The Widows of Champagne

by Renee Ryan

  This is how Benoit would have looked had he survived into middle age. The thought brought a bittersweet smile to her lips. Max returned the gesture, and again she had to swallow back a wave of emotion. He had the same look around the mouth as his son.

  “You are the last to arrive,” he said.

  “I... Oh.” She hadn’t known there would be others.

  “Come, Gabrielle, time is of the essence. We must be quick. We’re meeting in the library.” He led her through the cavernous hallways, the same ones she and Benoit had roamed as children. She could close her eyes and know the way. Each twist and turn was as familiar as any in her own home.

  Max paused outside the room and indicated she enter ahead of him.

  The space was full of men she knew on sight. Most sat, some stood, one leaned against the bookshelf. She counted half a dozen grape growers and twice that number of champagne producers. All were at least twenty years her senior, some contemporaries of her grandmother.

  One in particular caught her eye, the head of Moët & Chandon. Count Robert-Jean de Vogüe was well respected among the Champenois, a natural leader. It was rumored he had connections to the Vatican and was related to most of Europe’s royal families. His brother, Bertrand, the powerful head of Veuve Clicquot-Ponsardin, was, Gabrielle noticed, missing.

  “I trust you know everyone.”

  She nodded, then went through the ritual of greeting each of the occupants of the room, saving de Vogüe for last. He was a striking man in his late fifties, his coloring almost swarthy, his green eyes deep-set and solemn. Like several other men in the room, he’d been a close friend of her father’s. And had great respect for her grandmother.

  De Vogüe was also in charge of this meeting. He waited for Gabrielle to take a seat beside her father-in-law to begin. “I cannot stress enough the importance of secrecy. Whatever is said tonight must not be repeated. Do I have your word?”

  Every head bobbed in agreement.

  “Excellent. Now, as you are aware, the German authorities have appointed Otto Klaebisch to serve as weinführer over our region. He will oversee champagne purchases for the Third Reich.” De Vogüe paused, made eye contact with several people in the room, including Gabrielle. “Originally, this selection seemed a good one. Klaebisch is a connoisseur and understands how we do business.”

  The man on Gabrielle’s immediate left raised a fist. “Better to be shoved around by a winemaker than by a beer-drinking Nazi.”

  “As many of us thought,” de Vogüe acknowledged. “However, Klaebisch enjoys the trappings of military life and appreciates the power that comes from his new position.”

  De Vogüe could be describing Helmut von Schmidt as well.

  “The weinführer has requisitioned my brother’s château.” De Vogüe’s gaze held steady on Gabrielle. “He threw Bertrand and his family out onto the streets with no worry where they would go.”

  Gabrielle gasped. She had not heard this news, but now understood the man’s absence.

  With de Vogüe’s gaze still on her, several heads turned in her direction. She could easily decipher their unasked questions, the speculation as to why her home had been requisitioned and yet, unlike de Vogüe’s brother, the LeBlanc women had been allowed to stay.

  She confronted their suspicion directly. “I believe,” she began, eyes only on de Vogüe, “von Schmidt has treated us differently because we are a houseful of women.” Though she hated saying the words, she could not dismiss the truth behind them. “He does not consider us a threat. He repeatedly says our gender is weak.”

  The room fell silent as each man considered what she’d stated without inflection or emotion. Many, she knew, agreed with von Schmidt’s estimation, although none said so now.

  As if this settled the matter, de Vogüe continued the meeting. “My main purpose for calling us together is to discuss what German occupation means for our immediate future. I met with Klaebisch this afternoon and I am afraid the news is not good.”

  A low rumble spread throughout the room.

  Lifting a hand, de Vogüe went on to explain. “We will only be allowed to sell our champagne to the Third Reich and its military. Also, German-controlled restaurants, hotels and nightclubs, and a few of Germany’s friends such as the Italian ambassador to France and Marshal Pétain at Vichy. The marshal, I am told, enjoys large quantities of our special cuvées.”

  The room erupted in angry expletives, while Gabrielle’s heart sank. Her hope soon followed. There could be no more doubt that the self-proclaimed leader of the French people had allied himself with the enemy. This was the final blow to any hope that the government would grow a backbone.

  “What price are we to expect for this privilege of supplying our enemies with France’s greatest treasure?” someone taunted from the back of the room.

  De Vogüe quoted a number that was tantamount to robbery. “We either sell to the Germans at this dismal price,” he added, “or we go out of business. Those are our only choices. And I’m afraid there is still more unsettling news. We are to supply the Third Reich with two million bottles of our champagnes every month, distributed among our houses in whatever quantities we decide.”

  Shocked silence met this additional revelation.

  It was an impossible number. Angry curses shattered the library’s already dismal mood. “This will ruin us,” one of the producers claimed.

  While others agreed, Gabrielle looked to her father-in-law. He returned her stare with the eyes of a man who’d survived bad harvests, the loss of his wife, then his only son. He did not appear beaten. His expression was fierce, as if to say: We will not crumble. We will fight.

  De Vogüe answered questions, then brought the meeting to an end with one final proclamation. “If we are to survive German occupation, we must band together formally.”

  He laid out his plan. Answered more questions. Then set the date for their next meeting.

  As the room emptied, Gabrielle hung back at her father-in-law’s request. She knew that expression. It was the look of a concerned parent to a favorite child. “I don’t like you living under the same roof as a German soldier.”

  In that, at least, she could alleviate his worry. “Helmut von Schmidt is an overreaching wine merchant who wears a soldier’s uniform. It is not the same.”

  “You argue semantics when you should be thinking in terms of caution.” His hand rested briefly on her cheek, then dropped away. “That uniform he wears makes von Schmidt a dangerous man.”

  “What would you have me do, Papa?” She used the name she’d called him when she was still a girl. “Would you have me surrender the house that has been in my family for two hundred years because others have been forced to do the same?”

  “I would have you be smart.”

  “I am not a reckless woman,” she responded firmly, so he could not fail to understand her meaning. “You know this, Papa.”

  “What I know is that you will take excessive risks. It is in your nature. You have too much of your grandmother in you.”

  He was wrong. Gabrielle didn’t have enough of Josephine in her.

  “And yet, I will still make my request.”

  As if he’d been waiting for his cue, de Vogüe returned to the room and took over the conversation. “You, Madame Dupree, are in an interesting position to serve your country.”

  She did not know how to respond.

  “I trust you heard General de Gaulle’s broadcast from London?”

  She nodded. “He urged the people of France to resist the Germans.”

  It had been a call to action. Opportunity within opposition. But then the Germans had come to Reims. And they had looted. Burned down buildings. Requisitioned her home. During it all, Gabrielle had thought only of her family and their champagne house. Now, de Vogüe was asking her to think of her country. It was not hard to understand what he wanted her
to do. “You want me to spy on von Schmidt.”

  “It would be a simple matter for you to track his comings and goings. Perhaps monitor his correspondence when possible. Who does he invite to his table, and what is said when he thinks no one but his friends are listening?”

  Grandmère would call this God’s providence. And maybe, Gabrielle thought, she would be right. Maybe this was God’s will for her life, a purpose that went beyond herself. Odd, that her mind would accept this, when her heart could not. She wanted to do her part for France, she did. But not at the risk of her family.

  Your family is already at risk.

  And Gabrielle had already set a plan in motion that would harmonize with de Vogüe’s request. The sooner the enemy was vanquished, and von Schmidt was expelled from their home, the better. “How would I get this information to you?”

  “You and I will never meet,” de Vogüe said. “You will report directly to Max.”

  “You are comfortable with this arrangement?” she asked her father-in-law.

  He nodded. “For the good of France.”

  It could be done, she knew. But not without risk.

  Max touched her hand. “Gabrielle, I know we ask much of you. But not as much as we ask of ourselves.”

  “How would I get the information to you?”

  “We would set a regular meeting time and place. Somewhere in public that would not draw suspicion.” Max thought a moment. “Perhaps on Sundays. We could linger in the church, a concerned father-in-law checking in on his daughter-in-law.”

  The suggestion—linger in the church—made her stomach twist in nausea. Max knew what he asked of her. He’d been standing beside her at Benoit’s funeral when the priest had served up his platitudes, then walked away when she’d asked the difficult questions about good men dying too young and God’s random cruelty.

  No, not the church. She would find another way. “What if I discover something that can’t wait until Sunday?”

  “Then we’ll meet in the vineyard. At a spot we both know well.” Max’s smile turned sad. “Three rows east of my family’s chapel, halfway between the first and second hill.”

  Of course she knew the place well. It was the site of Benoit’s fatal accident.

  Not there, Max. Anywhere but there.

  Her father-in-law took her hand, tears in his eyes. “Is it not fitting? We will join forces to save lives on the very spot where we lost the one life we couldn’t save.”

  There were so many ways Gabrielle could respond. She could snatch her hand away. She could rail. She could simply walk out of the library. Or she could point out that Benoit hadn’t actually died in the vineyard. He’d hung on for months, in pain and misery. None of those things would bring her husband back. “How will we know what time to rendezvous?”

  It helped to focus on specifics. In times of uncertainty, taking action mattered. That’s what she told herself, what she tried to believe.

  Max explained a seemingly uncomplicated code they would use via the telephone. “After each exchange, we will reset the code.”

  A good precaution, she thought. “It appears you’ve thought of everything.”

  His smile was genuine, but still held hints of sorrow. “All that’s left is your agreement.”

  She gave it, for the good of France. “I’ll begin tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Josephine

  At seventy-seven, nearly seventy-eight, Josephine was not the woman she’d once been, neither physically nor mentally. Old age was not the only factor in her decline. Perhaps not even the most significant. That revelation came as both a shock and a sorrow. She carried too many sad memories in her head. What had once been the occasional trespasser was now a living, breathing presence. Always there, dark and sinister, laying claim on her sanity.

  Sometimes the images were so real they pulled tears from her eyes. Sometimes they were nothing more than gray, lifeless shadows within a watery haze.

  Forgetfulness was an easy defense that protected her from the harder work of remembering the loss of loved ones, the bad decisions she’d made in her youth, even the betrayals she’d endured from trusted friends and colleagues.

  Oh, yes, absentmindedness had its appeal. How else was she to survive from one moment to the next? By being stronger than she’d ever been before, that’s how.

  The battle grew harder each day. Each hour.

  Even now, her mind lured her into blessed oblivion. Josephine fought the invitation to rest in the comfort of darkness. She resisted not for herself, but for her family. She’d done what she could to prepare Gabrielle and Hélène for combat within the walls of their home.

  Her own contribution had been minimal. She would be bolder this afternoon, fearless and unafraid. Course set, she made her way through the château in the clothes she’d donned for the vineyard, though she’d never made it outside. Too tired. Marta had fitted the men’s trousers and baggy shirt to accommodate Josephine’s shrinking frame. She would have to change for dinner with the German. Always, he demanded the family’s presence at his table.

  Always, they answered his summons without complaint. He thought this made them submissive, and that he had them sufficiently cowed. He was too arrogant to consider he might be wrong.

  There was no honor in such a man, no character, no compassion or sense of fairness. Von Schmidt was the same as his führer. Greedy and selfish. Like Hitler, he knew how to break things, and how to tear down. He did not know how to create. But his greatest flaw was his lack of respect for women. Josephine knew how to fight this war. She’d been doing so since the untimely death of her husband fifty years ago.

  She hurried her steps, knowing her time was limited. When she reached the top of the staircase, she listened to the chiming of the clocks. The six strikes told her she had two hours to complete her mission and still dress for dinner. The silence in the hallways broadcasted a similar message.

  Allowing herself a small smile of triumph, she took the staircase to the first floor and continued to the west wing of the château, her slippered feet soundless on the tiled floors. She practically floated. A few minutes, that’s all it took, and Josephine found herself in a darkened corridor, unsure how she’d ended up in this particular hallway. She’d lost her way.

  Focus, she told herself.

  She thought for a moment. And remembered. She’d given herself a task. Finish it.

  Bolstered, she moved wraithlike to the library, where von Schmidt had set up his private office. The door stood halfway open, beckoning Josephine to take this risk. She paused, listening for voices, the rustle of papers, anything to tell her someone worked in the room her husband had loved most of all. She heard nothing. Von Schmidt must be elsewhere in the house.

  He could come back at any moment.

  Josephine had a plan for that.

  She peered around the black lacquered door into the empty room. This was her chance. She stepped inside, straight into the smell of leather-bound books, parchment paper—the scents belonging to her husband—and...German cigarettes.

  That smell, it confused her. Why did this room reek of foreign cigarettes? Antoine smoked cigars. Her thoughts twisted, turned, battled with the whispers for her mind. She would not let the darkness win. There was important work left to be done.

  If caught? She would pretend confusion—no great stretch—or perhaps she would try a more daring approach. Either way, she wasted precious time lost in her head. She picked her way across the patterned rug to the rolltop desk. Neat stacks of papers shared space with embossed stationery, pens, letter openers. Such obedience to the German’s preference for order. Hélène had found her calling.

  But again, Josephine wasted time allowing her mind to drift.

  Breathe, she told herself. Finish it.

  With quick fingers, she rifled through the documents, careful not to upset thei
r position, then turned her attention to the drawers. She found tickets to the theater, stubs for train rides to Épernay, one to Paris, stamps, a host of official-looking documents and invoices. Within this cluster, she found a piece of buried treasure. An order for an outrageous sum of champagne. Its destination, North Africa.

  Josephine held up the paper and read. She wasn’t as well versed in the German language as she would like, but she knew enough to understand a large portion of the words, the markings, the numbers. She continued reading and, again, told herself: breathe.

  She read and she breathed.

  When she was confident she understood what she’d found, she replaced the document in the drawer and closed it with a noiseless click. Slowly, she stepped back and breathed. She took another step. Eyes still on the desk, she swallowed a smile, sensing—knowing—she had come across a significant piece of information. Where the champagne goes, so goes the German army.

  Someone must be told. Someone she trusted. Someone—

  “What are you doing in my office? You do not have permission to be in this room.”

  Stifling a gasp, Josephine whipped around and met von Schmidt’s angry stare. She allowed herself one instant of panic. Then remembered she had planned for this.

  Her voice, when it came, was hard and unforgiving, bordering on shrewish. “I will ask the same of you. What is the meaning of this, Antoine?” Letting her eyes go a little wild, she picked up a random stack of papers, waved them in the air, slammed them back on the desk. “You conduct business in a foreign language now, one I do not understand? Why is this? Why hide these transactions from me? Me? Your wife of nearly ten years.”

  Shocked at how authoritative she sounded, when inside her head the voices wailed, she watched von Schmidt hover in the doorway. His face contorted. Uncertainty coated over his obvious distaste, as if he wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with this madwoman in his office. “Madame LeBlanc, I think you are confus—”