The Invisible Woman

by Erika Robuck

  “If not?”

  “I have confidence you’ll find your way to the Maquis either way.”

  “Secours Suisse. What’s the Swiss Red Cross doing in Chambon?”

  “Oh, Diane, haven’t you guessed?”

  Virginia sits up and looks at Estelle.

  “The children,” Estelle says. She stands and walks to the window, wrapping her arms around herself. “The ghosts. Some on their way through to Switzerland. Some here to stay out the war, to see if their parents make it out alive. The residents here who shelter the children call them the ‘Old Testaments.’”

  Realization comes to completion in Virginia as Estelle says the words out loud.

  “You must protect the region because the region protects Jewish children.”

  Virginia sits for a moment, allowing the clear purity of the knowledge to wash over her. It feels like her lungs open more with each new breath. She thinks of the little ones who have made their way here alone. The girl with the polka-dot scarf, the boy from Estelle’s goat stall with the streak of white in his hair, the girl banging her head on the train window.

  The women who escort them.

  The peasants who shelter them.

  She rises to join Estelle at the window and places her hand on Estelle’s back. The swastika flag across the street flaps in the setting sun. Virginia wonders how her heart can feel so heavy and so lifted at the same time.

  “How many?” Virginia asks.

  Estelle looks at her with glassy eyes. She reaches for her friend’s face, holding Virginia’s cheeks with her hands. She says the precious word in a whisper.

  “Thousands.”

  Chapter 24

  The man with the bow tie and glasses who meets them is so tall he has to stoop down when he walks through the café doorway. They exchange code phrases and answer one another’s safety questions before ordering potato cakes and salads from the limited menu. When the waitress leaves them, Virginia leans toward Auguste.

  “I need to meet the head of the Maquis here.”

  He studies her.

  “As soon as possible,” she says.

  He nods but doesn’t answer. He takes his time with each bite, savoring the food. She sees he doesn’t want to talk here. It takes a great act of self-restraint to match his eating pace and keep herself still in her chair when she’s ready to storm the forest, arrange the drops, drill the men, dig a moat around the village.

  “We’re five hundred and fifty kilometers from Switzerland,” he finally says. “We have people here who take copies of the Old Testament there. But the trip is expensive.”

  “How expensive?” she asks.

  “A thousand francs per copy.”

  A thousand francs per Jewish child to smuggle out of France. She opens a folder in her mind—Needs of Chambon—and files the information.

  “How much to keep the ones who stay?” she asks.

  “American Quakers and the Swiss Red Cross fund the copies we keep here.”

  Noted.

  “If I need a good doctor in Chambon, I see Dr. Le Forestier,” he says. “It’s a shame there are so few supplies when he has to treat so many.”

  “How many patients does the doctor have?” she asks.

  “Hundreds. Both children and men who have neglected their health needs for some time.”

  Based on the amount of boys and girls she’s seen, their numbers likely far outnumber the Maquis to which he must refer. Her sails deflate. She needs an army of men if she’s to ensure these children are kept safe.

  “Perhaps you saw the cars parked with grass growing around their wheels,” he says. “It’s a shame there’s no petrol. Benzol works, but it breaks down the canisters quickly. Bicycles are our legs, but the mountain roads wear our tires to nothing.”

  They’re going to need an enormous amount of supplies in a short time. She hopes she can gather a decent reception squad.

  The sound of squeaking brakes calls their attention to the street. From their table, she has a good view of the Nazi hospital across the way. She’s on alert when she sees two lorries arrive. She and her companions watch as a small group of soldiers emerges from the hospital, standing at attention while the Kommandant inspects them. She catches bits of his biting comments from what appears to be a dressing-down of these men who would rather play cards with their boots up than return to the theater of war. The men can hardly be called men; they’re largely baby-faced underlings—the bottom of the Nazi barrel—plucked from their mothers’ houses as a last resort. No wonder they’re glad to be at the hospital in a remote village. But their holiday is over. They’re herded and loaded into the lorries like lambs for the slaughter. Once they’re gone, Auguste again speaks.

  “I’ll come to your room at eleven o’clock.”

  Estelle whispers the room number. He nods, and then reaches for his ration coupon book. Virginia waves him away and glances around the café before providing the necessary payment for all of them. He bows to her and leaves them.

  Back at the room, Virginia paces.

  “Please,” Estelle says. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “We’re wasting time. Why so late?”

  “This is a more delicate operation than you’re used to. Surely you understand the need for extra caution.”

  Virginia drops onto the bed and rubs her face.

  “I know. I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m at least encouraged by the hospital cleanout. I wonder how many Nazis are left?”

  “Not many, I hope. And you saw the quality of what was here.”

  “Is that why the kids are able to exist up here? Because of child soldiers tired of war?”

  “Maybe, in part,” says Estelle. “But mostly it’s the courage and love of the people in the region. The village hasn’t been without its share of trouble, but they risk it, just the same.”

  “Tell me,” Virginia says, sitting up to face her friend. “How was a village of presumably Christian men and women persuaded to take on Jewish children?”

  “They’re mostly Protestants. Huguenots. Years of ancestral Catholic oppression has made them sympathetic to others who are persecuted for their faith. And their pastor and his wife, André and Magda Trocmé, are its beating heart.”

  Virginia brings her hand to her own heart. She thinks of the kids she’s seen picking flowers and following farmers and herding goats. Of Estelle and the children she has sheltered and escorted. Of the women on the train chaperoning Jewish children under the noses of Nazi soldiers. Of the risks these people take. These are the true heroes and heroines of this war.

  “Are you all right?” Estelle asks.

  Virginia smiles and closes her eyes, nodding.

  “I’m getting there. I didn’t know after that night in the barn, hearing about the reprisals. But this place? It’s extraordinary. You are extraordinary.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. You might be restoring my faith in humanity.”

  Virginia stands and crosses to the window to watch the street. Eleven o’clock comes and goes. She resumes her pacing. The money bags at her hips are making her sweat. She lifts her skirts to readjust the packs, then drops them to smooth her clothing.

  “How much will you give them?” says Estelle.

  “That depends if we ever get to meet the commanding officer. But if we do, it will also depend on a test to see if he’s trustworthy.”

  “What test?”

  “HQ approved one hundred fifty thousand francs to hold the Maquis over until I’m here permanently. I have one hundred fifty-two thousand. When I give it to them, I’ll ask them to count the money. If they tell of the discrepancy, I’ll trust them. If they don’t mention the extra two thousand, I’ll take it all back and leave them to the dogs.”

  A knock startles them. Virginia crosses the room, and when she opens th
e door, Auguste is there with a tall young man with brown hair, large ears, and an eager look on his face, like a teenaged Jimmy Stewart. Is he even twenty years old? She can hardly believe one so young is the head of the area Maquis. She needs men, not boys. Once the door is closed, he holds out his hand to shake hers.

  “Edmund Lebrat,” he says.

  “Diane.”

  “Edmund can introduce you to the man you need,” says Auguste.

  Though Virginia wants to pull out her hair over all the layers of people between her and the Maquis, she’s at least glad this teenager isn’t her main point of contact. And she admires the security precautions they’ve taken.

  “Let’s go,” Virginia says. “We’re wasting time.”

  * * *

  —

  Virginia and Estelle follow closely behind Edmund as they travel the dark roads and fields out of town. His stride is swift and steady, but she senses he makes unnecessary turns and twists, ensuring the women would not be able to find their way alone. A dense fog further obscures the route. He keeps an eye on the women but maintains a good pace. After a while, they arrive at a small farmhouse on a hill with a good view of the surrounding area. They walk around the rear, and Edmund hoots like an owl. At the back door, he knocks in a pattern. In a few moments the door opens, and they’re admitted.

  The kitchen is hardly a kitchen, more like a storage room. Racks of patched clothing hang beside a sewing table, where a slender woman works by candlelight. Worn shoes and boots line the wall like soldiers. The man who let them in is sharp and slight. His dark stare touches each of their faces. When he gets to Virginia, she removes the blue scarf she’s wrapped over her hair and smooths it, standing to her full height and meeting his eyes. Something in his face changes.

  “La Madone,” he says with a grin.

  The Madonna. She can’t help but laugh at his impression. She holds out her hand to him and shakes it.

  “Diane,” she corrects.

  He returns her strong grip.

  “Code name Simon,” he says. “Head of the Secret Army.”

  “Army?” she says. “What kind of numbers are we talking?”

  “Two hundred at the ready. Double that if you can arm us.”

  That’s a relief.

  “Can they follow orders?” she says.

  “What kind?”

  “Sabotage.”

  “From whom?”

  “Me.”

  He looks her over and gives a derisive laugh.

  “We’ll see about that,” he says.

  Edmund’s head ping-pongs between the two of them. Estelle stands in the dark, silent as a shadow. The woman at the sewing machine never stops working.

  “How about this,” Virginia says. “They have a problem with me, they can continue on, empty-handed.”

  “Don’t bristle,” he says. “I’m only being honest. These boys are going to have difficulty taking orders from a woman. But your orders can go through me.”

  “I won’t suffer delays because of pride. The truth is, you have nothing without what I can offer.”

  “I know.”

  “Good. Then make sure everyone I interact with also does.”

  He stares at her without answering.

  “I need a washroom,” she says.

  He points to the hallway. She leaves them to get the money from her skirts. In the mirror, she sees that removing the bags takes quite a bit off her old-woman’s frame. She looks around for something to pad her body. She tries stuffing in her blue shawl, but it’s too thin. She stares at herself for a long moment. It will have to be all right.

  When she returns, Simon whispers with the woman at the sewing machine. Edmund’s eyes lower to Virginia’s hips and back to her face, but when she drops the two money bags on the table, his attention shifts focus. She directs Simon and Edmund to open the bags. When they do, their eyes grow wide.

  “One hundred fifty thousand francs,” she says. “Approved for your use until I return for good and we start receiving drops. Count it.”

  The woman at the sewing machine rises and steps forward. She has lovely dark curled hair and a pleasant face, though she looks too thin for her frame.

  “I’m Simon’s wife. Code name Dolmazon. May I offer you water and a little bread while you wait?”

  Virginia and Estelle follow Dolmazon through the maze of goods to the other end of the room, where there’s a table with four chairs. Dolmazon pours water from a clay pitcher into two mugs and opens the bread box. There’s very little inside.

  “Just water for us,” says Virginia.

  Dolmazon looks relieved.

  “You’re a seamstress,” says Virginia.

  “In a way,” says Dolmazon. “I’m in charge of outfitting our boys. So many are still of an age where they’re outgrowing their clothes the moment they touch their backs. Even without proper nutrition. And the mountains are murder on the soles of their shoes. Thank goodness the winter is over. It’s brutal here.”

  Virginia shudders at the thought.

  “The only positive is how the snow closes the roads, keeping us sheltered. The thaw reopens them, bringing in the unwanted world.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” says Virginia, “if this works out, I’ll be able to get more clothing and supplies for you.”

  “We’d be very grateful,” says Dolmazon. “These clothes have been refurbished to death. They’re all patched and pilled. And our medical needs are great. Dr. Le Forestier makes do, but I worry to think about when the Maquis are engaged in fighting. Even without war, boys find ways to get hurt.”

  “Indeed,” says Virginia.

  Though Virginia is not warm to Simon based on his first impression, Dolmazon seems like a strong, kind, and reliable woman, and the men are clearly in need. Virginia wants this partnership to work out—for the war and for the children. But if she doesn’t trust their leader in small matters, she can’t trust him with her life, let alone the lives of thousands. She’s afraid to feel optimistic.

  After a while, Edmund walks over to Virginia with Simon following. Looking sheepish, Edmund presents Virginia with a stack of bills.

  “We counted twice, but you gave us two thousand too much,” he says.

  Virginia catches Estelle’s eye, and the women grin at each other.

  Chapter 25

  A knock before sunrise is never a good thing.

  Back at her safe house in Sury-ès-Bois—exhausted from her travel to and from Chambon, and messaging with HQ—Virginia fell asleep last night in her clothes, without removing Cuthbert, so she’s able to answer the door quickly.

  The cadence of the tapping tells her Mimi’s on the other side of it. A peek out the window confirms this, but also reveals Sophie. Virginia pulls them in and shuts the door behind them.

  “Agent numbers at Fresnes are growing by the day,” says Sophie. “They’re being tortured, and there are rumors they’ll be deported. My contact thinks we can get just one out. Maybe two with enough money.”

  “Louis won’t leave his men,” says Virginia.

  “I told her,” says Mimi. “She won’t listen.”

  “I beg you,” says Sophie. “You’re my only hope.”

  Sophie is beginning to deteriorate. Her hair is unwashed. She wears no lipstick. Her polish is chipped, her nails dirty. Virginia takes Sophie’s hands and leads her to the small table, where she pulls out a chair for Sophie to sit. Mimi joins her at the table while Virginia prepares a pot for tea.

  “Please,” Sophie says.

  She cries and buries her face in her hands.

  Virginia shares a look of pity with Mimi. Sophie has lost a husband. The thought of her losing a fiancé makes Virginia sick. Further, Virginia feels a level of responsibility for Louis. She brought him into this clandestine life. His own actions brought consequences, but she
has to try to help him at least one more time. What’s the worst that can happen?

  Capture. Imprisonment. Torture. Deportation. Murder.

  She can almost hear Vera arguing with her.

  But Virginia has already beaten the life-expectancy odds of her peers. She’s had many successful drops. The Maquis of this region are effective, and their numbers are growing. She has confirmed the existence and size of Maquis groups in Chambon. God forbid she’s arrested, another agent can go in her place.

  Also, Chambon is not yet ready for her. When she left them, she charged them with procuring her at least two safe houses, and gathering coordinates for at least three drop fields. After the next full moon phase and the Jedburgh drop, once she’s stationed in Chambon, there will be no more trips to Paris until after the liberation.

  She feels the ever-present urge rising again—not just for herself this time, but for Louis, too—and knows she must make the most of every hour she’s here.

  The kettle whistles, silencing her musings. Virginia removes it from the burner and makes three teas from the last of the secret stash Vera sent her. She places each steaming cup before the women and looks into Mimi’s eyes with a question.

  Should I?

  Mimi nods.

  “Sophie,” Virginia says.

  The young woman lifts her head from her arms and looks up at Virginia. Mascara streaks down the sides of her face.

  “Drink your tea,” says Virginia. “Wash up. We have a trip to make.”

  * * *

  —

  Mimi insists on going. The boy will stay with Estelle.

  “What if Estelle gets captured?” Virginia asks.

  “He’ll go to Estelle’s cousin.”

  “What if the cousin is captured?”

  “Then the nuns will take him. And if the nuns are captured, he will be in God’s arms.”

  Virginia can’t argue with that.