The Widows of Champagne

by Renee Ryan

  This accusation was not wholly unexpected. Still, Hélène wanted to defend herself. “There is a difference between a German in a soldier’s uniform and one that voluntarily joins the SS.” She paused, listening to her daughter’s stony silence. Waiting for her to say something, anything. But the young woman’s face remained as unforgiving as stone.

  “Paulette. The SS is at the very core of Hitler’s evil. They do terrible things for their Fatherland. They hunt down people they perceive as enemies of the state and make them disappear. A woman does not have romances with these men. She stays away from them. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand you’re trying to scare me.”

  “Good. You should be scared.” Now that she had her daughter’s attention, Hélène pressed on. “The Nazis have sent tens of thousands of people to labor camps. They are constantly finding more to put on the trains. These prisoners come to terrible ends. They are often tortured, executed, starved or simply worked to death.”

  No longer stone-faced, Paulette stared at Hélène with large, round eyes. The eyes of a frightened child. “None of that is true. I asked Friedrich. He says these are rumors meant to make Germany look bad in the eyes of the world.”

  “What I tell you are not rumors. They are truth. And do you know who orchestrates these horrors? The SS. Men like your lieutenant. They target anyone they deem unfit, members of the Resistance, Gypsies, Communists, but mostly—” she held Paulette’s eyes “—Jews.”

  “We are none of those things.”

  Oh, but they were. Hélène needed to tell her daughter. She had a moment of indecision, but it passed quickly. The time had come to share her secret. “Have you never wondered why my father left for America? Have you never considered the origin of his name? Abraham, son of Isaac and Naomi. My father is Jewish. His father and mother were Jewish. That makes me—”

  “Don’t say it.” Paulette’s hands covered her ears. “I won’t listen to any more of your lies.”

  Hélène knelt in front of her daughter.

  “I am a Jew, Paulette.” She spoke calmly, surprised by the sense of peace that moved through her. Saying the words, proclaiming the truth—her truth—wasn’t a burden any longer. It was a release.

  “You are French, Maman. You were born in Paris. You are a LeBlanc.”

  “I am also a Jew.” The secret she’d spent so many years feeding no longer held her in its grip. She was free. She’d denied her identity for too long. No more. If she was arrested now, she would go to her death knowing who she was. Where she came from.

  “It isn’t true,” Paulette wailed. “It can’t be true. You attend church. You worship the Christian God. Your hair is blond.”

  Hélène almost couldn’t look at her daughter. Her hysteria was heartbreaking. But she must finish this. She fixed her eyes on the young, frightened face. “The Nazis are getting serious about hunting down Jews in France. You have to know what that means.”

  “No, I won’t think about it.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  Paulette shed big, fat tears. Hélène hugged her daughter long and fierce and when she stepped back, she saw that the tears continued falling in fast streams down her cheeks. “Maman? What is to become of us?”

  “We are safe for now. Very few people know my secret. None in Reims outside this home. We must keep it that way.”

  She thought of the list of names von Schmidt had demanded she provide. Surely, others had created similar lists, under equal duress. Her own name could show up on any one of them, if someone thought to look hard enough into her background.

  “You cannot tell a soul about this, Paulette. No one can know.” Taking her daughter’s hands, she said, “You understand now why you must end your affair with this SS soldier, yes?”

  “I... Yes.”

  But would she break all ties with him? Would she forget about the man she sketched with so much love and admiration? Paulette was rarely malleable. And this was her first taste of love. Perhaps, she would prove smarter than Hélène gave her credit for. Perhaps she was no longer a spoiled child.

  She looked into her daughter’s eyes for some kind of confirmation, a sign that Paulette would do the right thing. She saw only anguish. How she wished for the time, not so long ago, when Paulette was caught up in the thrill of being admired by boys her own age. When that attention was harmless and innocent.

  The young woman had a difficult choice to make. If she chose wrongly...

  If she thought only of herself...

  The girl’s own words came back to plague Hélène. What is to become of us?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Gabrielle

  After a quick wash and change of clothing, Gabrielle went in search of her mother for the second time in a matter of hours. Apprehension had her feet moving quickly through the darkened corridors. Wind whistled through the cracks in the windowpane, an ominous sound that pushed her faster. Each high-pitched howl diminished her ability to remain calm in the face of so many setbacks, all of them out of her control. One problem at a time.

  The cold was nearly unbearable in this section of the château. She blew into her cupped palms to warm them, her mind racing as fast as her feet. She silently reviewed the events of the last six hours, bouncing from her sister to Max, from one broken piece of her heart to the next. A forbidden romance...an arrest...a selfish act of a selfish girl...a sacrificial deed of a selfless man...the Gestapo. Guns. Torture.

  One problem at a time.

  She had to keep telling herself that, or she would go mad. Surely, her mother had spoken to Paulette by now. The thought of her sister engaging in an illicit love affair made Gabrielle’s stomach pitch. The glimpses of maturity she’d seen in the girl had not been strong enough to change her character.

  She still put her needs ahead of others. Gabrielle should not have been surprised. People like Max risked their lives so that one day the rest of them would be free. And here was Paulette, doing as she pleased, not a single thought to the people she put at risk.

  If her mother hadn’t talked to the girl, Gabrielle would. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a shadow flickering in the hallway. The form elongated then morphed into the shape of a female. Her mother. Gabrielle started toward her, one—just one—question on her lips.

  “Not here.” Hélène shook her head then motioned Gabrielle to follow her. Once inside her mother’s bedroom, she imparted the distressing news in the hushed tones they always adopted when von Schmidt was still in the house. “It’s not a local boy.”

  She’d expected this, and still her pulse sped up. Needing to know, even as she sensed the truth would enrage her, she asked in a low hiss, “A German soldier?”

  “Worse.”

  What could be worse than a German soldier? A Gestapo agent. Mueller’s image formed in her mind. No, impossible. Paulette was a child. He was a grown man. There were many such liaisons in Reims, some with even larger age gaps. Yet, strangely, Gabrielle knew the detective was not a man such as those Germans. No, he was not her sister’s beau. “Who, then?”

  After a brief hesitation, Hélène responded in a voice filled with defeat. “She is meeting an SS officer, a lieutenant. You will know him. He has sat at our table.”

  “Please tell me it’s not the one who demands to be served first, ahead of even von Schmidt.”

  “That’s the one.”

  Gabrielle couldn’t remember his name. She wasn’t sure it mattered. The lieutenant was a proud man and loved to proclaim his hatred of Jews. He was an Aryan with a heartless smile and lethal edge that seemed especially vicious because of his youth. “That foolish, thoughtless girl.”

  “Don’t be too hard on your sister. She is young. And in love.”

  “Love?” Gabrielle could feel her skin burning. “What does that child know of love?”

  “Enough to take great risks aft
er curfew.” Her mother’s voice went hoarse. “I fear he is an accomplished seducer. He’s overwhelmed her with pretty lies and false promises.”

  “You make excuses for her, still. Paulette is equally to blame. She is spoiled and cares only for herself.” Years of frustration came pouring out. Hélène had given Paulette whatever she wanted. She’d allowed the girl too much freedom. Her mother had never taught moderation, not when the girl was a child, not when she’d entered her early teen years, not even now when she was on the verge of becoming a woman. “This is your fault. You spoil her and now look what she’s done.”

  “I’m fully aware of my personal culpability.”

  “You have to fix this. You must make Paulette understand the dangers of this romance.”

  Face pinched, Hélène sighed. “I handled it already. Your sister knows what she must do. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do, and so do you. The champagne is waiting.”

  As far as dismissals went, it wasn’t the most subtle. Just as well, Gabrielle decided as she exited the room and pulled the door shut with a furious click.

  The time for subtlety was over.

  * * *

  An hour later, as she stood in her workroom, Gabrielle rubbed at her tired eyes and tried not to think about her sister. Or Max. The grief in her was overwhelming. She desperately wanted to journey into town, to see for herself what had happened to her father-in-law.

  It wasn’t possible.

  She would be required to explain her presence at the jail and, possibly, in her effort to protect Max, could end up exposing her own involvement in any number of criminal acts. No, better to wait for word of Max’s arrest to come to her. Then she would venture into Reims.

  It wouldn’t be long now. News like this traveled quickly.

  She put it out of her mind. Driven by a need to lose herself in the art of winemaking, she began testing her blends. She relied on her senses, drew on impressions stored in her memory, determined to create a wine as unique as the soil that produced it. She chose five of her favorite vin clairs, sniffing between each pour, letting her nose guide her through the process.

  She took a sip, drew back at the taste. Foul, rancid. “Another failure,” she mumbled.

  Someone entered the room, shut the door. She felt the dark presence before her eyes latched on to the shadow moving over her. “I’m sure you exaggerate, Madame Dupree.”

  Gabrielle flinched as the deep, rough voice rubbed over her skin, as slick and unwelcome as the scales of a snake. Shock would be the expected response at this intrusion. She gladly gave in to the emotion as she quickly spun around, the beaker firmly clutched in her fist.

  First, she gave him surprise. Then, she let him see her irritation. “Detective Mueller.” She placed all the ice she could summon into her voice. “I wasn’t aware we had a meeting.”

  “This is not an official visit.”

  His Gestapo uniform made every visit official.

  Had Max given her up? Was that the reason the detective studied her face so closely? Gabrielle wouldn’t blame her father-in-law if he’d confessed. It was said everyone broke under torture, eventually, with the right incentive. Imagining Max beaten until he confessed his crimes brought a level of fury she’d never known she could feel.

  It would be worse for her. She was a woman. And feared Mueller had been preparing for her arrest since their first encounter on the streets of Reims.

  There were moments when a character was tested. Was this her moment? Would she break, or find the strength to stand? Gabrielle watched him watching her and suddenly the air felt different. It smelled different. Nothing felt right.

  And Mueller had yet to state his business. She held steady under his silent inspection. A gentleman would stay an appropriate distance from her. The detective proved to be no gentleman. He stood barely two feet away from her. So close she could smell his scent, a mix of bergamot, sandalwood and lime. A Nazi should not smell like a normal man.

  He should not look so immaculately dressed in the black uniform of the Gestapo. A perfect fit, and yet, today, she noticed that his shoulders tested the seams of the jacket and the hat he removed from his head was a half-size too small.

  She was losing her mind. What did the fit of his uniform matter? Or the size of his hat? She drew in a sudden breath, reaching for a calm she didn’t feel. No matter what Mueller did next, she would not break. She would not show weakness. She would accept her fate with the dignity she’d witnessed in Max last night.

  “This is where you blend your vin clairs?” He reached around her to the table at her back and ran a fingertip along the edge. “I had not thought making champagne required this amount of organization. You seem to have a system to your art.”

  He wanted to talk about the finer points of champagne making? An ache took up residence behind her eyes. “I prefer order.”

  “May I?” The wine was wrested from her fingers before she could protest.

  No, her mind screamed. Gabrielle never allowed anyone to taste her failures. “Please. Don’t. It’s not right.”

  Her plea came too late. He was already lifting the beaker to his lips and taking a long, slow sip of the golden liquid. “You are correct.” He frowned into the glass. “This is a very poor attempt.”

  The ache behind her eyes became a relentless pounding. Something inside Gabrielle went cold at the way he set the wine on the table beside her, as if it were an offense to his superior palate. That she’d had the same reaction didn’t soften the blow of his cold displeasure. With an impatient swat of her hand, she pushed a stubborn strand of hair off her face. “Why are you here, Detective Mueller?”

  “I arrested your father-in-law this morning. I thought you should know. Although...” He trailed off, angled his head. “I think this is not news to you.”

  Her pulse tripped over itself and she was breathing too hard, trying to keep herself under control. “Why would you arrest Max? He’s a harmless old man.”

  “Not so harmless, or so old,” Mueller countered. “Maximillian Dupree is an active member of a large network of resistance workers. I am in the process of sorting out the names of his compatriots, male and...female.”

  She bit her lip hard. “Max is innocent of whatever it is you think he did.”

  A hint of something came and went in Mueller’s eyes, something she couldn’t quite define but knew she didn’t like. “And yet, he has supplied me with information to make several more arrests.”

  Gabrielle’s skin iced over. Max would not have broken easily, or quickly. There must have been enormous pain involved in his interrogation. She hadn’t thought she could feel so helpless. She sought refuge behind her crossed arms. “May I see him? Is that possible?”

  Mueller did not answer the question. “How much, I wonder, do you know about your father-in-law’s criminal activities?”

  Afraid to show her guilt, afraid to accept what she sensed was coming, Gabrielle busied herself straightening the beakers of the vin clairs into perfectly precise, ruthlessly neat rows. “I know he is innocent.”

  “Madame Dupree.” Mueller came up behind her. Too close. She had to fight the instinct not to shrivel away from his distinctive scent. Mouth flat, she jerked around to face him and nearly lost her balance. She reached for the table at her back for support.

  “I am told...” His gaze found the ribbon of hair that always fell loose by her ear. Slowly, he looked back into her eyes. “...that you visit your father-in-law’s home often, sometimes at night after curfew. This is disturbing news.”

  “He is my family, of course I visit him. We discuss my husband, his son. Sometimes our conversations go long.”

  “That is your defense?”

  She breathed in. Breathed out. The churning in her stomach would explode into panic if she didn’t keep it in check. “It’s the truth. Will you tell me why you arrested Max?”

/>   “A parachute was found in his wine cellar, hidden inside an abandoned barrel. There were also weapons and ammunition.” He said this all so casually. “I must now send my soldiers to search every cellar in the region. Yours will be today. You will want to prepare.”

  What sort of twisted game was he playing now? “Why...why are you telling me this?”

  For a split second, Gabrielle thought she saw a hint of something not altogether dark in his eyes. She wanted to appeal to that sliver of humanity. But, no. That look, it was a trap. A mistake of the light. His way of lulling her into a false sense of security. “How long do I have?”

  “Two hours.”

  He was warning her. But why? The answer came to her in a flash. He wanted to catch her in the act of hiding incriminating evidence.

  She didn’t know what to think. What to feel. Something strange was creeping into their conversation, something ugly. She tightened her arms around her waist and fumed. This man. This Nazi brute with his games. His terrible tricks. His confusing warnings and hidden threats.

  She thought she might cry. She didn’t dare.

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” He moved with lightning speed, so fast she hadn’t seen him coming. He managed to penetrate the knot of her arms and grip her wrist, his hold firm but not painful. He always moved so quickly, she realized, and liked to grab her wrist to make his point. Yet, he never hurt her. He never crossed that line. His touch, why did she not recoil? Why was she not repulsed? Another of his tricks.

  Games within games. Lies inside lies. She had never felt more alone.

  “Listen to me, Madame. And listen good. In just two hours,” he said, “your wine cellar will be overrun with SS soldiers.”

  A sob rose in her throat. This was some sort of bad dream. Mueller was... He seemed...

  What did he want from her? Oh, but she knew. She knew.

  Shame had her staring at her feet.

  “Don’t look down. Look at me. Straight at me.” He coaxed her to do his will in that low, awful, reptilian baritone that made her skin crawl. At last, she found the revulsion missing from her earlier reaction. “You will prepare for my impending search of your wine cellar. Do I make myself clear?”