in the shipping industry and as an importer of Chinese goods.
Her father, taking a lesson from his own father, had built a successful business in real estate and movie houses. Virginia and her friends went to any movie they wanted to, absolutely free. She told her friends that although he had died very suddenly two years earlier and she missed him very much, she and her brother and mother still laughed about all the good times they’d had.
Virginia paused in her storytelling when they came to a wire fence, obviously constructed years before, as its condition now would neither keep anything in or out. One by one, Todd, Elaine, and Maria made their way oyer the fence until only Virginia and Murat were left. Virginia tucked her shotgun under her arm, leaving her hands free to negotiate the relatively slack top wire of the fence.
She would relive the next ten seconds many times in the coming months. As she lifted her right leg to climb over the fence, her left foot skidded slightly in the damp earth. The gun slipped from under her arm, its trigger catching on a fold of her hunting coat. The sound of her shotgun discharging started flocks of birds from the nearby trees. But no one in the hunting party noticed the feathered flurry. They were fixed in horror on Virginia‘s mangled left foot, her blood staining the tawny field grass beneath where she lay.
The ensuing ten minutes seemed to Virginia as though she were not part of the drama, but rather watching the scene unfold before her. She was quite certain she was conscious—and was later able to describe her friends’ actions, though their voices sounded to her as if someone had turned down the volume control on a radio. She wasn’t really in pain at that point, rather her body felt wooden.
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