by Renee Ryan
The next twenty minutes progressed without incident. Although she jumped at every sound, every snap of a twig, or click of a cricket, the road remained empty. Gabrielle attributed the lack of activity to the strictly enforced curfew. Her breathing finally found its rhythm when the high-pitched bird whistle rent the night air.
Three shrills. The airman was on his way, tucked inside a wine barrel.
Relief made her knees weak. She would leave for home now. She should leave for home. She could not. Something about Max’s behavior disturbed her. Instinct told her he was on the verge of cracking. She would not sleep well until she saw his face one final time.
The man she encountered in the courtyard was not happy to see her. “I told you not to return.”
“I wanted to say good-night.”
It was a flimsy excuse, but Max only nodded. “The hard part is over, Gabrielle. We did what we could for the boy. The rest is out of our hands.”
She knew he was right. She lifted onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “Then I’ll say good-night.”
“Wait. Now that you are here, I have something to discuss.”
“All right.”
He placed a hand on her shoulders. “This German living in your home, this wine merchant.” He nearly spat the words. “He flaunts his relationship with your mother. Talk of their liaison is all over Reims.”
Heat drained from Gabrielle’s face. “How bad is the gossip?”
“It’s not good. She has few friends left in Reims, and none who will come to her aid if the tide of war shifts.”
Gabrielle had known Hélène would be judged for her relationship with von Schmidt. But this? It was worse than she’d expected. Fear for her mother scrambled to the surface. She tried to breathe through the worst of it. No air came into her lungs.
“I also understand Detective Mueller has taken a special interest in you.”
The accusation all but slapped her in the face. Her first instinct was to defend herself. But she made her mind slow down, to think logically. She must explain the situation calmly, and with truth. Only truth. “His attention is motivated purely by suspicion. He is a hard man, Papa. He trusts no one. Not the French. Not his fellow Germans. And most definitely not me.”
This was her truth, her reality. As a widow, she was easy prey for a man such as Mueller, if her father-in-law was right. He could not be right.
“You are certain his interest in you is nothing more than Nazi suspicion and distrust?”
It was clear Max didn’t fully believe her, and now she doubted herself. She forced her wild beating heart to find a steady cadence. “Why do you ask such questions?” She clamped down on the sob bubbling in her throat. “What have you heard that makes you believe petty gossip over my word?”
“You were seen with Mueller on the terrace during a recent party at your château. He had hold of your hand. It is said you did not pull away.”
French spying on French. Friends turning on friends. No one is safe. Josephine had said this. Her neighbors had made it so. “Detective Mueller approached me that night, this is true.” She sounded too defensive and readjusted her tone. “He’d previously discovered I still had a sizable amount of the 1928 in my cellar and told me to send the remaining stock to Berlin. He was assuring himself I’d followed through with his demand. He grasped my hand to make his point.”
“Gabrielle.” Max met her gaze with less suspicion and more concern. “Do not forget this man is Gestapo. He is a wolf in wolf’s clothing. I sense no mercy in him. You must keep your distance.”
“I have come to the same conclusion. Do not let your heart be troubled, Papa. I am always careful in his presence.”
“That’s all I ask.” He kissed her on one cheek, then the other. The affection was real, even if his eyes were still flat. “Go home and get some rest.”
“I will say the same to you. Get some rest. You seem especially tired tonight.”
He gave her a soft smile. “Nothing the end of the war won’t cure.”
That sounded more like the man who’d been her staunchest ally following Étienne’s death. “May that day come soon.”
They shared a grim smile. With nothing more to say, she mounted her bicycle and pedaled toward the fog rolling in from the north. At the edge of the vineyard, she glanced over her shoulder. Max remained rooted to the spot, his eyes not with her but fixed on a distant spot beyond the courtyard. Something in his posture, the stance of a defeated man, left her with the impression that she would never see him again.
She raised her hand in farewell. He did not return the gesture. His eyes were on the black Mercedes coming down the drive. She hadn’t heard the engine. Max must have. He remained perfectly still, his hands stuffed in his pocket. He didn’t try to run. He merely stood in the harsh glare of the headlights, resigned and defiant. Gabrielle instinctually moved toward him. He must have sensed her purpose, because he gave a single shake of his head, as if to say: stay back.
Clutching the handlebars, she squeezed hard, so hard her knuckles turned bone white. At the last instant, she would run. But not before. If possible, she would come to Max’s rescue. She hovered just inside the fog’s milky-white shroud and waited for some signal to act, to retreat, to call out—she didn’t know which would be best.
Two men—SS soldiers—climbed out of the vehicle. “Hands up,” one of them shouted in German, then repeated the command in French.
Max did as he was told, hands aligned with his head, palms facing the men. A third figure exited the car. He moved at a slow, casual pace, as if he were out for an evening stroll.
Gabrielle struggled to think over the wild drumming of her pulse. She was too far away to make out the man’s features. But she knew that slow, predatory gait. She recognized those broad shoulders, that hard, unbending spine. Detective Mueller.
A wolf in wolf’s clothing.
A man without mercy.
The wind picked up, battering at her exposed face and hands. She should have worn gloves. It was a ridiculous thought at a time such as this. It seemed impossible, unimaginable that Mueller could be here. That he could know to come to Max’s house, tonight, of all nights, at this very moment.
He stopped his approach just outside the halo cast by the headlights.
“Monsieur Dupree,” he said in that guttural, broken French that was an abomination to the ears. “You are under arrest. Your vineyard and champagne house have been seized and placed under direct control of Berlin.”
Max arrested. His home taken. Gabrielle placed her hand over her mouth. No. She moved closer. No! She screamed the word in her head. Over and over and over. No, no, no.
“What is the charge?” Max asked, palms still facing his accuser, his voice sparked with very real panic, his outstretched arms shaking.
“Treason. Sabotage. And several other lesser offenses against the Third Reich. Now, put your hands behind your back. You, there.” Mueller motioned to the soldier on this left. “Bind this man’s wrists.”
Max’s eyes were huge as the soldier circled him. He was shaking uncontrollably now, and several tears leaked onto his cheeks.
Gabrielle’s own tears fell. She leaned forward, willing her father-in-law to stay strong, to know that she would do what she could to rescue him. If not tonight, tomorrow. She would go to de Vogüe and seek his help. Unless he’d been arrested as well.
Would the Gestapo come for her next?
She choked on her own breath, just a small stammer of sound. A mistake. Mueller’s head rotated in her direction. He remained outside the light, but she knew his eyes searched the dark. She melted deeper into the mist that was growing thicker, ever thicker. Not thick enough. For a ghastly second, she thought he saw her.
But he didn’t move toward her.
The rushing in her head became a painful throbbing in her throat, in her ears. Seconds passed. She a
llowed herself a single pull of air, and then held it.
She was still holding her breath when Mueller finally turned away and addressed the soldier at Max’s back. “Put him in the car. We will finish the rest of this at the police station.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Hélène
Hélène looked around her bedroom, shame and despair her familiar companions this morning. It was not yet dawn. She should try to sleep, but she couldn’t seem to find the strength to move away from her dressing table. She lacked a reason. So here she sat, wearing last night’s dress, feeling the weight of her sin as if it was a living, breathing thing. She hated what she’d become, what he’d turned her into, knowing she’d make the same decision again, if only to keep him away from her daughters.
Paulette. Gabrielle. Each deserved a better mother than the one she’d given them.
A steady ache lingered in her heart as she surveyed her reflection cast in the pale glow of the moon. The woman staring back—her eyes were empty. Nothing there anymore. Nothing but gloom and bitterness, so much bitterness. She could hardly remember the woman she’d been when Étienne was still alive. When hope and faith and love for the Lord had shared equal space in her heart.
She blinked at the stranger in the mirror, a woman stripped of her last scraps of dignity. Everything that had once defined her was gone. No pride left, no self-respect. No purpose in life other than to serve a greedy man’s whims. She felt lost, deserted by even her own self.
Where was her purpose now? Where was her reason to navigate through another day? She would find it, as she did every morning. She heaved herself to her feet and ran a hand through her hair. She was tired, so tired of the continual rustling in her soul, a certainty that she’d gone too far and would never find her way back. Death by a thousand little cuts.
Create in me a clean heart, O God.
Why would the Lord help her now?
She thought of ways to end the horror that had become her life. Poison, a pillow over mouth and nose, a bullet. The idea of ending a life—her own—his—was an offense so large it threatened to take her to her knees. Could she pull it off? Could she—
The familiar creaking of the door had her going perfectly still. It was the sound of her doom. The herald of another piece of her soul being ripped away. Footsteps, nearly soundless, the door shutting. Her heart skidded into an erratic rhythm. This waking nightmare would not destroy her. She would not let it.
She would face it with poise.
With a million sparks of her shame splintering the remnants of her self-respect, she made the slow turn to face von Schmidt. And nearly collapsed in relief when she saw the woman standing with her back against the door. Not him. Not...him.
“Gabrielle.” She breathed her daughter’s name, no louder than a whisper, as much a prayer of thanks as a question. “What brings you to my room at this hour?”
Nothing good, surely.
“Am I disturbing you?”
The hesitation was new, unexpected. “Non, I couldn’t sleep.”
Gabrielle moved deeper into the room, but her image remained dark and blurry. A shadow within a shadow. Like mother. Like daughter. The young woman was dressed to move around in the night. Whatever risks she’d taken this evening, she’d survived them. Though the hunch of her shoulders indicated an unhappy ending. No matter the outcome, Hélène couldn’t—wouldn’t—judge her daughter for her choices. She was not that much of a hypocrite.
As she came closer, Hélène saw the changes in the young woman. She used to be well-shaped, leanly muscled and much stronger than her petite frame would suggest. But the war had eaten away the pounds and had robbed her daughter of what had once been her robust, enviable figure. She stopped her approach several feet away, close enough for Hélène to read the anguish on her face. The daughter had come to speak reason into the mother. “Gabrielle—”
“We need to talk about Paulette.”
The words pulled her up short. “What about her?”
“She has been sneaking out at night to meet a boy.” Darkness fell over Gabrielle’s face. Hélène’s spirits followed.
She glanced up to the ceiling, not sure why, perhaps to gather her thoughts. “You are sure this isn’t a mistake?”
“I’m afraid there is no question. She was seen. Not by me.” Or by Helmut, praise God. He would have said something about Paulette skulking around past curfew. Hélène would have known his displeasure in a hard slap to her cheek.
When Gabrielle didn’t give up her source, she didn’t press. That was their way. Fewer questions, fewer lies to tell. What mattered right now was that Paulette was sneaking out of the château at night.
Hélène searched for her composure, her eyes still on the ceiling. She could feel the pieces of her scattered thoughts slowly converging, rearranging themselves into a single, terrifying question. “Who is the boy?”
“I don’t know.”
Find out. She could hear the command in her mind. She dipped her head down, feeling something oddly calming move through her. “It was probably Lucien Trevon.”
It had to be him. Paulette had been so worried over the boy’s arrest. He’d been released the next day because von Schmidt had put in a good word. Please, God. Let it be the Trevon boy. “I saw Paulette with Lucien at the party.”
She searched her memory, thinking...yes. Yes, that was true. She had seen the two together, once, briefly. Hélène had hired the boy to work in the kitchen. Paulette had sought her friend out early in the night, when Hélène was giving out instructions to the temporary staff. Her daughter had hugged Lucien tight, and told him how happy she was to see him safe.
Had that been the beginning of a deeper romance between the two?
Gabrielle’s eyes bore into hers. “You are confident Paulette is meeting this boy from school?”
She could not make that claim. “I will speak with Paulette this morning.”
“Thank you, Maman.”
“Is there something else bothering you?”
Gabrielle opened her mouth, looked ready to confide something, then clamped it shut again. “We’ll speak about it later. Right now, Paulette is your only concern.”
Hélène watched her oldest daughter leave the room with one thought in mind. She had her reason to face another day. By the time she bathed and changed into fresh clothing, the sun had appeared over the horizon. Paulette would still be abed. This conversation could not wait.
To her surprise, she didn’t have to wake her daughter. She was already dressed for the day, sitting by the window, a sketchpad in her lap, her hand making quick, furious strokes across the page.
“Paulette.” Hélène shut the door behind her with a soft snick. “You’re up early.”
She kept sketching, a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “I wanted to catch the morning light.”
“What are you drawing?”
When Paulette didn’t respond, Hélène moved closer and searched the page for herself. A rush of blood flooded her head. The face of a man, not a boy. The artist in her recognized the quality of the work. It was a masterful rendering, drawn with a heart full of admiration for its subject. The girl was in love.
Hélène wanted to weep.
“Who is this in the picture?” She would keep her voice free of emotion. She could manage that at least. “Is this someone you met at the party? A new friend, perhaps?”
Paulette’s hand paused and she looked at Hélène for a brief moment, secrets moving swiftly behind her eyes. This was her daughter’s most calculating expression. She had learned to recognize it years ago. “I suppose you could say he’s a friend.”
Hélène fixed on the image and felt the jolt of recognition all over again. He’d sat at their dinner table, twice, wearing his SS uniform. A young man on the rise, as von Schmidt had said. Friedrich Weber. Entitled. Rude. Twenty-six years ol
d, and already a lieutenant, in line to become a hauptsturmführer before his next birthday. The anger and fury she expected to feel wasn’t there. Only fear. “What would you call him, Paulette, if not a friend?”
The question made her daughter’s mouth twitch, the perfect line of her lips sliding into a small, mysterious smile that she quickly pressed away. “My future. My love. My very heart.”
Hélène had thought it bad that Paulette was engaged in a love affair with a local boy. This was so much worse. “You must stop seeing him at once.”
“Why would I do that?” Paulette looked genuinely confused. “I love him, Maman. And he loves me.”
“It’s not a matter of love.” Hélène produced the obvious reason why, praying it would be enough. “He is too old for you.”
“Papa was six years older than you. What’s two more years?”
“My relationship with your father was different.” Special. Her deliverance. Étienne had been a good person, the best of men. “This man,” Hélène said, and reached for the sketchpad, flapping it in the air. “He is our enemy.”
Paulette grabbed for the book, hugged it to her heart. “It’s not Friedrich’s fault he was born in Germany. He is French in his soul.”
Was that the sort of lies he spewed to her daughter?
“He is not French. He is a German soldier. And not just any German soldier. SS.”
“Why should I care about that?”
The words were tossed out with careless abandon, but they hit Hélène like a blow. “Chérie,” she said. “Darling girl, don’t you understand the inappropriateness of this romance? The danger?”
“You have a nerve.” Paulette’s face went rigid, as impenetrable as a slab of hard oak. “When you also involve yourself with a Nazi.”
Her daughter had a point. So, too, did Hélène. “I don’t know what you’ve heard—”
“What I’ve heard?” She let out an ugly, disgusted laugh. “It’s not what I’ve heard. It’s what I know. I know all about you and von Schmidt. Everyone knows.”