The Invisible Woman

by Erika Robuck

  Absurd as it is, it feels good to be the object of adoration of hundreds of strapping young men. In spite of their rough start, they’ve grown to love her, and she them. But because of this, the stakes are high.

  On the group’s march through town, shopkeepers watch with interest, some pulling their curious daughters out of doorways and windows. Guns in the open, the Maquis grin and wink at the young women of town, on whom Virginia sees an interesting commonality. They wear silk shirts and skirts, in army green and white. It dawns on her that she’s not the only one for whom Dolmazon has made parachute clothing.

  It’s not the fists alone that win the fight.

  On the approach to the hospital, Virginia looks up to the window where the MP’s face has been staring out, but he’s no longer there. Why is she still so unsettled?

  Dédé’s men lead, kicking in the door and shouting as they surge into the hospital, up staircases, breaking in rooms, overturning furniture. Once inside, Virginia pulls out the liberator pistol, cocks it, and loads the cartridge. Tense and ready to shoot, she passes through the lobby and climbs the stairs to the second floor. Halfway up, she hears Dédé shout.

  “Hands up!”

  Two Maquis run into the room. She hears a groaning noise and looks around the corner.

  The smell is the first thing to greet her, followed by the horrid sight of MP Haas and his infected leg. What’s left of the putrid thing is black to the thighbone, green ooze covers his hip and pubic area, and flaking red skin rises up to his bare chest. The bed where he sweats and gasps is at an odd angle, facing away from the window, as if someone tried to move him but abandoned the task. The large, impressive uniform he once filled hangs on the wardrobe door—the silver of the neck plate flashing—while his body wastes away on threadbare sheets. She pulls the shawl off her head to cover her mouth and dismisses the gagging Maquis.

  “You, too,” she says to Dédé. “Leave me.”

  “I won’t,” he says, his gun still pointed at the monster, as if it could lift a hand to harm her. While she admires Dédé’s dedication to her safety, she shows him she’s armed and gives him a stern look. With reluctance, he obeys.

  The sounds of the Maquis’ boots and shouts can be heard echoing through the halls, moving away from her. Pointing her pistol at the MP, she crosses the room, exaggerating her limp, while keeping the gun trained on him. When she gets to the window, she opens it to let in some fresh air. She sits on the sill but keeps the gun aimed at the man.

  “Here I am again, opening windows for you,” she says in German.

  His eyes widen.

  “I know you,” he says.

  “You should. La dame qui boite.”

  He utters a curse.

  “‘Most dangerous of Allied spies,’” she continues. “If you weren’t so stupid, you could have turned me in to Klaus Barbie. You’d have been decorated. Elevated. Rewarded. Maybe a fancy Nazi doctor could have fixed you.”

  He groans and drops his head back on the pillow.

  “Why didn’t your people take you?” she says.

  “I told them I wanted to die here.”

  “What happened?” she says, nodding at what’s left of his leg.

  “A railway explosion. By terrorist scum.”

  She smiles.

  “Was the war worth it, Herr Haas?”

  He remains silent.

  “Why wouldn’t you let them amputate?” she says.

  “And end up a Krüppel? I’d rather be dead.”

  The irony. She shakes her head.

  “And you will be dead,” she says. “Before the hour’s up, by the smell of you.”

  Seeing his total impotence, she lowers her pistol, and turns her face to draw in a breath of fresh air. From his room, she can see the train station, the hotel, and the school, all the stops on the journeys of the Jewish children. She thinks of the sweetness of the classroom pets and Bible stories and corkboards celebrating these haunted little ones. It turns her stomach to look back at the MP rotting on the bed, knowing his proximity to that sweetness.

  When her gaze returns to his gangrenous leg, she shudders to remember the hideous pain of her own infection. When the doctor in Turkey had asked her to choose her leg or her life, for a long time, and many times since, she’s wondered if she chose correctly. The answer lies decomposing here before her.

  Every day, every hour, in every interaction, we’re given two options, and this man has been given the cup he chose. How many choices away from this thing in the bed is she? Three? Four? Fewer.

  “Shoot me,” he says, struggling to lift his head. “Put me out of my misery.”

  “Why not shoot yourself?” she says.

  “They took my weapons.”

  “Running low on the front, I’ve heard.”

  He drops his head back on the pillow, grimacing from pain. Unmoved, she watches him struggle to readjust what’s left of his body. When he regains his breath, he begs.

  “Please. Kill me.”

  She thinks about it. On the train, she wished she had, but now she wonders: Would it free her from his haunting her, or forever link them? Would killing him be an act of mercy or vengeance? Does this man still have a chance at redemption before infection eats him alive?

  She returns her gaze to the street and thinks of the lines of children singing “Alouette” on their trips to the forest. The MP has been able to see them come and go. Did he know what he was witnessing?

  Virginia thinks of the orphan Danielle cares for alongside her own children, even now that Roger is gone. Of the girl in the polka-dot kerchief and the other children Estelle and dozens of women have escorted here and beyond, over the mountains to Switzerland. She thinks of Sophie and Mimi and Louis. The three musketeers. Her Lyon network that this man helped shatter. The mountain. Her leg. All she has lost flashes back to her like it’s the end of her life.

  But it isn’t the end for her.

  Vera told Virginia she had six weeks to live. All this time, Virginia thought it was a countdown to death, but maybe it was a countdown to new life.

  Six weeks to live. To start living again.

  To shed the past. To become tenderhearted. To love and to grieve and to atone instead of turning to stone.

  Did Wild Bill know this mission would resurrect Virginia? Did Vera? Maybe.

  She hates herself now for criticizing Sophie and Louis for holding a small place of love where they could meet, away from the war. Someday, Virginia hopes she’s able to apologize to them.

  She looks at the MP. The veins at his temples pulse on his skin that’s coated in a slick sheen of sweat.

  They crucified a baby.

  Resolved, she stands.

  If shooting him is mercy, there will be none of that here. She’d like to say it’s because she isn’t the Author of Life so she can’t end it, but that’s the belief of a Christian pacifist, which she is not. He’ll be dead within hours, and she wishes for him to die slowly.

  Leaning out the window, she tears the swastika off the pole, pulls it into the room, and drops it over the MP. Then she slams the window closed and drags his bed back to it while he groans and pleads.

  “I hope you live,” she says in his ear. “To see the raising of the tricolor.”

  She leaves the man writhing, dying slowly in the room.

  Dédé waits for her in the hallway.

  “You didn’t kill him,” he says.

  “I didn’t need to,” she says. “He’ll be dead by sundown.”

  On her way down the stairs she hears Dédé’s voice say, “Yes, he will,” followed by the gunshot.

  * * *

  —

  Back at the house, Virginia locks herself in her room and strips off the layers of elderly peasant clothing. She removes her glasses and scrubs her face and her hands, washing away the old woman.
She unknots the bun and rolls her hair into a style becoming her true age. She pulls on the uniform Vera sent her—a khaki button-down slim-fitting shirt, pants, and knee-high boots perfectly suited to cover Cuthbert. She replaces the orange scarf at her neck with a tie but wraps the scarf at her wrist to keep the reminder.

  Pausing at the mirror before she leaves, she takes in her flushed face, her shining eyes, her tanned skin, and her taut body.

  There she is. No longer invisible.

  She opens the door and walks down to meet her people.

  Part Four

  Virginia

  Chapter 39

  17 August 1944

  Le Chambon-sur-Lignon, France

  Bob is the first to see Virginia out of disguise.

  When she enters the room, his cigarette dangles from his open mouth and falls on the floor. Dédé’s eyes widen. Edmund blushes, his ears turning bright red. The rest of the assembled boys murmur, and someone whistles. Virginia doesn’t address the reaction, only joins them at the planning table.

  “Are your boys ready for all this?” she asks Dédé.

  He looks at her as if he doesn’t understand the words she speaks.

  “Oh, come on,” she says. “It was obvious, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” Dédé says. “I mean, we knew, but we didn’t know.”

  Though secretly pleased, she rolls her eyes and pretends to be exasperated.

  “The only thing I’ll say is to remind you that I’m your commander and you are my subordinates, and it’s insubordinate to remark on the appearance of your commander, is that clear?”

  They nod their heads and get to work.

  Knowing the village is clean of Nazis and Milice, Virginia and the boys decide to move to the Château de Vaux, where Simon’s men are headquartered, until Le Puy is liberated. The château is less than thirty kilometers from Le Puy, and there she’ll have electrical power and a new wireless battery, so there’s no need to pedal on an old bike in a barn to keep HQ informed and up to date.

  Once they arrive at the château, they find so many Maquis groups have joined together that their numbers have swelled to a thousand, with over forty vehicles and enough artillery to make a small but formidable army. Recognized by General de Gaulle, they’re now called the FFI: the French Forces of the Interior. From Allied drops, they’re now uniformed and can stand proud: no longer thought of as terrorists, but as the soldiers they are.

  HQ has asked that they hold at the château before the final push because of another “period of activity” commencing. They’re overjoyed when Virginia is able to deliver the news that the Allies landed on the Mediterranean coast of France. Amid the roaring cheer of a thousand Frenchmen, Simon pushes through the crowds to where Virginia stands, and grasps her hands. Dolmazon soon finds them.

  “Marseille,” Dolmazon says through her tears. “Our beloved home will soon be out of their clutches.”

  Simon breaks down and embraces his wife.

  In a few moments, Bob joins them.

  “A scout just returned from Le Puy,” he says. “The boches are frantically packing. They’ll be moving out anytime now.”

  “And now that we’ve severed all those rails and roads, there’s only one way out,” says Dédé.

  “We’ll have them trapped,” says Simon.

  We’ve done it, Virginia thinks.

  In moments, word spreads, maps hit tabletops, commanders are called. As they bend their heads together to plan, Virginia recedes into the shadows.

  As she wanders the hallways, she notes what a strange building the château is. Its central structure was built centuries ago, while the more recent wing installed—still, a century ago—was grafted on with little regard for maintaining integrity of style or form. Inside, it’s more harmonious, the rooms like a gothic lodge, a place men feel at home. A place she feels at home.

  She climbs the long, spiral staircase to the window that looks out over the valley toward Le Puy. The road leading to the city is low, running like a river between hills and mountains and forests. The FFI will flank the enemy from all sides along the way. It won’t be a simple fight—they’re still outmatched and outnumbered—but they stand on the higher ground.

  She has no doubt; they will be victorious.

  * * *

  —

  Simon once said about the Maquis that he felt like the father of hundreds of orphans. She realizes she now feels like their mother. It occurs to her, if she’d married when her mother wanted her to, these boys are about the age her children might be. Further surprising, the thought doesn’t distress her.

  On her 152nd day in the field, before disembarking for the final push to Le Puy, they seek her. They are the Lost Boys—motherless waifs in need of love and reassurance before the final battle for the region. She kisses each of them on both cheeks, ending with Bob. She takes him by the lapels the way Vera took her all those months ago.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” she says. “This war doesn’t need more martyrs.”

  She releases him and turns to the others.

  “That goes for all of you,” she says. “Make me proud.”

  “We are now le Corps Franc Diane,” says Dédé. “Vive le Corps Franc Diane!”

  Virginia laughs as the boys cheer and join their teams.

  As the men leave on the march to battle, she watches the formation of the infantry units, flanked by commandeered trucks, led by a motorcycle scout. A once motley band of pirates is now an impressive army. It will be agony to wait for news from them, but she’ll keep busy transmitting to HQ and helping Dolmazon and the village women prepare for the wounded.

  The farther away the FFI get, the more they look like one being. Peasants, noblemen, young, old, Jewish, Gentile, all joined into one great shadow bearing down to conquer the enemy.

  When the last man is out of sight, she thinks she can still hear the echo of their voices, shouts of “le Corps Franc Diane” dying out around her.

  * * *

  —

  —As the Germans evacuated Le Puy, FFI closed in. 30 Germans killed, 6 wounded.

  —FFI losses?

  —5 FFI killed, 4 wounded.

  —Copy.

  —Germans asked for cease-fire to collect wounded. FFI said no, surrender in 15 minutes or get ambushed.

  —Result?

  —22 August 1944, Germans surrendered. FFI liberates Le Puy.

  Chapter 40

  Poppies cover the cars parading down the main street in Chambon. “La Marseillaise” plays over the loudspeaker. Tricolors fly. Maquis wave and throw marguerites to the girls in parachute blouses and skirts. Children stand in the sunlight, out in the open, lining the parade route. Some clap and smile, others watch, dazed, wondering why they aren’t being rushed to the forest to pick mushrooms.

  Virginia wears the white silk dress Dolmazon made for her. Her friends in the village were all surprised and delighted to see her out of disguise. She stands with Léa and her children, Danielle and hers, and the girl Danielle keeps. Danielle’s guest stands on tiptoe, jumping up and down, trying to get a better view. Virginia reaches down for her. The girl hesitates but then lets Virginia lift her. She wraps her slender arms around Virginia’s shoulders, holding on, and stares at Virginia instead of the parade. It seems to take her great effort to speak.

  “Is it true?” the girl whispers.

  “Is what true?”

  “Your leg?”

  “Cuthbert? Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Sometimes. But it doesn’t keep me from doing anything. Except maybe ballet. But I never was one for tutus anyway.”

  The girl’s face breaks into a grin.

  “You look just like my niece,” Virginia says. “How old are you? Seven? Eight?”

  “Eleven.”

  It�
��s heartbreaking to hear this tiny wisp of a child is much older than she looks. Malnutrition. Fear. Lives hidden in the shadows. Will this girl catch up? Will she ever outgrow her sad start in life? Will any of the hidden children?

  Virginia swallows the lump in her throat and pulls a chocolate from her pocket.

  Dédé got the chocolate from the surrender. The convoy at large had not only Germans but sixty families of Milice from Le Puy, terrified and hoping for protection from the Nazis, which they could no longer provide. They had trucks full of fine wines, bread, cheeses, and chocolates. The fools thought they’d continue to eat like kings when trapped like rats. The Maquis helped themselves to the supplies, distributing them to the starving villagers and their boarders from Le Puy to Tence to Chambon.

  The girl unwraps the chocolate, eats it, and closes her eyes to savor it.

  Returning her attention to the parade, Virginia sees three women, heads shaved, strung like cattle on a rope behind one of the Maquis trucks. They are suspected of fraternization with Nazis. Simon is eager to try all collaborators. The worst among them were shot without trial, but as recognized military, the FFI will need to be more orderly in dealing with the betrayers at large. It’s a vulgar display, and Virginia doesn’t want the child to see. She tries to distract her by pointing out the French flag flying over the Hôtel May.

  The crowd is beginning to weigh on Virginia, so she places the girl back on her feet and excuses herself. Walking in the shadows of the cheering townspeople along the parade route, Virginia nods to Auguste Bohny, to Pastor and Madame Trocmé, to Dolmazon and her son. She waves to her boys on the floats and finds the ghosts in the crowd she has seen on her journey. The girl with the polka-dot scarf is here. So is the boy from Estelle’s barn, with the white streak in his hair.

  You’re safe now, she thinks as she passes.

  Safe as one can be in a world where a war like this was possible, where it still rages, but where the enemy is being beaten into submission one region at a time. The Allies are cleaning out Cannes, Nice, and Marseille, and the BBC has reported the liberation of Paris. Will Alesch be caught before she can get her hands on him?