by Renee Ryan
He took the phone, but not before he gave her a thorough once-over. She had to look away to keep from revealing her hatred of him.
“This is Hauptmann von Schmidt,” he said in German. He didn’t speak for several seconds, just listened. Then, he ended the call, “Danke,” and hung up the phone with a bang.
Hélène immediately noticed the ridge between his eyes. Never a good sign, that ridge.
“The saboteurs have brought trouble on us all.”
“How...how do you mean?”
His gaze, already hard, became razor-sharp as he glanced past her to a distant spot outside the window. “Berlin is sending a Gestapo agent to deal with the local rebellion.”
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-One
Gabrielle
19 February 1941
With the fragile morning light of the winter sunrise illuminating her way, Gabrielle crested the hilltop in her mother’s motorcar. Despite the thick gloves she wore, her hands shook from the cold and her breath froze on the still air. She’d never experienced such constant, bone-chilling temperatures. Following the worst harvest in her lifetime, Champagne had been hit with one of the most severe winters on record.
Fuel shortages of every kind made enduring the harsh weather a lesson in torture within the walls of the château. Except, in the rooms von Schmidt had chosen for his own personal use. The rest of the household suffered, while he enjoyed much comfort.
Gabrielle wanted to close her eyes, to find a prayer, but she needed to stay alert and keep her gaze fastened on the road. She steered around a patch of ice, up and over another hill and, finally, closing in on her destination, maneuvered along the main street that ran through the center of Reims.
The sight of so many cathedral spires brought a moment of peace. Then she saw it. The gigantic Nazi flag hanging over the entire front façade of the mayor’s office building. And then, she saw another one, equally massive, equally offensive, secured to the roofline of a hotel that had previously belonged to a Jewish family. There were more. She quit counting at five.
The message couldn’t be clearer. Reims belonged to the Third Reich. If the Americans didn’t join the war soon, all of Europe would fall. Even the mighty Great Britain.
There were other, equally upsetting signs of German occupation. Even at this early hour, soldiers from the newly arrived Waffen-SS unit roamed the streets, looking for trouble, finding it often. Dispatched to assist the Gestapo agent in quelling the acts of sabotage, these black-uniformed soldiers were harder and meaner than their Wehrmacht predecessors. Few in town had met their leader. But these soldiers, the Gestapo agent’s personal henchmen, were young, none older than Gabrielle, and frighteningly, brutally handsome. They’d been in town less than a week, but already spread terror wherever they went as they banded together in packs like feral dogs. They were not above exerting their authority in cruel and petty ways.
All of Reims trembled in their presence.
Waiting for them to pass to the next block, Gabrielle then parked outside the boulangerie and scrambled into the frigid morning air. The queue outside the bread bakery was already long, stretching around the building and down the next block. Hunched inside her coat, she took her place at the end of the line.
She’d volunteered for this errand to ease the increased workload von Schmidt had heaped on Marta this morning. He’d decided, without warning, to throw an impromptu dinner party tonight and, as was his custom, insisted on an impressive, seven-course meal. The menu was to include several rationed items that were nearly impossible to acquire without a special permit and endless hours of standing in lines. Hours Marta would need to prepare the various courses.
When she’d mentioned this dilemma to von Schmidt, he’d made it evident the details were not his concern. “You will figure this out on your own.”
Such arrogance. Gabrielle had offered her assistance to the frazzled housekeeper. “I will go to the shops in your place.”
“You have work to do in the champagne house. Non.” Marta shook her head. “I cannot ask this of you.”
“You didn’t ask, I offered. The work will be here when I return. Now, make your list and I will see about filling it.” And so, here she now stood, in the unforgiving cold, at the end of an impossibly long line, her back purposefully turned to the swastikas defacing her city.
A burst of frosty air swept over the streets and alleyways, cutting through the hardiest of winter coats. Gabrielle drew her hat lower over her head, then edged closer to the bakery’s entrance. Ahead of her, two shivering forms huddled together. They held hands, one much larger than the other, a silent show of support between a mother and her young daughter.
She thought of her own mother. Hélène had distanced herself from the rest of the family more than usual, rarely interacting with them, not even Paulette. Gabrielle thought she knew what triggered the change. She was too afraid of her mother’s explanation to broach the subject.
A hard shove from behind pushed her forward. The line had moved without her. She muttered an apology and reclaimed her place behind the mother and daughter. Directly across the street was the police station where the Gestapo agent had set up his office a week ago.
Gabrielle hadn’t seen Kriminalkommissar Wolfgang Mueller yet, not in the flesh. She wasn’t sure anyone had. But his reputation preceded him. It was said that the people he arrested were never seen or heard from again. An involuntary shiver slinked along the base of her spine.
Finally it was her turn in the bakery.
She made her purchases and then stood in line at the butcher’s. The grocer was next, then the pâtisserie. It took most of the day, but she exited the last of the shops with everything on Marta’s list. Arms full, she made her way back to the car. There would be just enough time for her to deliver the items to the housekeeper, check on matters at the champagne house and then dress for von Schmidt’s dinner party. She would rather skip the event, but Herr Hauptmann liked showing off the LeBlanc women as if they were his own personal property.
Shoulders hunched against the terrible wind, she neared the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims. The towering monument to God was an emblem to the French people’s faith and hope. Gabrielle had lost both long ago. The thought brought anguish rather than anger.
She was nearly at her mother’s motorcar, a single block away, when a uniformed man exited the police station and headed in her direction. There was only time for impressions as he closed the distance between them with ground-eating strides.
He was tall, with broad shoulders and a powerful torso that tapered to a narrow waist. He walked with the authority of a man in charge and didn’t seem bothered by the cold. He wore all black—black jacket, black jodhpurs, shiny black boots. His collar bore the SS runes and the red armband around his left bicep displayed the Nazi swastika. Most disturbing of all was the handgun strapped to his belt.
So, this was the dreaded Gestapo agent sent from Berlin to restore order in Reims. And he was heading straight for her. A moment of sheer panic passed over Gabrielle. She tried to shift out of the man’s path. In her haste, she nearly stumbled over her own two feet. Her clumsiness drew his notice and he quickened his pace.
He was nearly upon her. She couldn’t see his eyes beneath his peaked hat, but she sensed his gaze on her. He moved with feline grace. The boneless, liquid strides reminded her of a large jungle cat. Gabrielle was suddenly mesmerized by her own terror. She made another attempt to avoid him. This time, she did trip and her packages slipped out of her hands.
She automatically dropped to her knees.
He joined her there an instant later, his crouch far less awkward than hers. She could see his features now, a shockingly beautiful face with a hard, cruel edge.
“Mademoiselle. You would do well to watch your step.” Even his voice held a low, predatory purr. “Let me help you.”
It was the last th
ing she wanted. “I can manage on my own.”
She wasted her breath. His hands were already gathering up her packages. The long, elegant fingers belonged to an artist, not one of Hitler’s assassins. Too late, she realized he’d seized her bags and now stood, waiting for her to do the same. She rose and found herself staring at a row of polished silver buttons that cut a vertical line down his chest. His height was even more impressive up close. He had the build of an ancient Germanic warrior.
She lifted her head a fraction higher and confronted the face of the Gestapo. It was not what she expected from an instrument of tyranny. The chiseled angles and smooth planes were too...human. There was something not quite right here. Confusion overtook her fear.
The face was younger than she would have expected from a high-ranking police detective, only a few years older than her own twenty-eight years. The features themselves were shockingly beautiful, but also very, very masculine. The personification of Aryan racial purity.
Gabrielle couldn’t look away, even knowing he’d come to Reims to seek out people who resisted their occupiers. People like her. This was why Berlin had sent him, no doubt. This hypnotic effect.
His eyes dropped to the packages he now held. There was obvious intent in the gesture, and also what she thought was disdain. “You are a French woman?”
“Oui, I am French.”
Frowning, he searched the contents of her bags. “Are there not rations in place?”
“There are.”
He lifted his head. Later, when she thought back on this moment, Gabrielle would remember the look in his eyes. Sharp and full of blue fire. He’d made up his mind about her in a single glance and she’d been found wanting. “You should not have been allowed so many purchases in a single day.”
No, she should not. “I shop for the German stationed in my home.”
His eyes narrowed at this explanation, two identical slits of hard, Nazi suspicion. “Who is this soldier requiring so much food during a time of shortage?”
She answered without hesitation. “Hauptmann von Schmidt. He is hosting a dinner party this evening and I was sent to acquire the necessary ingredients for the meal.”
“I see.”
She wondered about the conclusions he’d drawn.
“Your papers, please.” She noticed his accent then. She hadn’t thought it so thick before. But now, he spoke in stilted French, with the guttural accent that belonged to a man used to speaking only German.
Her throat clenched on a squeak. “My papers?”
He watched her with the lazy patience of a cat. “This is not a complicated request, Mademoiselle. You either have your identification papers with you, or you do not.”
“I have them.” She lowered her head. Her face, surely, would show something she did not want him to see. Hands shaking, she fiddled with the clasp on her handbag. It took her two tries to release the latch.
Finally, she pulled out the German-issued identity card every French citizen in the occupied zone was required to carry and handed it to the man towering over her. He dropped her bags to the ground. And then, shoving several aside with his foot, snatched the document.
He took his time reading over her credentials. Gabrielle waited, pulse pounding in her ears. Behind him stood the gothic cathedral where French kings had been coronated. The way the late-afternoon light shone over him, it was as if he were an extension of the building itself, as if he’d recently ascended from one of the stained-glass windows. A fallen angel shed of his black wings, morphed into human form, contempt for mankind woven into his very fiber.
With each passing second her control vanished. She felt loose and shaky inside, and realized she was going to be sick. She couldn’t give in to the urge, not here. He would suspect she had something to hide. You do have something to hide.
She’d thought herself so clever as she’d executed her small acts of treason against a bully regime. She thought her nocturnal adventures were easy enough to explain away if anyone caught her wandering the vineyard at night. How wrong she’d been. How foolish. And now Berlin had sent this man who made people disappear. A man who had yet to share his name or rank with her.
Resentment occupied every fiber of her being.
She would not crumple. She was a LeBlanc. Étienne’s daughter. Benoit’s widow. All she had to do was find her courage. And not be sick. She modulated her breathing, forcing down the bile that wanted to rise in her throat. She breathed in shallow, rhythmic puffs of air. Better. The nausea slipped away, leaving her feeling hollow, but also in control. A spurt of patriotism replaced her fear. The Free French would triumph.
They were gaining in strength, becoming more coordinated.
She was not alone in her fight for France. She was, however, alone in this moment.
Looking around, she noticed how deserted their section of the sidewalk had become. The citizens of Reims gave them a wide berth. None looked at Gabrielle. Did they think avoiding eye contact would keep them from suffering similar scrutiny?
“You are registered with two surnames, LeBlanc and Dupree.” He snapped his gaze to hers. “Which of the two is real, and which one is fake?”
Her mind filled with absolute darkness. “I... Both are real.” She lifted her chin, calling upon the noble blood of her ancestors, on the memory of the man she’d married. “I was born a LeBlanc. My husband, a Dupree.”
His eyes went to her left hand. “You do not wear a wedding band.”
She detested the way he mangled her language. “My husband is dead.”
“Ah, you are a widow.”
Her heart thudded in her chest. Was her loyalty to two families a crime? If this man carted her off to jail, would the people pretending not to watch them come to her aid?
No, they would not. They cared only for their own safety, like so many in the occupied zone. If the French didn’t fight for each other, none of them were safe.
Despair washed over her. She could hardly keep it off her face.
He returned her identity card. She took it without looking directly into his eyes. They disturbed her. There was something not quite right in that pure, pale blue. Something she couldn’t identify. His manner also troubled her. The relaxed stance didn’t seem to match with the menace of his black uniform. And yet, somehow, fit all too well.
This man was not what he seemed.
“Mademoiselle—”
“Madame,” she corrected.
He sketched a brief bow. She hadn’t known such a large man could have so much control over his body. “The address you listed on your identity papers indicates that you live in the château connected with your birth family. Is this correct?”
Gabrielle felt her eyebrows pull together. “That’s correct.”
“And the man billeting in your home is from the corps of wine merchants.”
She nodded, again surprised he knew so much about her.
A car backfired in the distance, a loud, shocking noise that made her jump. The Gestapo agent showed no signs of hearing the sound. Although, of course, he heard it. How could he not? Cool and composed, his eyes remained on her face. The air grew frigid around them, their breaths puffing inside miniature clouds around their heads. And still, he watched her. His scrutiny, she realized, was more speculation than censure.
Monsters hid behind such looks.
This was a dangerous man. And he knew where she lived. “May I go?”
“You may go.” He waited for her to pick up her bags, without a single offer of assistance, then stepped aside to let her pass.
She glanced back only once. In that instant, the sun dipped behind the cathedral and the building’s shadows swallowed him whole. But not before Gabrielle saw his lips curve in a slow, satisfied smile.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Josephine
Josephine forgot what it meant to be warm. This w
inter was harsher than most, though perhaps not the harshest she’d ever experienced. Surely, there had been worse. At least once in her childhood. She remembered being very small and trying to climb into the crackling fire, desperate for its heat. Her father had caught her up against his chest and held her close, softly admonishing her in a gentle voice. “This is not the way to escape the cold, mon chou.”
His strong arms had been enough to warm her. She wished for them now.
Per Marta’s instructions, she dressed in multiple layers and stayed that way for hours. Or possibly minutes, sometimes the passage of time was an unsolved mystery. She knew this additional clothing was supposed to help combat the cold. It did not. The extra garments only managed to weigh her down and made even the simplest of movements difficult.
Enough. She shed the top layer and left her room.
In the kitchen, Marta looked at her, eyebrows raised, as if she’d committed some unforgivable act of rebellion. “What?” she asked.
“You’re shivering.”
This was not news to her. “I’m cold.”
“Then you should wear more clothing.” Marta’s tone contained the scold that had been absent from her father’s voice.
Josephine shrugged and looked out the window. The vines slept under a thick layer of frost and the sun had traveled deep across the sky to a point far past the halfway mark. Another day vanishing too quickly. Behind her, Marta moved around the kitchen in a frantic rush. Josephine remembered von Schmidt had decided to throw another one of his pompous parties.
With her right hand, she reached out to clasp her friend’s arm. Marta came to an abrupt stop. “Tell me,” Josephine began. “What can I do to ease this burden he has put on you?”
The question seemed to surprise the other woman. Her mouth strained for a response. “You have done it already. You remember, non? You hired the Trevon sisters to assist with the last-minute preparations and the serving. They are to arrive within the hour.”