by Renee Ryan
She checked his pulse, relieved to discover a thready beat. “He’s alive. He just passed out.”
“It’s for the best,” Max said, so calm, so certain.
They finished setting the leg, then dealt with the parachute. And that was that. Gabrielle had done what she could. The injured man was no longer her concern. Still, she asked, “What will happen to him?”
“De Vogüe will make that decision.” Of course their de facto leader must be involved.
Outside, the rain had turned into a cold drizzle. She embraced the slap of cold on her cheeks. It helped clear her head. She went to retrieve her bike. Max said her name.
She glanced back. “Yes?”
He scanned her face, looking for...something. “You have information for me?”
In all the commotion, she’d forgotten the reason she’d asked him to meet her in the first place. Quickly, succinctly, she told him everything she knew about the massive champagne shipment to North Africa. He smiled for the first time since she’d come upon him in the vineyard. “Well done, Gabrielle. This is good.”
“Is it?”
“The Germans reward their soldiers with our champagne. They must be sending many troops to Africa.”
They decided upon the date and time of their next meeting, assuming no surprises arose beforehand. Gabrielle also walked Max through the steps needed to care for his unexpected guest should infection or fever set in. When there was nothing more to say, they nodded to each other, and then Gabrielle was pedaling through the rows. The rain provided excellent cover. But then the church bells rang above the gloom. Five strikes. A clear warning that dawn would soon be upon her, though the sky was still dark as pitch.
She was careful to place the bike where she’d found it. To hide the signs of her nocturnal adventure, she retrieved a rag and began wiping. Mud had found curious places to settle. The rain stopped before she was through, and gray light threaded through a heavy fog.
Grateful for the concealment, she stepped into the murkiness. Closer to home, she kept to the shadows cast by the château’s high walls. Near the terrace, a fine mist descended over her, snaking around her feet. She swallowed back a wave of unease. If someone saw her, she would claim worry over the vines had driven her out of doors.
Explaining her choice of clothing would be harder. The best solution was not to be caught. The morning chill followed her inside the house, and put an edge to her mood, but the hallway was empty, as was the back stairwell. She pushed into her room and quietly shut the door behind her. Her shoulders heaved. Then she sagged, her eyes closing on a sigh.
She’d made it. No one had seen her. She was safe.
She hoped Max and the injured airman found the same success.
Chapter Twenty
Hélène
Hélène’s heart beat wildly in her throat. Something had brought her to the window, an impulse she couldn’t explain. She caught a movement—there, in the distance—and looked closer. There it was again, a silhouette moving within the fog. Pressing her hand to the cool glass, she leaned forward for a better view.
The figure was gone.
She stepped away from the window and pressed her lips tightly together, wondering if what she’d seen had been real or simply a flicker of shadows. She knew, of course, and now she must make herself forget that figure sneaking around in the morning fog, for the safety of her daughter. For the safety of them all.
Please, Lord, clear this from my mind.
The prayer resounded in her head, over and over, with no happy resolution. She’d seen what she’d seen and could never forget.
She looked out the window again, down into the damp garden, and there. She saw it again. The shape of a woman, clad in head-to-toe black, moving with quiet stealth.
Hélène recognized the owner of the silhouette. With that recognition, fear for her daughter’s safety fell over her like a thick, wet blanket.
She had a sudden, uncanny conviction that Gabrielle was working with the resistance movement. The mother in her was terrified. But as she watched her daughter slink into the house through a door hidden within the ivy, Hélène could not help but feel secretly awed. She’d raised a strong woman. How could that not bring pride to her heart?
When the time came for her to make her own sacrifice, she prayed she would be as brave as Gabrielle. It would be soon. She’d laid the groundwork. All that was left was for her to take the final, fatal step.
There is no other way. That’s what she told herself. That’s what she knew to be her truth. Von Schmidt wanted complete control over her, mind and body. If she didn’t give, he would take. Their alliance would either be on his terms, or hers.
It must be hers, or else she would break. She could not let that happen. There would be repercussions if the tide of war shifted. Hélène wouldn’t think about that now. She would only think about protecting her daughters from the consequences of her Jewish blood.
Head high, she went into the kitchen to retrieve the tray of coffee and pastries von Schmidt demanded she bring him every morning. After a short, cursory knock, she entered the library and found him sorting through a stack of papers. He stood with his back to her, dressed in the field-gray uniform he preferred over the navy-blue suit he wore occasionally and only when he dealt with other German businessmen.
Hélène cleared her throat. When he glanced over his shoulder she caught the glimmer of calculation in his eyes. She did not like that look. It meant nothing good. “Ah, Hélène. Come in.”
As she crossed the threshold, he turned around fully, the stack of papers still clasped in his hand. The sun streamed in through the window and washed over him, bringing out the pale blue of his eyes, and highlighting the dark gold of his hair. A handsome man, aging as splendidly as a well-blended champagne.
And yet, the sight of him brought only revulsion to her stomach. Perhaps because he was the enemy. Or perhaps because she knew he would strip her of every last shred of dignity before he was through with her. A shiver of terror joined the revulsion. She hid both behind a serene smile and readjusted the tray she carried.
“I see you are already hard at work, Helmut.” They’d long dispensed with proper names and titles. He preferred she call him by his first name, an intimacy that she detested as much as that look in his eyes.
“I have received news I wish for you to explain.” Barely controlled fury coated his voice, as if it took him much willpower to keep from lashing out at her—his favorite target for his rage.
This foul mood of his was as familiar as the ugly look in his eyes.
Tread carefully, she told herself. He is spoiling for a fight. What she didn’t know was why. And then, fear grabbed her by the throat and squeezed the breath out of her. Had he seen Gabrielle sneaking into the château? “Bien sûr,” she said. “Of course. I will do my best.”
With her heart cantering away from her, she set the breakfast tray on the table near the window that overlooked the main entrance to the champagne house. He preferred this view while he feasted on Marta’s pastries made to his personal specifications, which always seemed to change. More fruit. Not so much fruit. More cream and butter. Less salt. I said no fruit.
The man was never satisfied. He enjoyed finding fault and pointing out her mistakes. If there were none to be found, he manufactured them. And then, his temper roared.
Hélène sat on the edge of a chair facing him, folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to take his usual seat. He remained standing, looming over her. A common strategy to make himself appear larger than he was, and more intimidating.
What had she done? What had she not done?
“How well do you know your neighbors?” he asked her in a low, even tone that to an outsider would have seemed reasonable. To her, it was a snare.
“I know some better than others.”
He held her stare longer than was
his usual practice. This cold, frigid calm was unusual and far more unsettling than any display of anger. “Would you say you know them well enough to tell me which of them would openly work against the Third Reich?”
So many words, she thought, with only one purpose. To confuse her into informing on her neighbors. “You are speaking of resistance?”
“I am speaking of sabotage.”
Her mind went to the image of her daughter sneaking into the house and she made an involuntary sound in her throat. “I know no one who would dare such a thing.”
But, of course, that was a lie. She knew several in this home alone. She had to lower her head to hide the truth that possibly showed in her eyes.
“Last night,” he continued. “There was an incident at the railyard.”
She lifted her head, careful to keep her expression neutral. “What sort of incident?”
He leaned over her. He was so close she could have slapped his face with very little effort. How satisfying it would be to see the mark of her hand on that clean-shaven cheek.
Before she could surrender to the impulse, he straightened to his full height. She was forced to crane her neck to continue looking into his eyes. “Someone,” he said, his gaze boring into hers, “cut through the fence last night and emptied the wine from hundreds of barrels awaiting transfer to Berlin.”
“Mon Dieu.” It was such a bold act of rebellion against a merciless enemy. People disappeared from their homes for less.
Hélène turned blindly away from von Schmidt’s searching glare, even as her mind went straight to Gabrielle. Had her daughter been part of this brave group of conspirators?
Von Schmidt must have read something in her face, because he yanked her to her feet and gripped her arms so hard bruises would appear within the hour. “You know something. What do you know, Hélène?”
Her denial should have been immediate. It should have already come, before he’d finished his accusation. She needed to be submissive, pliable, at the very least show her confusion. But in that instant, caution was the last thing on her mind. Her anxiety for her daughter pushed her to ask questions in the place of giving answers. “Did they leave clues to their identities?”
“The rain washed away any footsteps.” His grip turned brutal, sending sharp pain down into her fingertips, up into her shoulders. “It’s as if they were never there.”
Louange Dieu. Praise God.
Gabrielle was safe. For now.
As if sensing her mind had wandered, von Schmidt shook her hard and his hands closed tighter, tighter still, until she cried out. “What do you know, Hélène?”
“Nothing, I swear it.”
“Give me a name, anyone you suspect.”
Her lungs burned with panic, and a sob burst from her lips. “I don’t know anyone who could do such a thing. I don’t,” she added when he gave her another shake.
He tried to stare the lie out of her. She lifted her chin and let him see her fear. The fear, she hoped, of the wrongfully accused.
“You will tell me what you know. Or I will be forced to interrogate the rest of your household.” Another threat delivered smoothly, in that low, even cadence. “I will start with your youngest daughter.”
Her heart gave a quick stutter. The toxic mix of fear and panic, coupled with the screaming pain from his ruthless hold, made her momentarily light-headed. Think, Hélène. Think. “Perhaps it was local boys playing a prank.”
“This was not the work of children. It was a coordinated act of treason.” Von Schmidt’s face went hard. And still, he held on to her arms. “The shipment was earmarked for top Nazi officials. Germany will not allow this to stand. We will find those responsible.”
“What will you do to them?” The words were out before she thought them.
His grin was pure evil. “They will be executed for treason.”
Hélène went perfectly still. Pinned under von Schmidt’s cold glare, she couldn’t think what to say to remove his suspicion. After so much preparation, so much careful planning and calculating, she feared she’d made an unforgivable misstep. Why had she gone to the window this morning? “I cannot think who did this, Helmut.”
The use of his given name was intentional, as was the plea she placed in her voice. He studied her closely. Then nodded.
“I regret that I have upset you. That was not my intent.” He held up a hand and used it to cup her face. She hadn’t realized he’d let go of her arms. The pain still throbbed in her flesh. “Tell me, Hélène, and do not lie. I will know if you lie. Are you sympathetic to these saboteurs? Is that why you refuse to inform on them?”
This was it, then. The moment when she sacrificed herself to protect her family. “I am not with them. I am with you, Helmut. Only you.”
There. It was done. The words were said. Something fragile fractured inside her, the thinnest of shells that left her exposed fully for this dog to pick at her bones. She’d given him her allegiance and had signed over her soul, the death knell to all she believed holy and sacred. Forgive me, Lord.
It was over. She would never be herself again.
A smile emerged on von Schmidt’s face, a boyish grin that nearly had her believing he wasn’t such a terrible man. She hated herself for thinking it even for a moment. His eyes crinkled around the edges, evoking reminders of the gentle man she’d lost. Oh, Étienne, I am sorry.
Von Schmidt reached up to run a finger along her jawline. Her hate for herself was nothing compared to the loathing she felt for this man who would claim her body. But he would never have her heart.
Forgive me, Lord.
“There is other news from Berlin I think you will find interesting.”
So quick to cool the rabid temper, she thought, and realized how truly dangerous this man was, more than any of them had initially thought.
His hand idly played in her hair. This intimacy, it was too much. She stood stiffly under his loathsome touch. He didn’t seem to notice her lack of response. Or perhaps, he didn’t care. “All Jewish people in the occupied zone are now required to register at the police stations or sous-préfectures of their towns and cities. They will no longer be allowed to own or engage in business.”
A scream of protest rose in her throat. She’d known this was coming, and still the news hit her like an iron fist to the gut. “Why are you telling me this?”
Nose inches from hers, von Schmidt brushed his hand down her arm, shoulder to wrist. Pain shot through her as his fingers grazed over her bruised bicep. Revulsion came next. “I believe,” he said, “that you will want to share this news with the rest of your family, your oldest daughter in particular.”
Hélène gritted her teeth, using her confusion as a reason to step away from his roving hand. “Why would this news matter to Gabrielle?”
“These new laws could benefit your family’s champagne business.” With those unsettling words, he revealed how well she’d hidden her identity. To him, she was Hélène LeBlanc—blonde, French, Christian.
“What are you suggesting?” she asked, appalled at the direction of their conversation.
“Now is the time to consider expanding your business. Tell your daughter to make plans. Once the Jews are swept clean from this country, there will be opportunities for the taking. She will want to be ready.”
The horror of what he suggested made her tremble uncontrollably. She had to lean against the bookshelf to calm herself. She wanted nothing more than to escape into a dark hole and never come out, as she’d done after Étienne’s death, when the world became too much to bear. Those days of self-indulgence were over.
“You know your neighbors, their names, the churches they attend. If they go to synagogue. You know who owns all the local businesses, and how well they do financially.”
“Most of this information is common knowledge.”
“Then you will have no problem
making me a list of every Jew in the area. I expect you to include where they work, where they live, the names of their children. Everything you think important.”
What he asked of her, it was unconscionable. With this list, Hélène LeBlanc would become the vilest of creatures. A collaborator. A traitor to her own kind. She would be sending her own people—men, women, children—to their deaths. But if she didn’t do this, what would happen to her own daughters?
She could refuse this request and sign all of their death warrants.
Be smart, she told herself. Be brave.
There were many forms of courage, she reminded herself. Many ways to fight a monster. She’d already started down a path. Now there was no turning back.
She left the safety of the bookshelf and approached him, obvious intent in her gaze, her swaying hips making silent promises. He understood. Of course he did. He was a man. The smile curling across his lips only confirmed what she already knew.
With each step, she tapped into the woman she’d been before Étienne had come into her life. There was a great distance to be covered to return to her former self, to the woman who’d frequented salons, who’d rubbed shoulders with a life of decadence. It was oddly comforting, really, to fall back into her old ways. Or maybe that was another rationalization to get her through the monumental journey she had to make.
She leaned into her quarry and had a moment of regret for the self-respect she would lose once she sealed this offensive deal. Another inch, just a little closer.
The ringing of the telephone gave her a valid excuse to pull back. It took enormous effort to move away slowly. To reach for the telephone, to greet the caller in a cool, confident, breezy tone. She listened to the German on the other end of the line, her mind locking on the one word that mattered, then held out the receiver. “It’s Berlin. For you.”