The Widows of Champagne

by Renee Ryan

  She was not the only one uneasy. Tension vibrated in the air, thick enough to cut with a blade. She wanted to run, this very minute. You’re panicking, she thought, and lifted her chin to a haughty angle. This was her home. She belonged here. He did not. He looked about to say something, but von Schmidt was on the move, speaking in rapid German.

  “Welcome to my home, Kriminalkommissar Mueller.” Von Schmidt rapped his heels smartly together and extended his right arm, held out straight, palm facing the Gestapo agent. “Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler,” Mueller answered, shooting his own arm out in response. The rest of the men joined in the anthem to their leader.

  “Herr Detective—”

  “You will refer to me as Detective Commissioner, or Detective Mueller.”

  Von Schmidt stiffened, then nodded and made the introductions. The men, then the women, almost as an afterthought. In contrast, Mueller went to Gabrielle first. She couldn’t speak, but she managed to make her hand do what it needed to do when he reached out to her. He went through the process with Josephine, Hélène, then the rest of the occupants in the room.

  Gabrielle watched, revolted, as each of the German soldiers groveled before him. Mueller seemed thoroughly unimpressed with their adulation and subsequent flattery. His disdain was not hard to read. Nor did it come as a surprise. The Gestapo trusted no one outside their elite ranks, not even their fellow Germans.

  There was a combined sigh of relief when Marta announced dinner.

  As was his custom, von Schmidt took his place at the head of the table, resplendent in his self-appointed position as lord of the manor. He placed Mueller at his immediate right, Hélène on his left, Gabrielle next to her mother. Josephine sat at the other end of the table. The first course was served, along with an exquisite rosé her mother had chosen.

  What Gabrielle noticed almost immediately was the strange dynamics between von Schmidt and Detective Mueller. While von Schmidt did most of the talking, Mueller was the one actually directing the conversation. He seemed to be laying some sort of trap for the other man, perhaps testing von Schmidt’s loyalty.

  How did the sycophant not see this? Perhaps he was too much in awe of the Detective Commissioner to notice the other man’s dislike.

  Trying not to show her reaction, Gabrielle lowered her head and let the music of cutlery fill her ears. Then, suddenly, shrilly, the telephone rang. Two jarring rings. Then nothing. No, she thought. Not now, Max. Please, not now. The telephone rang again. Only once this time. Max wanted to meet at midnight. The code had seemed so simple that they’d decided not to change it.

  Had that been a mistake? Did anyone suspect? Did Mueller? She risked a glance from beneath the fringes of her eyelashes. To her relief, the detective’s gaze was still riveted on von Schmidt. Neither man mentioned the telephone.

  Von Schmidt ordered Hélène to pour the next champagne. “You are in for a treat,” he informed Mueller, waiting for all glasses to be filled before lifting his own. “A toast. To the Third Reich.”

  “The Third Reich,” came a chorus of voices.

  The room went momentarily silent as everyone took a sip of the champagne. Mueller’s compliment was the first of several. “Excellent.”

  As if he’d had a personal hand in making the wine himself, von Schmidt took credit for the selection.

  Mueller smiled. It was a smile that sent chills down Gabrielle’s spine. He took another sip, then pulled the glass down and studied the bubbling liquid. “I have tasted this before.”

  Gabrielle’s blood turned cold.

  “You are drinking one of Château Fouché-LeBlanc’s finest cuvées,” von Schmidt explained with no small amount of pride. “A single vintage from the 1928 harvest.”

  Eyes flat, Mueller set down his glass with noticeable care. “All bottles of the 1928 were supposed to be shipped to Berlin immediately following the signing of the armistice.”

  The room went dead silent.

  Von Schmidt actually squirmed under Mueller’s glare, his own brow creasing into a vertical line. He looked worried. He should be worried. He had been caught saving the best champagne for himself.

  Unfortunately, Mueller’s wrath was not for him alone. He smiled again, smaller this time, and turned to Gabrielle. “What do you have to say about this, Madame Dupree?”

  It was as if the light had been sucked from the room. All she could see was black. Somehow the detective knew she had hidden hundreds of bottles of the 1928 behind her fake wall. But that couldn’t be. He was only testing her. That glint in his eyes, the one she couldn’t quite define, it was goading her to lie. Daring her to play this dreadful game with him.

  “There is an easy explanation,” she began, doing her best to look at the man without actually looking at him. “We served several single vintages at the party we held to celebrate our two hundred years of champagne making. This, of course, depleted much of our reserves.” It was an evasion, if not a complete lie.

  “When was this party?”

  Gabrielle breathed in, breathed out. “In 1939. On the final night of the grape harvest.”

  He said nothing. She said nothing.

  Josephine stepped into the silence and launched into her favorite story behind her rosé blend that had become an international sensation. “It was almost a lark,” she added, laughing fondly over the memory. “I decided to blend a chardonnay with the juice from the pinot grape instead of elderberries. The result was nothing short of—”

  “Magical,” Mueller finished for her, his eyes still on Gabrielle, his voice heavy with ice. “So you have said, Madame. Twice in the past half hour.”

  “I... Did I already tell you this?”

  He looked at her. His mouth moved as if to smile but it was more of a twitch, almost a frown. “You did.”

  Visibly shrinking, Josephine hunched her shoulders and added in a tone barely above a whisper, “Forgive me for repeating myself.”

  “I apologize, Detective Mueller.” This, from von Schmidt. “Madame Fouché-LeBlanc is senile. She tends to retell the same stories.”

  “And yet—” derision dripped from Mueller’s voice “—you allow her at the table, knowing this is her way?”

  Von Schmidt visibly winced. “She is not always confused.”

  As if to contradict this, Josephine lifted her head, glanced around with a wild look in her eyes. Then, catching Mueller’s attention, she gave him an unfocused, faintly wobbly frown, as if she were trying to place him but wasn’t quite able to make the connection.

  Gabrielle’s heart leaped to her throat. There was genuine confusion in her grandmother’s expression. “I, for one, never tire of hearing your stories, Grandmère. I find them inspiring.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw von Schmidt’s lip curl. “No one asked for your opinion, Madame Dupree.”

  “I believe,” Mueller began, looking at Gabrielle with those eyes of his that could melt icebergs, “we have lost the point of this conversation. Madame Dupree, you say you served most of the 1928 at your anniversary party, yet here we are drinking it now. Explain this to me.”

  Gabrielle clutched her hands together in her lap, her fingernails digging into her palms. She could point the finger at von Schmidt. He had, after all, “saved” the 1928 from confiscation. No, too risky. He would only find a way to place the blame back on her. Better to continue the lie she’d concocted for his benefit. “The champagne is from my family’s private stock.”

  “Ah.” This seemed to satisfy the detective’s curiosity. He said nothing more.

  Discussion turned to the likelihood of the Americans joining the war and what that would mean for the Third Reich. The meal went on for another hour, and then several minutes past that. At last, von Schmidt released the women from the table. Hélène took the lead. Gabrielle was only too happy to help her grandmother to her feet and follow behind h
er mother.

  Mueller’s voice stopped her at the doorway. “Madame Dupree, I have a strong desire to see your wine cellar.” He set down his napkin and stood. “You will take me there now.”

  He knew. Somehow he knew she was lying about the champagne. Or maybe it was von Schmidt he didn’t trust. Either way, she had to think of a way to keep him out of her caves. His eyes saw too much, and his mind drew too many accurate conclusions. “It’s late, Detective Mueller. My grandmother is tired. I need to escort her to her room and see her settled.”

  “By all means, tend to her needs.”

  Gabrielle nearly slumped in relief. He was going to let her go. She was actually feeling pleased she’d maneuvered around his request, perhaps even a little thrilled. But he spoke again. And she knew her troubles were only just beginning.

  “You have fifteen minutes to care for your grandmother. Then you will show me where you keep the champagne that should have been sent to Berlin months ago.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Josephine

  Josephine was glad to be sent to her room like a naughty child. She’d pushed von Schmidt nearly past his limit tonight, and in front of a powerful guest who’d also, rightfully so, found her tedious. No woman in her right mind would do such a thing as to encourage both men’s irritation. Which, of course, was why she’d done so.

  Things were going according to plan. She was thinking clearly, coolly, her mind firmly in the present tense. It would not last long. This illusion of a confused mind was becoming too easy to maintain. Her world was disappearing, the blankness rising, her grasp on reality at risk.

  Repeating stories from the past helped ground her. But also made her long for a time that could never be relived.

  She was cold.

  She needed heat, needed it more than air. It was all she could do not to hurry up the stairs and crawl under a sea of blankets. She had to get rid of her granddaughter first. Gabrielle, after all, had a Gestapo agent to cajole and needed these extra minutes to prepare herself.

  Out of habit, as much as need, she reached to the banister for support, something she hadn’t needed to do until recently. Her body grew as weak as her mind. She shrugged off Gabrielle’s assistance. “I prefer to go up to my room on my own.” She said this in an imperial tone, keeping her eyes on the railing beneath her hand.

  “You’re unsteady.”

  “Fetch Marta, then.”

  She might as well have slapped her granddaughter. She disliked hurting the younger woman, but she didn’t want another lecture, or another warning. She wanted to be warm. She also wanted to be alone. Sorrow slashed across her heart and there was nothing to do to stanch the bleeding. Her closeness with her granddaughter was yet another casualty of this new and brutal war they fought in the confines of their own home. “Please, Gabrielle.”

  Her granddaughter surprised her by relenting to the request. “I’ll get Marta.” Her voice held defeat. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is what I want.” Josephine turned off her mind while she waited for Gabrielle to return with the housekeeper. Marta then accompanied her to her room. As the other woman fussed over her, they spoke of inconsequential things. The weather, the meal itself, nothing of Nazis or Gestapo agents or Waffen-SS units. Her friend’s voice brought Josephine comfort over the clamor of the commotion in her head, like a long-forgotten lullaby.

  She allowed Marta to help her into bed. The moon was full, a bright, round ball in the sky. “There is too much light in my eyes.”

  “I’ll draw the curtains.” Before she crossed to the window, Marta reached to take Josephine’s hand, a silent show of support. Josephine was the first to pull away.

  And then, the light was gone, and she could think better.

  Marta touched her hand again. “Bonne nuit, Josephine. Doux rêves.”

  Doux rêves. Sweet dreams. Impossible when a Gestapo agent wanted Gabrielle to show him the caves. Josephine squeezed her eyes shut. “Bonne nuit, Marta.”

  She kept her eyes shut until she heard the door close. She could see nothing but the sliver of moonlight flickering through the gap in the drawn curtains. She heard a small sound and listened. Nothing but the steady rhythm of her own breathing. She threw aside the covers and felt her way through the darkness. She needed to retrieve her journal from its hiding place behind her nightstand. Feeling her way down the wall, her fingers stopped at the baseboard. She quickly worked away the slab of wood, slid the book out, then returned the plank to its original position and climbed into bed.

  A terrible silence descended over the room. Josephine could feel her pulse thudding in her ears, in the hollow at her throat. Was the party still going on?

  Of course it was. Von Schmidt had Germans to impress.

  She lay awake for at least an hour, possibly two, holding her journal tightly against her chest, listening for footsteps in the outer hallway.

  Something about today—or was it tonight?—kept nagging at her, right there in her mind, shimmering just out of reach. Something in von Schmidt’s behavior. His deference to the Gestapo agent, yes, obviously, but more than that. He’d been unusually nervous, his gaze darting from Detective Mueller to his food and back again. He’d behaved like a man hiding something. The 1928? No, she decided. Something else had been nagging at him. And now it nagged at her.

  When are you coming home, Josephine?

  The question came at her as she stared at the cracked plaster of the ceiling overhead. It was Antoine’s voice, as clear as if he were sitting on the edge of her bed. His face was not so clear. No matter, she had his features memorized. Handsome, rugged, muscled from the many hours he spent in his vineyard, gloriously larger than life. He’d been smart, quietly funny, a man of integrity who loved the Lord as much as his vines.

  Not yet, Antoine. I can’t come home yet.

  She swung her feet to the floor and climbed out of bed. Journal in hand, she moved to the window and spread the curtains apart to let in the moonlight. She caught a movement below—somewhere in the darkness—at the edge of the vineyard.

  There. A silhouette. No, two people. One of them wearing clothes that blended with the night, the other...a woman. In a gown that glittered in the moonlight, keeping her distance from the man in black. A third figure joined the duo, a man, sent away almost immediately. The woman reached out a hand to the door of the wine cellar. Twisted a key in the lock. Swung open the door. Paused to let the other figure enter first, then followed.

  Be smart, Gabrielle. Be wise as serpents and as gentle as doves. The Lord is with you. Josephine lifted up another prayer for her granddaughter’s safety then moved to her writing desk, her feet knowing the way better than her mind.

  She turned on the light and opened the journal, quickly scanning the contents. She reviewed her notations. Reading the entries sharpened her memory but was also a sort of bloodletting, painful and yet necessary. She stopped at something she’d jotted down the week of von Schmidt’s arrival. Hélène has taken over the German’s social calendar.

  Whose idea had that been, hers? Or Hélène’s?

  She flipped pages, again stopping to read the news of the wine levy. Three million bottles a month was an impossible request. But like the bread and fish that fed the five thousand, the Lord would provide.

  Josephine found a running tally of the items she and Marta had hidden from the Germans. With her friend’s memory stronger than her own, Marta had placed marks beside the treasures they’d personally squirreled away.

  Odd. Only half the list had received a mark. And then, she remembered. The Renoir. The other missing valuables. Von Schmidt was stealing from her family. Statuettes, paintings, silver serving dishes, a Ming vase. Tapping her chin with her forefinger, she forced herself to concentrate, to think.

  The sound of approaching footsteps and low conversation had her quickly dropping her hand and shutting off the
light. She strained to hear over the drumming of her heartbeat. Two voices, one masculine. One feminine. A man, a woman. Von Schmidt and Hélène. The flirtation turning into something more? Something indecent?

  How quickly Josephine wanted to judge the other woman. Yet, deep in her soul, where a woman must be brutally honest, Josephine knew this was her fault. She’d insisted Hélène make herself indispensable to the German.

  She put her ear to the door and listened to the muffled conversation. The back-and-forth turned her blood cold. Your fault, she reminded herself. The voices faded. She could sense, rather than hear, the two moving across a threshold.

  Heart in her throat, she waited for the snick of a lock that would seal her daughter-in-law’s fate. When it came, the sound reverberated in Josephine’s ears, pounded in her soul. Pushed guilt into her stomach. Tears filled her eyes. Then resolve. Hélène had given her the window of time that she needed.

  Josephine opened her door and peeked out. The hallway was empty. She took a few hesitant steps. The gloom concealed her progress. No one saw her descend the stairs or move toward the library. The door was locked.

  She had the key, of course she had the key. Von Schmidt had confiscated what he thought were the only two copies. Josephine had kept the third.

  Smiling, she stepped into the library, pausing inside the bright shaft of moonlight. The German had dared to set himself up at Antoine’s massive desk, which had been hers after her husband’s death. Another mistake on von Schmidt’s part, assuming Josephine would not wish to work in such a masculine setting. He could not have been more wrong. She’d never cared for frills. She only wanted to be close to her husband. After all these years, she still found Antoine here in this room, with these books, at this desk.