The Widows of Champagne

by Renee Ryan

  Hélène remembered the boy now. But she had to search her memory to bring up his image. Average height, a bit on the lanky side. Dark eyes, nearly black. He’d been one of the boys vying for Paulette’s attention at the anniversary party. Dark hair tousled about his face. Very French. His family grew grapes on a small vineyard. Lucien had a mother and two younger siblings living at home, twin girls. His father had been conscripted into the French army, which meant the boy was the man of the house. “What are the charges against your friend?”

  “I don’t know, something to do with passing out pamphlets for the Free French. It’s all so terribly unfair.” Paulette threw herself into Hélène’s arms again. “I’ll die without him, Maman. You have to do something.”

  What could she do? She had no power in this world.

  “Please, you have to help Lucien.” Paulette’s voice was muffled against Hélène’s shoulder. “You are the only person who can.”

  Confused by this statement, she pushed her daughter out of her arms. Paulette’s nose was pink, and her eyes were swollen, and yet she was beautiful. Tragic and gorgeous in her misery. The girl was eighteen, no longer a child and already wielding the tools of a woman. It was a startling revelation, made more frightening because Hélène sensed Paulette knew the influence of her tears. “What is it you think I can do?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You can go to Capitaine von Schmidt and ask him to put in a good word for Lucien. I’ve seen the way you bend him to your will. He’ll do anything you ask.”

  Hélène gaped at her daughter. Paulette had caught the undertones between her and von Schmidt, and yet had completely misread their meaning. The despair she felt, she couldn’t describe it. Cold and paralyzing. “I do not have that kind of relationship with the man. While I wish I could help, I can’t do what you ask. It isn’t possible.”

  “You think I don’t understand the situation? Oh, I understand, believe me. I do. A lot more than you think.” Her expression was so angry, and her voice was so bitter, that again Hélène hardly recognized her own child. She experienced a moment of utter hopelessness. Some of the emotion edged over into irritation. She started to speak, to correct this terrible mistake, but she paused and looked away, too sick over the example she’d set to bring up the right words.

  “Well?” Paulette pushed. “Will you do it? Will you speak to Capitaine von Schmidt?”

  “Even if I had that kind of sway with him, which I assure you, I don’t, there is no guarantee he will be able to influence the Gestapo on behalf of your friend. He is not SS.”

  “Why would that matter?” Paulette looked genuinely surprised. “Germans are Germans.”

  “That is not true, not true at all. Some Germans are worse than others.”

  “Be that as it may...” Impatience glowed in the girl’s eyes. “The capitaine likes you, Maman. He will do whatever you ask. I know it, even if you do not. What harm could it be to ask him to help Lucien?”

  What harm, indeed. She started to explain. But then an image of the boy came into her mind and Hélène thought of his mother, his sisters. Could she take this risk?

  Her father’s words came to her in a rush. What we do for ourselves, Hélène, dies with us. What we do for others, remains forever.

  She must be brave, for the sake of this boy and his mother.

  Her hands reached for each other, twisted at her waist, fell back to her sides. “I will bring up the matter with von Schmidt. But I must warn you, Paulette. It is not a simple thing you ask of me. To do this I will have to—”

  “Oh, Maman. I knew you would agree.”

  And just like that, the matter was settled in her daughter’s mind. Paulette, tears quickly drying, took herself to Hélène’s dressing table and proceeded to paw through the jars. Humming an American tune made popular by one of those swing bands, she dipped a brush into a small pot and, without fuss or hesitation, swiped the red dye across her lips. “I think this color suits me.” The girl’s impossibly long lashes fluttered expectantly. “Don’t you agree?”

  Desperation tried to get the better of her. She battled it back. “It’s very lovely.” Hélène rubbed at her tired eyes and, again, attempted to explain the situation to her daughter. “Paulette, I want you to understand why I make myself available to our...houseguest. This is important, so I need you to listen to what I tell you.”

  “Hmm,” was all she said, her attention buried in a jar of face cream. The girl’s complete disinterest teased Hélène’s guilt to the surface. She’d allowed Paulette to believe their house was a safe haven, when it was anything but.

  “France is at war,” she began. “And we are at von Schmidt’s mercy. I do not cultivate a relationship with him for my own pleasure. I do so for our family, for you. I...” The rest of the words slid down her throat. This time, she’d lost Paulette’s interest to an atomizer of perfume. “We will speak of this another time.”

  When I have your full attention.

  Hélène moved to the window. The pruning had already begun in the vineyard. Another year, another hope. Despite the cold, her hands began to sweat because she knew what she would have to do to save Paulette’s friend. It shamed her, but not enough to turn from this path.

  She should do it now, before she lost her nerve. Von Schmidt would be in the library, watching the drive, already dressed for dinner, debating with himself whether to have another cigarette. He would have it, of course. He denied himself nothing.

  She left the window and stood before the full-length mirror. The air scratched in her lungs as she studied her dress, her face, the elegant hair. Tomorrow, there would be a different woman in the glass. More jaded, humiliated and stripped of what little pride she had left.

  It had to be done. She could put it off no longer.

  Hélène bid her reflection a silent farewell and, after smoothing down a stray hair, left the room. Outside the library, her stomach became a nest of writhing snakes.

  Remember, Hélène, a boy’s life is at stake. The words in her head were spoken in Étienne’s voice. They pushed her through the door.

  Von Schmidt was sitting calmly at his desk, smoking a cigarette. “Helmut.” She said his name in a husky whisper. “Do you have a moment?”

  “For you?” He smiled with just the hint of the predator in his eyes. “I have several.”

  For the boy, she reminded herself. For his family. And for yours.

  It was time to meet her fate. And still, she hesitated.

  Before von Schmidt had moved into her home, Hélène had done a good deal of entertaining. In the role of hostess her duties had required her to be solicitous and charming, a woman who listened to a guest—a man—and made him feel noticed, admired. Heard. She would use those same skills to take this next—and final—step in her own personal war.

  She moved slowly, with obvious intent, her eyes locked with von Schmidt’s. His smile deepened and she felt strangely emboldened. She reached down and put her hand on his knee, squeezed softly.

  He reached to her. She skirted away. Not yet. She slinked to the bookshelf, ran her fingertips along a random spine. She didn’t look back to see if von Schmidt watched her. She knew he did. The sun slipped below the horizon, casting the room in a pink-tinged glow. She heard him leave his seat. When he came up behind her, she turned, her back against the books.

  Both of his hands came up, landing on the shelving, one on either side of her head, sufficiently trapping her in place. His gaze dropped to her lips.

  She would not prevent his kiss. She would not encourage it, either.

  He moved a step closer, his smile spreading. A smile to others, a trap for her. She allowed him to press her against the shelves, to brush his fingers across her cheek, then along her jawline. She focused on a spot above his right eye, pretending it didn’t matter that he was taking outrageous liberties without the benefit of a locked door to afford them priv
acy. Anyone could walk in on them. Anyone could hear what they said.

  His head lowered to hers.

  Bile rose into her throat. She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t see her revulsion. He took what he wanted, not gently, but with ruthless greed. She hadn’t expected anything else. She figuratively gritted her teeth through every ugly minute of his assault. When he stepped back, her skin burned with humiliation. And hate. He saw neither emotion in her eyes. She gave him submission and nothing else. There were only so many lies she could tell.

  “You will come to my room tonight,” he said, hand gripping her throat. “After our guests have left for the evening.”

  It was not a request, but she knew he expected a response. She gave him a terse nod. It was all she could manage under the weight of her shame.

  He returned to his chair and sat, stretching out his long legs in a languid manner. The satisfaction on his face nearly had her running for the door. Then she thought of Paulette’s friend locked in a cage and leaned over von Schmidt, closing the distance, until her mouth hovered mere inches above his. She noticed, in some distant part of her brain, that the clocks in the hallway chimed the top of the hour, and that the room had turned an ashen, gloomy gray. Or perhaps that was only the color left in her heart. “If I come to you tonight,” she whispered in the same husky tone she’d adopted since entering the library, “I will require something in return.”

  This seemed to amuse him. “Naturally.”

  “I want to know what is to become of young Lucien Trevon.”

  Recognition showed in von Schmidt’s eyes. His slippery smile widened. “He was arrested by the Gestapo for an act of treason. I assume the punishment will fit the crime.”

  She shivered at the glee she saw in him and pulled slightly away. She needed distance for this next part. “I know this boy. He’s just a misguided youth in need of a bit of discipline, nothing grand. A small reprimand. Perhaps you could put in a good word for him with the police?”

  “You ask much of me, Liebling.”

  “Your influence is strong, Helmut.” She knew such a statement played to his ego. “Surely, a word from you will have much weight.”

  “If I do this for you...”

  “I would reward you dearly.”

  “Well, then. Consider it done.”

  “Thank you.” She attempted to draw back.

  He pulled her closer still. “You will show me your appreciation now.”

  Afterward, Hélène made an excuse about needing to retouch her makeup and retreated to the privacy of her room.

  Once she was alone, she collapsed to her knees, covered her face with her hands and prayed for God’s forgiveness. She prayed and she prayed. Then, she wept.

  When there were no more tears left, she stood, raised her chin at a proud angle and made a solemn vow to herself.

  Never again would she shed a tear because of Helmut von Schmidt.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Gabrielle

  Her mother had gone too far. Even knowing why Hélène tempted the enemy, Gabrielle had a moment of wretched despair. Von Schmidt was a devious man. He operated by his own set of rules. None of them really knew how deep his cruelty went.

  This was not the way to find out.

  She contemplated waiting until after the party to confront her mother, then remembered the words she’d overheard only moments before. You will come to my room tonight.

  She’d nearly entered the library then, thinking to prevent another disaster much as she’d done with Josephine, but something had held her back. A sense that von Schmidt would question her interference.

  He would assume she was spying on him.

  Which, of course, she was. Though she hadn’t meant to do so tonight.

  She’d been in the process of escorting Josephine into the parlor, to a chair near the blazing fire, when Gabrielle had seen her mother rush past, her head high, chin firm, looking like an aristocrat heading to the guillotine. She’d called out, but Hélène kept going. Compelled, she’d followed her to the library, and instantly regretted it. She’d heard too much.

  Now, after checking on Josephine and finding her reading, Gabrielle went upstairs and entered her mother’s bedroom. She did not knock. She did not waste time with a polite greeting. “You must stop this flirtation with von Schmidt,” she blurted out. “Before it goes any further.”

  Her mother turned away from the window, her makeup flawless, her eyes hollow. “You should not interfere in matters you don’t understand.”

  She understood, all too well.

  “I know what he demands of you.” Gabrielle wished that she didn’t. She wished she didn’t comprehend why her mother had chosen to wear a formfitting gown that hugged her curves suggestively. “You’re courting discovery.”

  They never spoke about Hélène’s Jewish blood, but Gabrielle knew the need for secrecy and didn’t bring it up directly.

  “A young boy’s life is at stake.”

  She wanted to be proud of this reasoning. Possibly she would have been, if her mother was telling the truth. “You’ve been planning this liaison for some time. Do not try to convince me otherwise.”

  “I do what I must to protect our family.”

  “You will be labeled a collaborator.”

  A slight, self-deprecating smile touched her mother’s lips. “I already carry that name.”

  “Maman—”

  “No, Gabrielle. Ma fille, you must not interfere. We each have a line we are willing to cross.” With remarkable calm, Hélène went to the mirror, pressed powder to her forehead, her cheek, her chin. “This is mine.”

  “This is a line you should never cross. It’s too dangerous.”

  “You speak to me of danger?” Her mother set down the puff, her hand shaking now. “When you take your own risks while the rest of us sleep safely in our beds?”

  Gabrielle felt a sudden terrible shock. “You...you know?”

  “I know.” Instead of judgment, her voice held pride. Then, she did something that surprised them both. She pulled Gabrielle into her arms. “Your secret is safe with me,” she whispered. “As I know mine is with you.”

  Stepping back, she regarded her mother’s shining eyes. Hélène was in agony. And now so was Gabrielle. A hole in her heart started opening, expanding. “There has to be a better way.”

  “The Nazis slaughter my kind without conscience. Hate lives in their hearts. Hate for people like my father. People like me. And, with the stroke of a pen or the change of a single law, people like you and Paulette.”

  It was the first time they’d spoken openly about Hélène’s Jewish heritage. And, also, the first time Gabrielle understood what motivated her mother—maternal love. She liked the situation even less with this new understanding. “You must be careful around von Schmidt. He can’t know your secret. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you. Now you hear me. If the Nazis come for me, they could also come for you. No, don’t interrupt. Listen. I will do my part to protect our family in the only way I know how and with the skills the Lord has provided. I will do this, Gabrielle. And you will let me.”

  Gabrielle felt the blood rush from her face. “Please, Maman, at least think this through.”

  “I already have. I know what I am doing.”

  Josephine had said the same. It was too much. Gabrielle was losing control over the people she loved, the only family she had left. First her grandmother, with her reckless snooping and dangerous journal-keeping, and now her mother, making this terrible sacrifice. Would Paulette be next?

  “Make no mistake, Gabrielle. Survival in war is an ugly business.”

  “Oui, Maman, it is very ugly.”

  “Shall we go down to dinner now?”

  “We might as well.” They passed by Paulette’s room without stopping. The girl had not been inv
ited to attend the party. That, at least, brought some semblance of relief.

  They found Josephine where Gabrielle had left her, in the parlor, asleep now and softly snoring. Von Schmidt was in the room as well, along with three other men, none of them familiar to Gabrielle. All four were dressed in Wehrmacht uniforms, with the patches and hardware similar to von Schmidt’s.

  The men spoke in German, with von Schmidt controlling the majority of the conversation. They were so caught up in whatever they were discussing they didn’t notice the women’s arrival. In silent agreement, Gabrielle and her mother separated. Hélène joined the group of men. Gabrielle went to stand by Josephine and tried not to cringe at the proprietary way von Schmidt draped his arm around her mother’s waist.

  Von Schmidt continued to rant, there was no other word for it, and let go of Hélène so he could pace. The more involved he became, the faster his steps were. Gabrielle had never seen him this agitated. He seemed barely able to contain the explosion of nervous energy that kept him moving through the room. Something had put him on edge.

  “He is late.” Von Schmidt muttered this in both German and French. He did not elucidate who was late in either language. Clearly, it was someone important, someone with considerable power and probably higher up in the political hierarchy.

  The doorbell brought von Schmidt to an abrupt halt and Josephine startled awake. “Oh!”

  He gave the older woman a single, dismissive glare, then turned to face the entryway. It took a moment before someone answered the door, probably Marta. Then, footsteps approached the parlor. Clipped, purposeful, with the kind of innate confidence that belonged to a man who knew his own worth.

  Hand on Josephine’s shoulder, Gabrielle had a terrible premonition. The footsteps grew louder, closer, Nazi entitlement reverberating in each strike of heel to marble. Nerves tried to rise, to blunt her edge, to make her panic. No. She would not panic. Panic was her enemy. A hush fell over their small crowd. And then...

  He walked into the room.

  Gabrielle’s chest rose and fell in a sudden spasm. Of course, she knew him at once. The black uniform was the same one he’d worn earlier that afternoon. Hovering in the doorway, his face unreadable, he took a slow, careful sweep of the room. His gaze landed on Gabrielle. There was something in the way he looked at her that brought matters to a very basic level.