Praise for
THE INVISIBLE WOMAN
“An alpha female heroine, along with an engaging plot loaded with realism, makes for a captivating historical thriller. Even better, it’s all drawn from the life of a real American hero.”
—Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of The Warsaw Protocol
“An extraordinary profile of the immense courage and daring of Virginia Hall and an intimate look at the cost of war. . . . Emotionally charged, compulsively readable, richly detailed, and meticulously researched, Robuck’s novel brings a forgotten World War II heroine to life and thrusts the reader into a dangerous world of espionage. An unforgettable book!”
—Chanel Cleeton, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Train to Key West
“The book for current times. The bigger-than-life heroine, Virginia Hall, and her band of Resistance fighters are ripped from the history books and put into glorious Technicolor by talented author Erika Robuck. . . . With gripping prose that brings the terror of war onto the pages and highlights the selflessness of ordinary people fighting together for a cause, The Invisible Woman should be required reading for everyone today.”
—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Night in London
“Erika Robuck shows us exactly how biographical fiction should be written: with respect for the historical record, a deep understanding of the subject, and the empathy to allow the character at the heart of the novel to shine through. Virginia Hall was a true hero, and she comes to extraordinary life in this book. I loved everything about it. . . . If you only read one World War II book this year, make it this one.”
—Natasha Lester, New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Secret
“In this captivating, page-turning read, the talented Erika Robuck plunges her readers deep into the little-known critical espionage undertaken by the brilliant and brave spy Virginia Hall during World War II. The Invisible Woman shines a light on this courageous historical woman, whose pioneering work as an agent deserves recognition.”
—Marie Benedict, New York Times bestselling author of Lady Clementine
“Erika Robuck has given readers a precious gift. . . . [She] combines meticulous historical research with stunning prose and unforgettable characters to offer a book that is breathtakingly beautiful, and readers will not be able to put it down.”
—Allison Pataki, New York Times bestselling author of The Queen’s Fortune
“Robuck has mastered the balance of weaving fact with imagination to bring history’s intriguing and underappreciated female figures to life. The harrowing exploits of World War II secret agent Virginia Hall are told with such nail-biting detail, there were times I had to close the book and wait for my pulse to drop. Absolutely riveting.”
—Lee Woodruff, journalist and New York Times bestselling author of Those We Love Most
“If you love historical fiction with a huge-hearted juggernaut of a heroine, The Invisible Woman is for you. This tense and vivid novel stands out. . . . When you like a character, and then admire her, and then want to meet her, you know the author has made her come uniquely alive. I read this book in a blur—that’s how compelling it was.”
—Stephen P. Kiernan, author of Universe of Two and The Baker’s Secret
“Simply extraordinary. Beautifully written and intensely gripping—readers will be inspired by this tale of Virginia Hall and her unrelenting courage, conviction, and resilience during the darkest days of the war. Profound and riveting, this novel is a must-read.”
—Kristin Beck, author of Courage, My Love
Other Titles by Erika Robuck
Receive Me Falling
Hemingway’s Girl
Call Me Zelda
Fallen Beauty
The House of Hawthorne
BERKLEY
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Copyright © 2021 by Erika Robuck
Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Erika Robuck
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Robuck, Erika, author.
Title: The invisible woman / Erika Robuck.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020032235 (print) | LCCN 2020032236 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593102145 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593102152 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Goillot, Virginia, 1906–1982—Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3618.O338 I58 2021 (print) | LCC PS3618.O338 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020032235
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020032236
First Edition: February 2021
Cover image © Susan Fox / Trevillion
Cover design by Emily Osborne
Interior art: map of France by Peter Hermes Furian / Shutterstock
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0
For Virginia Hall
a.k.a.
Artemis, Diane, Germaine, Marie, Camille, Philomene, Brigitte, Louise, Anna . . .
Contents
Cover
Praise for The Invisible Woman
Other Titles by Erika Robuck
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map of France
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One: Artemis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two: Diane
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part Three: La Madone
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Part Four: Virginia
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Ch
apter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Afterword
What Became of Virginia’s Networks?
Acknowledgments
Selected Bibliography
Readers Guide
A Conversation with Erika Robuck
Questions for Discussion
About the Author
The Special Operations Executive, or SOE, was a British World War II organization, formed in 1940. Their espionage, sabotage, and aid to Resistance groups made life hell for Nazis behind enemy lines. The Office of Strategic Services, or OSS, established in 1942, was its United States counterpart. When they were charged with their overall mission, Winston Churchill reportedly told them to “set Europe ablaze.”
Prologue
Summer 1926
Paris
As the last full summer moon rises, an American walks arm in arm along the avenue with her new Parisian friend. They’ve just seen Josephine Baker at the Folies Bergère and can’t say whether they’re giddier from the champagne or from watching Baker’s bare-breasted performance in a skirt made entirely of bananas.
The girls have rooms at a pension not far from the École Libre des Sciences Politiques, where the American will study in the fall, and where the Parisian is already a student. They dawdle on the way back, taking their time enjoying the City of Light, stopping to admire the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel.
“I can imagine my first letter home to Daddy and Mother,” says Virginia, the American. “‘Although classes have not yet begun, I’m receiving quite an education.’”
The French girl giggles.
The silver case from Virginia’s handbag flashes in the light of the streetlamp. She places two cigarettes in her mouth, lights them, and hands one to her friend.
“‘The culture is entirely new,’” she continues, after exhaling. “‘It’s . . .’”
“Bananas!”
Their laughter echoes off the buildings on a side street, where a cocoon of wealth and silence subdues them. In the shadows of the looming pale-stone residences, Virginia feels the hairs on her arms rise, and leads her friend back to the more populated streets. Once they’ve returned to the bustle, the French girl speaks.
“Josephine Baker has had a thousand marriage proposals. I’m just hoping for three or four before settling.”
“Two thousand,” says Virginia.
“You want two thousand proposals?”
“No, silly. Baker has had two thousand. If I ever decide to get married, I’ll do the proposing, though Mother would be mortified to hear me say that.”
“If you want to land a Frenchman, you’ll need to work on your accent. It’s terrible.”
“Oh! How dare you!” Virginia tickles her friend until she apologizes.
Soon they arrive back at the pension, a cream-colored corner building with black wrought iron balconies. Over the entrance, a bas-relief grotesque griffin with a grumpy, judgmental face keeps watch. Virginia has named him Johnnie, after her older brother. Music spills from the windows of a top-floor apartment, and the lights inside reveal figures dancing.
“A party,” Virginia says. “Let’s go.”
“I’m so tired.”
“We’re twenty years old! There’s no tired.”
“My feet are killing me.”
“Johnnie would approve of your wish to turn in,” Virginia says, pointing up at the griffin. “So, I do not. Come!”
Her friend throws up her arms in surrender. Virginia takes the French girl’s hand and pulls her into the building. Gold-beaded fringe from her hem tickles the backs of her long legs as she skips steps all the way to the fourth floor. When the young women reach the gathering, Virginia straightens her dress, smooths her hair, and leads her friend into the room, where they fold into the mass of revelers.
Heartbeat pulsing in time to the music, Virginia joins the dancers by the open window. The portable gramophone runs down every two or three songs, and each time the record slows, the group finds it increasingly hilarious to freeze—like spent windup dolls—until someone cranks the player back to life.
The hours fall away at double speed. The more she drinks, the more Virginia wants to trap time in her hands, but it slips through her fingers like champagne. The slurred French around her becomes difficult to understand, and her brain aches from trying to find the right words. Suddenly she’s aware of how hot it is in the fourth-floor apartment.
Her friend reclines on a couch, nodding off, where the erudite boarder—the one who sits in the common room making a show of reading French philosophers—kisses the girl every time she starts to drift. Virginia crosses the room and, the next time he goes in, spreads her hand over his entire face and pushes him so he falls over on the couch. He comes up straightening his glasses and apologizing, and scurries to join the tide of young men and women pouring out to the balcony to watch the sun rise. Virginia helps her friend up and they recede, slipping into the hallway shadows.
After her friend is safely tucked in bed, Virginia creeps on bare feet down to her own room on the second floor, where she slides the lock chain, leans her head back against the door, and closes her eyes. Once the room stops spinning, she drops her heels on the carpet and pads over to the balcony, stepping outside to inhale the fresh, dewy air. Two floors above, she can hear voices from the party.
“You have a cut between your eyes, under your glasses.”
“It’s from the American. She pushed me.”
“Were you trying to kiss her?”
“No, her friend.”
“Idiot!”
The reprimand brings a smile to her face and, as she takes in the skyline before her, she can’t help but laugh at the magnificent, absurd, surreal dream of being in Paris.
It’s her father she has to thank for this. He was the one who’d taken the family to France when she was a small girl, and Paris had made its first indelible impression. He’d awoken her before her mother and brother got up, and carried her in his strong arms over to the balcony of their hotel suite so he could show her the magic of the Paris sunrise. She could still smell his pipe smoke and see the dimple in his handsome face as he grinned at her while she took in the city bathed in early-morning light. It was the same conspiratorial smile he later gave when—in spite of her mother’s protests—he approved her wish to study here. He approved of everything she wanted, especially if it was out of the ordinary mold her mother so desperately wished for her. Her eyes had been set at the horizon ever since.
I know what I’ll write to Daddy, she thinks. I’ll write, “Thank you.”
Thank you for allowing me to travel here, to the city of my heart. To receive an education. To watch the shadow of the skyline at dawn. To hear the bells of Notre-Dame ringing the Sunday call to worship. To feel the warmth of sunrise, nudging the city awake, turning the Seine into a river of gold beneath the fresh blue sky.
“It has brought me to life,” she says.
Part One
Artemis
Chapter 1
21 March 1944
Brittany Coast, France
Seas are rough and mortally cold and, though she surely approaches her death, Virginia Hall can’t row fast enough. France is within sight.
The warnings of her superiors echo in her mind.
“As a wireless operator in fully occupied France, you’ll have six weeks to live.”
Good, she’d thought. Six weeks. Forty-two days.
One day for each of those brave men and women she’d abandoned during her first mission in Lyon. If they’re still alive, they surely languish in prisons and concentration camps, yet she escaped. The thought nearly chokes her, as it has every day for the last eighteen months, but she shoves it aside. She will go on.
In spite of the fr
igid night, Virginia sweats. The British gunboat only took the agents so far. They have to use a dinghy the rest of the way. She can feel the sting of blisters forming, and her partner Aramis—they are trained to use only code names—is too tired to continue. At sixty-two, he’s old for a secret agent. As much as Virginia hates traveling with another, it will only be for a little while. His mission is confined to setting up safe houses and gathering intelligence in Paris, while Virginia’s will take her to the outskirts of the city and then on to the mountain region of the Haute-Loire. She’ll coordinate supply drops to help arm and organize Resistance forces, the Maquis, to prepare them to rise up and fight when the Allies finally land. Any reporting she can do on Nazi activity won’t go amiss, either, and Virginia is itching to help rain terror on their heads.
Still, the Haute-Loire seems remote, unimportant, and far from action, but Vera Atkins, a high-ranking intelligence officer with the SOE, is adamant that Virginia covers it. One thing is sure: Remote or not, Virginia will never again abandon France. Even if it means defying orders. This time she will stay until the liberation.
Hoping to discourage her from returning to France, Vera gave Virginia the grim details of the fates of all the wireless operators they’d lost in recent months.
“You can’t bring them back by going and getting yourself killed,” Vera had said.
“No, but I can help win the war.”
“A noble motivation,” Vera said. “Are you sure that’s the only reason you want to return?”
It isn’t. But Virginia didn’t share that with Vera.
“You’re a superwoman, just as the rumors said,” says Aramis. “If your prosthetic leg weren’t such a topic of conversation, I’d never have guessed. What’s it they say you named it? Herbert?”
Cuthbert, she thinks, clenching her teeth.
Because the Gestapo took to calling her “the Limping Lady” when they started hunting her in Lyon, what she had once kept secret was exposed. As if she needed another reason to hate the Nazis. She’s weary of people making a fuss about her leg, and most of all she’s weary of this man. He has been talking since they met less than twenty-four hours ago, including telling her his real name, his day job, and details about his actual family. Most secret agents sneaking into Nazi-infested France might stay a little quieter, but Aramis is undeterred.