The OSS was a stickler for authenticity. Virginia’s clothing and new dental work were evidence of that. But in addition to agents changing their appearances, they also had to change their life histories by creating entirely new identities. The process had been honed to a science. The agent first filled out two questionnaires, in French of course, building a past of complete fiction. They answered precise questions about fabricated family members, phony education and work experience, and mock travels they’d taken within France and her colonies. Most important for the men were the details of their military experience during the war.
Next the agent and his supervisor went over the particulars required for the myriad papers all French citizens were now required to carry. The Germans were obsessed with organization and categorizing. Consequently, they had instituted separate cards for every facet of life. There was a carte d’identité, carte d’alimentation (food ration card), fiches de mobilisation (military papers), carte de textiles (clothing ration card), permis de conduire (driver’s license), certificat de recensement (census card), carte de tabac (tobacco ration card), extrait de naissance (birth certificate), certificat médical (medical certificate), certificat de travail (work permit), and certificat de domicile (proof of residence).
After proofreading all of the cards, the agent wrote out his new life story again to make sure there were no omissions or contradictions. At a second meeting, the cover was discussed once more and the agent was asked to sign an official document that he was satisfied with it.
Next came a final draft of the cover story. The agent’s fingerprints were affixed to his papers and cards, and he was given detailed maps of the areas he was supposed to know intimately. He was sent off to memorize the cover story thoroughly, told to “put himself in the skin of the fictitious person” he was now to become. A rigorous interrogation took place next, by an officer other than the one who helped the agent prepare the cover story. Once that officer was satisfied, the agent was ready to be blended in to his new country. The entire process normally took about three weeks.
Virginia’s entry into the OSS had been slightly out of the norm. As she had already been trained in undercover work and had already been in the field, she was exempted from the usual agent training. Furthermore, her cover story was constructed more quickly, using elements she had already created for her work with SOE. The Americans were eager to have such an experienced agent back in France, and she had gone out of her way to let them know how eager she was to go.
When Virginia reappeared in Lieutenant Williams’s office after her transformation, neither Aramis nor the lieutenant recognized her at first. Williams said afterward that his immediate thought was the chewing out he was going to give the guard post for allowing civilians on the base. Once they realized it was Virginia, the men assured her that she in no way resembled the woman they had just dined with.
The next hour or so, the lieutenant and several sailors gave Virginia and Aramis lessons on how to get out of the dinghy that would put them on the French shore. It was essential that they do it quickly and quietly. Their lesson came to an abrupt end when a sailor appeared to tell them it was time to board the boat. Virginia and Aramis were seated inside the cabin area, where they were protected from the wind and the spray. They faced a strong head wind, but the speed at which the boat was traveling compensated for it and the ride was not quite as bumpy as Virginia had expected. About five hours later, she felt the engine slow, which of course increased the effect the waves had on the vessel. The crew got the dinghy ready, and with a hearty handshake from Lieutenant Williams, Virginia and Aramis set off for the Breton coast.
OSS instructions for Virginia and Aramis’s mission were divided into three parts. First, they were to establish themselves in an “accessible place not more than 100 kilometers to the south or southeast of Paris.” Second, they were to “proceed to find three safe houses, one in Paris, the second in a small town within easy reach of Paris, and the third somewhere in the country.” The final stage of their mission was to consist of “setting up in each of these three houses one large and one small wireless set, ready to operate as quickly as possible should a wireless operator arrive.”
They were also both carrying cash. Virginia had five hundred thousand francs and Aramis had a million francs. The London office expected them to be in contact for any other needs as soon as possible.
Brittany is the Frenchp province that juts out into the channel and is frequently referred to as the “nez rouge de France,” the red nose of France. The double entendre refers to the shape of the province, similar to that of a nose, and the fact that the frequent harsh winds cause some elder inhabitants’ noses to be permanently reddened from broken blood vessels. The coastline is unfriendly, craggy, and often very steep. But the independent Breton people were the antithesis of their harsh homeland: cordial, loyal to the Allied cause, and eager to organize into Resistance groups.
Aramis and Virginia’s landing was less than ideal. Aramis stumbled getting out of the dinghy and fell onto the rocks. He tore his pants, cut his leg, and was drenched. They were to walk to a small barn just a mile inland, which was owned by a member of the local Resistance. A cold rain had started to fall and with Aramis limping badly, a walk that should have taken them fifteen minutes, took almost an hour. It was about 4:00 AM when they arrived at the barn and settled against some straw bales for a quick nap. When the farmer woke them an hour later, Virginia asked him for a bandage for Aramis’s leg and a needle and thread to patch his trousers. When the man left, she told Aramis that since his disguise was that of an elderly man, his new limp was a great asset. He was not amused, however.
They left the farmer’s barn an hour later, looking like any other elderly couple, and walked along the rutted road that led to the town of Morlaix. Aramis’s identity papers showed that his name was Henri Lassot. Virginia’s read Mile Marcelle Montagne. In Morlaix, they went to the train station and bought two second-class tickets for Paris. They hobbled up into the car and sat in near silence the entire four-hour trip. Aramis even dozed on and off. But Virginia’s eyes were glued to the French countryside. It had been eighteen months since she’d left, and the country now appeared even more chained to the Nazi boot. German soldiers with dogs often patrolled the passing train platforms. Bomb damage was evident in the fields and pastures from craters and upheaved earth. In the towns, it could be seen in the rubble of burned-out buildings.
When they arrived at the Montparnasse station in Paris and walked out into the city, what Virginia saw devastated her and she struggled to maintain her composure. The once beautiful City of Lights was now a wretched- looking ghost town. While it had not been heavily bombed, as had London and other French cities, it had received its share. Virginia saw half-destroyed buildings and piles of rubble and burned-out automobiles.
Fortunately none of the city’s treasures had been touched: the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and Notre-Dame still stood proudly. But they now wore flags of the Third Reich. German street signs had been posted everywhere directing drivers and pedestrians to Nazi military establishments. And to keep the Parisians up to date on news, the German-controlled newspapers posted clippings on buildings for those passing by on the sidewalks of major thoroughfares.
The French men and women Virginia saw were a sorry lot. Their hollow eyes stared straight ahead, yet didn’t seem to see. They especially avoided eye contact with the Germans, who had begun calling Paris “la ville sans regard” (the city that never looks at you). Some Parisians sat dejectedly on the sidewalk, begging for food with outstretched hands, but not speaking. Others tried to sell anything they could find for a few francs, from broken pieces of furniture to shoelaces. Aramis and Virginia proceeded at their slow pace, not saying a word to anyone they passed, nor to one another. When they finally arrived at their destination, 59 rue de Babylone, to their great relief the door opened after the first knock. The owner of the home, Mme Long, was someone Virginia knew from her prewar
days in Paris, and whose activities in the Resistance she had learned about from Philippe Vomecourt when she was still in Lyon.
Mme Long’s welcome of the two weary travelers was genuine. She told them she had secured a room for Aramis at a nearby boarding house whose owner was an avid Gaullist. Then she sat them down in her kitchen and boiled water for tea.
Again Aramis chatted about himself and gave hints about their mission and his clumsy landing on the coast the night before. His candor irked Virginia, not because she didn’t trust Mme Long with the information, but because he was so willing to divulge it. When he limped off toward the boarding house two doors down, Mme Long expressed concern to Virginia. She said her home was open to Virginia, but that she didn’t want Aramis to return. Virginia told her she understood completely and promised Mme Long that since they were leaving first thing in the morning, he wouldn’t have to come back. She said she would tell him that Mme Long thought she was being watched and that he’d better not contact her when he came back to Paris.
The next morning, March 22, Virginia and Aramis left Paris by train for Châteauroux, and then changed trains, arriving in the town of Crozant in the midafternoon. They walked to a little village just down the road called Maidou, where Virginia found M. Eugène Lopinat, a farmer she had orders to contact. Lopinat wasn’t terribly active in the Resistance, but could be counted on to find lodging for those who needed it. He took Virginia to a one-room cottage he owned at the opposite end of the village from his little farm. The cottage had no electricity and no running water.
Virginia would work for Lopinat, tending to his cows, cleaning his house, and preparing meals for him, his elderly mother, and their hired hand. The arrangement was that she would eat her meals with them as well.
Shortly after they had arrived, Aramis said he was tired and wanted to get started for Paris. But before he left, Virginia brought up the subject of his talking too much. She insisted that he tell only those he had taken into his confidence exactly as much as they needed to know, and no more. And she was particularly insistent that he not tell anyone about her. Furthermore, he was to send a courier when he needed to communicate with her, and the same one each time. They had already agreed on a code phrase for the courier to identify himself to Virginia.
Aramis was insulted by the reproach and huffed off down the road toward Crozant. Virginia wasn’t worried that she had hurt his feelings, only that he wouldn’t take her words to heart. But there was work to do. She wanted to explore her surroundings before she had to go make dinner for the Lopinats.
The whole setup appeared to be perfect. The cottage was at the end of an isolated dirt path that no one would travel without the distinct purpose of coming to see her. The house had a loft with a window, accessed by a ladder. She could make her radio transmissions from there, spreading her antennae out the window and down the backside of the house without fear of it being seen.
As the days passed, Virginia decided cooking meals at Lopinat’s house was an adventure. There was no stove, so she had to cook on an open fire. The country-dwelling French had fared better in the area of food thus far in the occupation than had their city-dwelling counterparts. And the Lopinats were no exception. There was always an ample supply of vegetables to make soups and stews, and even an occasional slab of meat. There were eggs from the Lopinat’s chickens, when they weren’t stolen, and usually ingredients to make bread.
Lopinat’s mother assumed Virginia was near her own age, and often tried to engage her in conversation. Virginia would nod and smile and say, “Oui,” but tried to avoid her as much as possible. The time she spent with Lopinat’s livestock, however, was a different matter. The cows needed to be taken to pasture every day, which gave Virginia the perfect excuse to take in the countryside in search of fields for the receptions of landings and parachute drops. There were precious few areas that would work, but for those she thought had possibilities, she made note of the coordinates.
It was all going well except for Aramis. He was proving to be a disappointment. Rather than using couriers, he insisted on coming to Virginia in Maidou himself with his news. Having him around made her nervous, and she was never confident that he hadn’t talked too much in Paris or on his journey. Furthermore, he could easily be followed. Her brief sojourn in the Spanish prison was more than enough of a taste for Virginia. The last thing she wanted was to spend any time under German guard. Furthermore, despite his robust appearance, Aramis wasn’t very hardy. On each trip, he would tell her how exhausted he was and how hed had to go to bed for several days when he’d returned to Paris after the previous journey.
He did bring good news on occasion, however. He reported that he had located several safe houses in Paris. They could be used as stopovers for agents or hiding places for pilots in need. In fact, he told her, one of the houses was already harboring seven Allied airmen, five of them American. The safe houses needed code phrases for entry, so the two of them devised phrases and Virginia radioed the information to London. Herein lay her second disappointment in the mission thus far: radio contact was spotty at best.
It had all started out well. Her first message to London had been on April 4, letting them know that she was temporarily installed and that Aramis was in Paris. When she radioed the message about the safe houses, London replied, asking the number they could accommodate. She told them on her next “sked” and gave them the pass phrases for each house. But then things began to go south. She would send a message, only to have them reply they weren’t able to copy her.
They suggested she extend the aerial, which she did. They suggested perhaps the weather was bad, but it wasn’t. They suggested that it was the Germans, scrambling the signals and wondered if they were honing in on her with their direction finder. This, she agreed, was a distinct possibility, making Aramis’s unnecessary trips to her house even more nerve-racking. An old woman would not be receiving visitors and suspicions could easily be aroused.
But Virginia was determined to make the most of her situation and gather as much intelligence as she could. The Allies needed to know the location of German troops and their movements. How could a little old lady who tended cows get information from the German army? The answer was right in front of her: cheese.
Lopinat’s mother made cheese for their own use. Why not make more of it to sell? Virginia had learned to make cheese on Box Horn Farm, and whether the cows were American or French didn’t matter, the process was still the same. She was fluent in German from her days at the academy in Vienna, so when she came into close proximity to sell her cheese to the Germans, she might be able to eavesdrop on their conversations. She’d then relay the useful information back to London, presuming, of course, it was a day when the radio was working properly.
Lopinat and his mother thought the idea of making a little extra money from the Nazis was a good idea, and loaded Virginia up with a basket of cheese the next day. Once she had taken the cows to the field, she started walking toward Crozant. It wasn’t long before she came across a small German convoy on the road. She took a deep breath and hobbled up to one of the officers. He asked her what she was peddling, to which she responded in an old crone’s voice. He wanted to know the price. She had figured this out ahead of time, thinking ten francs was reasonable. Another officer walked up then to add his opinion. They discussed the worth of the cheese in German and the first officer finally gave Virginia the money, took his cheese, and waved her off.
It had worked! Although she’d not gleaned any information on her first foray, it was a perfect dress rehearsal. She had multiple performances over the next several weeks. And although her radio was still not functioning perfectly, it was good enough for her to pass on overheard information about troop movements and weapons depots to OSS in London. She had just finished her “sked” one day and was putting her radio away in the loft when she heard the sound of a truck engine. Her first thought was that Aramis was now driving to see her. She closed the radio’s suitcase and sli
d it among the crates and disused furniture stored in the loft. Once she’d descended the ladder, she resumed her character and shuffled to the door. Standing in front of her cottage was a truck full of Germans.
The ranking officer in the group asked her what she was doing in the middle of nowhere by herself. Virginia explained in a raspy voice that she took care of M. Lopinat’s cows and cooked for him and his mother.
The officer wasn’t satisfied with her response and ordered three soldiers to go into the cottage. She stood frozen, her mind racing. Had she sufficiently hidden the radio? She heard her few pieces of furniture crash to the floor. Simultaneous ripping sounds told her that her bed was being torn apart. And then she heard the ladder being set up against the loft. Tense seconds ticked past. Not a sound came from the cottage interior. She began to think about how far she could get on foot before the Germans fired at her. No, she decided, running wouldn’t be the answer. It would be better to talk her way out of trouble, declaring she had no idea what was in the loft. She was an old woman and couldn’t climb the ladder. As long as she could plead her case here, she had a chance. But if this truckload of Boches turned her over to the Gestapo, they’d soon find out she wasn’t who she was pretending to be.
Virginia leaned against a post supporting the porch roof. It was something an old woman would do, but she needed steadying as well. She was certain the German officer could see her heart pounding beneath her clothing. The soldiers finally came out and marched directly to their officer. One of them carried something, although Virginia could not see what it was. The officer looked over the soldier’s shoulder at Virginia and walked slowly toward her. He stopped and peered at her.
The officer recognized her as the old woman who peddled cheese up and down the road. And it was cheese that his men had found, good cheese they told him. Certainly she wouldn’t mind if soldiers of the Third Reich helped themselves to some. The officer looked hard at her for a few seconds and then reached into his pocket and threw some coins on the ground in front of her.
The Wolves at the Door: The True Story of America's Greatest Female Spy Page 22