by Renee Ryan
She met his gaze with an unwavering stare of her own. Chills crept across her skin and her eyes filled. No, she would not cry for him. Dry eyes were her only defense. “Perfectly.”
“Gut. Good.” He let her go.
She stumbled away from him, moving toward the door, stopping only once her spine ran up against the thick barrier that kept her one step away to freedom. Escape was just on the other side of the slab of wood. She was suddenly hot, so hot she thought she would faint if not for the support at her back. She dropped her gaze. A beam of light shone like a beacon at her feet. She wanted to fall into that light. Max deserved better from her. “Tell me what will happen to my father-in-law.”
Mueller looked at her steadily. In that moment he was very German, very ruthless, every bit a high-ranking official in the Nazi secret police. “Tell me what you know of his activities.”
“I know he is innocent of any crime.” Against France.
“You are a loyal daughter-in-law.”
The admiration she heard in the words—it was more than she could take. More than she could stomach. Her husband was dead. Her grandmother was feeble of mind and body. Paulette was cavorting with the enemy. Their mother was a collaborator. And now, now, Gabrielle had lost Max, too. “Please, I beg you, don’t hurt him. He is—”
“It’s time for you to stop talking.”
She clamped her lips tightly shut.
He nodded his approval. “You may begin preparing for my return.”
“Oui. Bien. I will go now.” Groping behind her, she grasped the doorknob. A hard twist and she was free. Or nearly so. She took a step backward, and then another. The third carried her out into the hallway. From there, it was a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, each faster than the last. And then, she was running. Not to the wine cellar. To God.
For the first time since France declared war on Germany, Gabrielle sought refuge in the Lord. Up ahead, she saw the tiny chapel that had stood on LeBlanc land for two centuries. Every member of her family had been baptized inside those stone walls. Gabrielle included. She ran faster. It wasn’t until she was inside the building, down on her knees atop the hard stones, hands clasped together beneath her chin, that she allowed herself to lift her eyes to the Cross.
She felt God’s presence immediately. She wanted to rest in the sensation.
There wasn’t time.
She shut her eyes and prayed for her father-in-law. She prayed for herself, for her family. For an end to this hideous war. And then, circled to the beginning and prayed again for Max.
He’d been so proud of his resistance work. Gabrielle had shared in that pride, thinking the righteousness of their cause protected them from capture. Her conviction had been as pure as the taste of a perfectly blended champagne. Now, she was confused and lost and in need of guidance. She could not do this on her own.
Protect him, Lord. Protect Max.
Protect us all.
The tears came then, rivers of them. One day, Gabrielle vowed, she would find absolution for failing to save her father-in-law. One day.
She allowed herself another five minutes with her God, then she rose and went to prepare for the infestation of SS soldiers on hallowed LeBlanc ground.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Josephine
Josephine flattened her hand over the book in her lap. The thick creamy pages made a pleasant, fluttery sound as she leafed through the entries, searching, searching. For what? She couldn’t remember. The reason was gone. So many lost moments, too many, most of them recorded in this book.
She continued turning the pages. Once she started she couldn’t stop. Some unknown, urgent purpose drove her. She’d learned to follow the instinct. This book, it was personal, used by someone who took her words seriously. Was that her? She never thought of herself as a serious writer. She felt a small spark of a thought. It nearly slid away, but she grabbed for it and then...
It rattled clear.
There was something she was supposed to remember. Yes, yes. Something for her granddaughter Gabrielle. A day, a time, an event. It was here, in this book. If only Josephine could recall what she was supposed to be looking for, then she could relay the information.
She would find it.
But not if she rushed.
Dipping her head, she inhaled deeply of the sweet, papery scent. Nothing—her mind was still a blank. Flip, flip, flip. A sense of calm moved through her, down along her spine, deep into her bones. This was her journal, her words. She told her secrets to these pages. When her mind went blank, and her thoughts became tangled, she was able to come here, and revisit forgotten moments from her past. This book was her memory now, both her pain and her comfort. Her refuge. Her truth.
And yet, even here, there were certain things her memory refused to relinquish onto the page. Entire voids of time and events were missing. That left her sad and frustrated.
Why had she not started keeping track of her thoughts sooner? Possibly, the failure was a small mercy. She was only supposed to remember her husband kissing her before heading to tend his vines. Not his collapse—she could not recall that clearly and rarely tried anymore. Had she been in the vineyard with him that day? Beside him, picking the grapes? Or had she been at the château, tending to their small child?
The details would not come, and they weren’t in this book. Josephine started to wonder if maybe his death never happened. Maybe it was just a terrible dream, a waking nightmare she couldn’t seem to shake. Antoine was alive, working the vines even now. He would walk through the door and—
She was so confused.
Her hand opened and closed over the silky paper beneath her palm. Her journal. She would locate her memory in these pages. She stopped her frantic searching and read.
3 September 1939
France declared war on Germany today. Hélène answered the phone and gave us the news. I decided to cancel the anniversary party, then agreed to postpone instead.
There was more here. But not what she’d come looking for.
22 June 1940
Helmut von Schmidt, the German wine merchant who lies on invoices, has requisitioned my home.
Not that, either.
She kept searching, sometimes going forward, sometimes backward. The tone of the entries seemed to change in the winter of 1941. A page, and then another, and then two more. Each filled with lists and other information Josephine found in von Schmidt’s desk. A record of shipments, mostly champagne, to various war zones. She’d added a personal note. Where the wine goes, so goes the German army.
Another page listed valuables and personal treasures missing from the château; some had marks next to them, others did not. Josephine couldn’t remember why she’d made those strikes on the page. Or why she’d included mention of a shipment to Portugal. She read her personal comment, made in bold, angry strokes. Von Schmidt is a swine. Something must be done to stop him.
She found another meticulous record of events and dates. The activities of the resistance. She read quickly through the entries.
—Three of my neighbors were caught palming off inferior blends to the Germans. All three have been thrown in jail, their champagne houses shut down indefinitely.
—Marta and I switched the labels on several single vintages. Josephine’s note: Marta knows which are the real single vintages and which are the fakes.
—François and Pierre transported a family of Jews in wine barrels across the demarcation line last night. They returned to the Occupied Zone with wine in the same barrels. Josephine’s note: I have very brave men in my employ.
—Train car derailed carrying large shipment of wine. Josephine’s note: Better the soil drinks our wine than the German dogs taste a single drop.
—Local man shot for raising a clenched fist as Germans soldiers were staging a parade, another caught and executed for cutting teleph
one wires. Josephine’s note: None of us are safe.
—Lucien Trevon arrested for handing out pamphlets for the Free French, released the next day. Josephine’s note: Hélène has made a terrible bargain to save this boy.
Josephine kept reading, stopping on the page that spoke of Hélène becoming von Schmidt’s social secretary, then the hostess for his parties, then something uglier. She’d recorded other dates and times. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December of 1941. The Americans entering the war at last. Gabrielle slipping out of the house at night. Paulette’s clandestine meetings with a boy. Josephine’s note: My home has become a breeding ground for liars and cheats. I include myself in this judgment. We do what we must to survive.
Next page...
SS conducted an unplanned inspection of our wine cellar. They found nothing. Gabrielle was fully prepared for the search. Josephine’s note: How did my granddaughter know about the raid?
Next page...
There. At last. The entry she’d come seeking, not for her granddaughter. For herself.
11 May 1942
Capitaine von Schmidt and Hélène are arguing as I write this. I listen at the wall with my ear pressed to the plaster. He accuses her of hiding her jewelry from him. He accuses her of many things. There is more shouting, mostly from him, terrible vows of retribution for her deceit. I hear the breaking of glass, the crack of a fist, von Schmidt’s furious exit from the house. Josephine’s note the following day: Hélène’s makeup is heavy this morning. It does nothing to conceal her black eye and split lip, or the fury in her eyes. Her anger is nothing compared to mine. Von Schmidt is out of control. Something must be done to stop him.
Josephine’s hand trembled over the page, her resolve robbing her of air.
Yes, she thought. Something must be done.
Part Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Gabrielle
17 July 1942
Max disappeared two days after he was taken into custody. More arrests were made. Gabrielle was not one of them. She couldn’t feel grateful, not until she knew what had become of her father-in-law. Unfortunately, no one in their network had the information. Nor were they looking for answers. They had their own worries.
German occupation was slowly starving the people of Reims. The SS continued their random searches, which extended beyond wine cellars into homes and businesses, often because of tips from local citizens. The Nazis encouraged these betrayals, offering rewards as small as a few extra eggs in a basket, or a piece of rancid meat.
The LeBlanc wine cellar was often the target of these raids. Gabrielle had begun receiving cryptic warnings ahead of time. Always from an unknown source, usually a telegram with a series of random letters that spelled out no word she knew, not in French, German or English.
The first time she’d received one of the messages, she hadn’t understood. The SS soldiers had arrived unexpectedly, and she’d been forced to explain the reason behind an entire rack of mislabeled bottles. Later that night, she’d pored over the telegram with renewed vigor. It hadn’t taken her long to understand a warning had been buried in the strange cipher. By morning, she’d cracked the code. When the second telegram arrived, she’d been ready for the raid. The soldiers left with several cases of mediocre champagne, while satisfied with the answers they received to their questions.
Although Detective Mueller accompanied his soldiers, he physically separated himself from the actual plundering. He rarely touched the bottles himself, but always—always—directed his men to the less sought-after blends instead of the truly superior ones.
Today, he took his usual place beside Gabrielle and aligned his shoulders perfectly parallel to hers, with only inches standing between them, as if they were a united front. His solid presence beside her made her feel less alone. It was another one of his lies. Another lure that cost her sleepless nights. After all, he did nothing to stop his men from stealing her champagne.
“Halt,” Mueller said when a soldier bent over a case of Josephine’s rosé and pulled out one of the bottles to inspect it closer. “Give that to me.”
He studied the label, inspected the bottle itself, rotating it around slowly. He released the cork with startling finesse, his head set at an angle so he could listen to the sound the wine made. Gabrielle heard the satisfying sigh of effervescence and wanted to weep over its perfection. Mueller gave her a quick glance. The look, one of approval. Warmth wanted to overwhelm the coldness in her heart. It was a sensation she did not trust. He studied the cork next, testing its feel in his palm, remarking on its color, checking the sides and then the bottom.
The detective knew what he was doing.
He motioned to one of the soldiers. “Glass.”
The man dug inside the pouch slung over his shoulder, then handed the detective a champagne coupe. Without glancing at Gabrielle, Mueller poured the rich pink liquid into the glass. He studied the bubbles, sniffed at the wine, took a sip. Several seconds went by before he swallowed.
More seconds passed as he lingered over the afternotes. “This is an inferior blend.” The declaration contradicted the appreciation in his eyes. “Germans deserve better than this fizzy dishwater.”
She gasped at the insult.
He made a grand show of emptying the rest of the rosé onto the wine cellar’s floor. “Leave it for the French. Take that wine instead.” He pointed to crates of a blanc de blanc. A remarkably inferior blend, comparatively speaking, to her grandmother’s rosé. “All twenty cases.”
The men went to work.
Gabrielle shrank back from the activity, arms wrapped around her waist, her mind in a whirl of confusing thoughts. She knew Mueller had just shown her extraordinary favor, but she couldn’t comprehend why he’d saved the rosé. What did he hope to gain? His behavior made no sense. Unless...
Was this part of some sort of twisted strategy to lull her into submission?
She knew better than to trust him. It was the uniform. That emblem of Nazi power. Wearing it made him less human. Something to be feared.
She was right to fear him, to distrust him. To hate him, even. He’d arrested Max, among others, and had made them disappear.
Mueller was still looking at her, and she tried not to look back, but the intense quality of his stare started the blood rising up to her throat, to her cheeks. Miserably confused, she glanced down at her feet. The toes of her work boots were only inches from where he’d dumped the precious rosé. The pink liquid had turned several shades darker as it seeped into the limestone, looking more like blood than wine.
The raid finally came to an end.
Gabrielle was given permission to leave.
She said not one word of farewell to Detective Mueller. They exchanged a final look absent of expression. He nodded and retreated with his soldiers. And, of course, her wine.
Gabrielle returned to the château.
On her way, she glanced over her shoulder, not sure what she hoped to find. There was nothing there. No threat. No promise. No enemy. No ally. No one waiting to arrest her. No one standing to help her carry her burdens. Only empty air stood between her and a wine cellar with fewer bottles of champagne now that Mueller and his men had seized another twenty cases.
She could only assume the wine was being loaded on a train to Berlin, never to be seen again. Not unlike the people Mueller arrested. Her mind wanted to believe he was not what he seemed, that he was somehow better than the uniform he wore. Somehow...more. She could not quite get there. He saved some of her champagne, but still took too many cases. He continued making arrests, and people still disappeared.
She must see things as they really were, not how she hoped them to be. She must be smart, and not be fooled by whatever game he was playing.
Lies within lies. She was suddenly very tired.
I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves.
; Entering the château, alone, exhausted, she set aside her mangled thoughts and considered the ever-growing problem in her home. Von Schmidt’s behavior was becoming more and more erratic. Behind his eyes, Gabrielle could see him thinking, plotting. Making plans. He no longer pretended civility when it was just the LeBlanc women in the house. More often than not, his true nature won over the sophisticated mask he wore around his fellow Germans. He was rude, scathingly dismissive and feral in his displeasure whenever his patience snapped.
Which was too often, and mostly directed at Hélène.
“Gabrielle, come quickly.” Her mother beckoned from the small parlor just off the main salon. “There’s news from Paris.”
Gabrielle hurried into the room. The rest of her family were already gathered around the wireless, every one of them in a state of shock. Von Schmidt was also there, not shocked, instead pleased by the news coming in from Paris. He stood near the fireplace, studying the glowing tip of his cigarette. The small, secretive smile curling his lips meant nothing good.
A German voice spoke through the wireless in heavily accented French. “With the assistance of the French police, 13,000 Jews have been arrested for crimes against the Third Reich. They are being held in the Vélodrome d’Hiver until transportation can be provided...”
The voice droned on. Gabrielle barely heard the details of how the French police had joined forces with the SS to arrest innocent people for alleged crimes.
What crimes? She wondered, knowing she wasn’t the only one of her family silently asking this question. Shock and horror showed in the wide, darting eyes of everyone in the room.
All, except von Schmidt. “At last,” he said. “At last, the Jews are being punished for their crimes against humanity.”
“Mon Dieu. I can’t bear to hear any more.” Paulette, hands over her ears, ran out of the room, sobbing.