The Widows of Champagne

by Renee Ryan

  What crimes had so many Jews committed? Gabrielle asked herself again, her own hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Men, women, children, arrested. For what? For being born Jewish? For daring to breathe the same air as Germans?

  It was all so unbelievable. Gruesome. Anti-Semitism on a whole new level.

  And von Schmidt, the deplorable human being, was happy. “Tell me, Herr Hauptmann,” Gabrielle said, unable to hold silent a second longer. “What did 13,000 French citizens do to deserve arrest and deportation?”

  “They are not French. They are Jews. They have infested Europe with their tainted blood. They have stolen jobs and dominated businesses where they have no right. It is long past time they were put in their place.”

  Gabrielle had heard much of this before, at the dinner table in this very home. But never out of von Schmidt’s mouth. He’d shown his approval with a nod of his head. A smile, a grunt. “How can you advocate sending innocent people to their deaths?” she asked him. “Many of them children.”

  “Ridding the world of Jews is an acceptable sacrifice for the good of Germany.”

  Stunned speechless, Gabrielle watched the hate flicker across his face. The fervor of a true believer shone in his eyes. When had he become so bold with his convictions, so rabid? “You fiend. You are a—”

  “Be very careful what you say next, Madame Dupree. You would not wish to be labeled a sympathizer of the Jews.”

  Hélène flinched. Tears filled Josephine’s eyes. Marta openly wept.

  Scowling, von Schmidt extinguished his cigarette, immediately lit another and turned his displeasure toward the settee. “You, there. Old woman.” He stabbed his cigarette in Josephine’s direction. “Why do you shed tears for the filthy Jews?”

  “You want to know why? I will tell you.” Josephine stood, her tears falling without remorse, her head tilted at an incensed angle like a wild boar uprooted in the forest.

  This would not end well. Gabrielle rushed to her grandmother’s side, linked their arms, and pulled her close. “Grandmère, you don’t have to answer his question. You don’t—”

  “Yes, Gabrielle, I do.” Josephine’s eyes glittered with purpose. “The Jews are God’s chosen people. All nations will be blessed through them. All but the Third Reich. The Lord will not bless such evil.”

  Von Schmidt went very still. “I have to wonder why you defend a race so far removed from your own. What, Madame, drives this loyalty? Or perhaps, I should ask...who?”

  Josephine lifted her chin higher. There was no hesitation in her, no fear, only conviction. “I am a Christian, this is no secret. Jewish history is our history. Their pain is our pain.”

  Von Schmidt drew closer, the look of retribution in his eyes.

  “Herr Hauptmann von Schmidt.” Gabrielle said his name in an overloud voice. “We’re all on edge after the news from Paris. The shock has made us not quite ourselves.”

  He placed his gaze on her face. “Mark my words, Madame, the Jews will be eradicated from France, as will anyone who comes to their defense. Keep that in mind the next time you want to speak your thoughts aloud. You do not want to find yourselves on the wrong side of history.”

  Clearly outraged, Josephine started to respond.

  He cut her off with a slash of his hand. “Another word out of you and I will be forced to report your sympathies to my superiors.”

  Gabrielle’s skin heated with anger. She wanted to shout at von Schmidt that he and his superiors were the ones on the wrong side of history. That they would one day be forced to answer for their sympathies. But she kept silent and continued holding on to her grandmother, silently urging her to stop engaging in further discussion.

  “Your silence is sensible. Now. I have a meeting with several wine merchants in Paris tomorrow. You,” he said, taking Hélène by the arm, “will accompany me upstairs and pack my bags.”

  “Yes, Helmut.”

  Josephine, her arm still entangled with Gabrielle’s, waited until the two disappeared before muttering barely above a whisper, “That man, he is out of control. Something must be done to stop him.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Hélène

  Stepping into the room that had once belonged to her daughter, but was now filled with von Schmidt’s effects, Hélène shut the door and stared straight ahead. She took a moment to breathe past her nerves. He doesn’t know your secret. He would have turned you in by now.

  This was true, if for no other reason than to forward his own career.

  He’d proven that when he’d provided his superiors with the list of local Jewish business owners and their families. Such a calculated move would have brought him great reward, if he’d been the only one to supply the names. Three others in his ranks had produced a similar list.

  Now was not the time to dwell on such matters.

  Hélène needed to gather her composure and set aside her building fury. It took her a moment, and longer than perhaps it should. When she fastened her gaze on von Schmidt, she found she couldn’t lift her eyes higher than his chin.

  “You’re upset,” he said, reaching for her, taking her hand in his, giving it a squeeze. “No, don’t deny it. I can see it in the way you avoid looking at me directly.”

  She forced her gaze higher. A superior grin passed over his lips, then moved into his eyes. Hélène hated that smug expression. “It was difficult watching Josephine contradict you.”

  “That was unwise of her.”

  His words made her wince. But she felt, finally, they were speaking candidly. And in their candor she heard his threat. His patience had come to an end. Josephine was in grave danger. Hélène would do what she could to protect her mother-in-law. “You said it yourself. Josephine is old and, most days, confused. She can barely remember the names of her own granddaughters. She is harmless.”

  It was only half-true.

  “You make a salient point. Now let me make mine so there is no misunderstanding.” With a quick, swift sweep of his hand, he gripped her arm. “My loyalty is to myself.”

  This, she knew.

  “But also, with the Third Reich.”

  “Of course.” Why would he think it important to make this clarification? “I am aware of your allegiance, Helmut. You welcome Nazi elitists into this home, men who see themselves as superior to others, men like Standartenführer Bauer and Lieutenant Weber. And now you are one of them. You talk like them. You think like them. They have corrupted your mind.”

  She’d spoken too freely. She felt her mistake in the tightening of his fingers on her bicep. It was too late to take back the words. She wasn’t sure she would if she could. His grip tightened.

  He was hurting her.

  “You think it’s only me who is like them? You give these men your smiles, your laughter.” Mouth grim, he dragged her to the full-length mirror next to the bureau and forced her to face her reflection. “Look at yourself, Hélène. Look at the color of your hair, the blue tint of your eyes.” He shook her hard enough to rattle her teeth. “You are one of them, too. One of us.”

  Hélène tried not to sway on her feet. Her throat was raw with unshed tears. It felt like she’d swallowed a collection of knives. Still, she said to him, “One of us?”

  “Yes, us. Aryan. The pure race.” His voice was driven, possessed. Evil. What made his words worse was that nothing he said was original. He was parroting what others professed before him. “We are among the privileged elite. Is that not exciting?”

  Hélène stared at the face next to hers in the mirror. Side by side, cheeks pressed together, two images of the same coin. But their eyes were not the same. Hers, frightened, appalled. His, glowing with zeal. She’d known Helmut to be a greedy man, but never a fanatic.

  When had this transformation happened? Why did she not trust it?

  Something bleak and angry rose up from her soul. Her hea
rt began to thump fast and hard. She thought she might be ill, right here, at von Schmidt’s feet. She pulled in several tight breaths until the sensation passed, then spoke to their shared reflection. “Privilege at the sacrifice of an entire race of people is not exciting, Helmut. It’s monstrous.”

  “Wanting to purify mankind does not make us monsters. It makes us noble.”

  “Noble?” She repeated the word, keeping her voice mild, her sentences short, even as her mind raged. “Genocide is not noble. It’s the method of animals.”

  She expected an open-palmed slap to her cheek.

  He laughed at her instead, the sound a little wild, and—again—not quite right. “You are wrong, my dear. Animals kill to survive. Nazis kill to purify. You will remember my words. Say it. You will remember what I have said to you this day.”

  “I will remember.” She yanked her arm free and pushed away from him. She wanted nothing more than to be away from this room, this man. She still had to pack his suitcase.

  “How long will you be in Paris?” she asked, training her voice to a throaty purr as much to distract him as herself. “One night, two? No longer, I hope.”

  After a moment, he seemed to come back to himself. The smug, knowing grin was back on his face. This man, she knew. This man, she understood. “Don’t tell me you’re worried I will replace you.”

  Her breathing faltered, ever-so-slightly, but she kept her smile bland, even as her mind wished, prayed, begged the Lord that von Schmidt would do just that. That he would cast her aside as nothing more than a piece of overused baggage. “I simply need to know how many changes of clothes to pack.”

  His gaze stayed on her face, and she knew he was attempting to read her. “I plan to be gone for a few days, at least three, possibly four.”

  She walked past him. “Will you require a business suit for your meetings, or will your uniform suffice?”

  “I will need several suits. As I said, I expect to be gone awhile.” His voice wasn’t pleasant and, again, she thought something was wrong, something off. His tone was too syrupy, too sweet, the slippery hiss of a snake before a deadly strike.

  “Very well.” She stood at the threshold of the closet and, lifting onto her toes, retrieved the valise from the shelf above her head. Her movements were stiff and impatient as she filled the case with various articles of clothing and von Schmidt’s personal items.

  The thought of him leaving for more than a night brought such joy she had to fight to keep it off her face. He could not know how much she wanted him out of her life, not just for the days he would be gone, but forever. I could make that happen.

  Emotion roared through her. The disquiet she’d been feeling since becoming this man’s mistress twisted hard in her stomach, almost painful, and her blood surged with a sudden burst of power. A strange sort of excitement. It was too much feeling, too fast. She felt like screaming. And then, a rush of calm swept through her.

  I could make that happen.

  She finished packing, shut the case, secured the straps and sent her mind somewhere else. She gave Helmut her full attention. He seemed as preoccupied as she, and it wasn’t long before he sent her away. She returned to her room and went to stand before her reflection.

  How often had she gazed into this mirror? How many hours dedicated to the application of makeup, the adjustment of her hair, the addition of another layer of camouflage?

  She touched her chin, curved her fingertip along her jaw, pulled at the skin at her cheek. She was no longer a girl anymore. She was not an old woman, either. She was trapped somewhere in between. Mature, but not young. Still beautiful. More curse than blessing, that. The lines around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes were minimal considering her age. Blond hair, blue eyes. You are one of us.

  Not far from the truth, but not how he meant. She’d supplied the list of local Jewish names. Men, women and children who would soon be rounded up and sent to the camps. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t the only one to do so, or that her list wasn’t as extensive as the others. What she’d done, turning on her own kind, it made her a monster. No better than a Nazi.

  But maybe, yes maybe, it took a monster to defeat a monster. A plan began formulating in her mind.

  She went to the window and looked out. It was the time of day when everything softened. The sun dipped below the horizon. That final burst of light caught in the clouds and lingered in a kaleidoscope of pastel colors. Pink melted into blue into gold into yellow and even purple. It broke her heart to look at that sky so full of God’s handiwork, knowing others were locked in a sports arena, or a train car, or a terrible cage, unable to absorb the beauty.

  With trembling fingers, she lit a cigarette and considered her options. She sat in front of the mirror again, staring at her face. She stayed there for hours, smoking, thinking. Night fell. The moon rose. And still she sat.

  And she stared.

  A band of clouds drifted over the moon slowly, slyly, casting her troubled reflection in shadow. Her mind went to dark places, where monsters roamed freely and atonement awaited the brave.

  Von Schmidt would be leaving in the morning.

  Hélène would be ready, knowing she would never find peace until the man vanished from her life for good.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Gabrielle

  Von Schmidt’s departure was met with wary celebration in the LeBlanc home. He did not return in three days. He did not return in four. A week passed. And then half of another. A surprisingly stoic Detective Mueller showed up twice during the second week, asking rapid-fire questions of each woman, saving the harder ones for Hélène.

  She seemed perfectly at ease under the continued questioning, a little too perfectly at ease to Gabrielle’s way of thinking. She could not dislodge a chilling suspicion that her mother knew more than she was letting on. Hélène said pleasant, ambiguous things about von Schmidt, but nothing that helped explain his continued absence or ongoing lack of communication.

  Mueller arrived for a third visit, no longer stoic. He insisted the entire household meet him in the parlor. “I have a few more questions.”

  He started with Hélène.

  Before he began, she asked, “May I smoke?”

  He nodded.

  She brought a cigarette to her lips, reached for her lighter. Her eyes stayed on Mueller as she lit the tip and blew out a stream of smoke that gave away the brand. Lucky Strikes. American. She had not switched, as she’d promised. She took another drag.

  Mueller’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t remark on her impudence. “When did you last see Hauptmann von Schmidt?”

  She studied her cigarette as if the answer was written across the paper cylinder. “The seventeenth day of July.”

  Mueller consulted his notebook. “You are certain it wasn’t the sixteenth?”

  “It was the seventeenth.”

  “And that was the last day you saw him? The seventeenth,” he said, then added before she could respond, “What was the reason for his trip? How long was he supposed to be gone?”

  Unruffled by the barrage, Hélène batted back her answers as fast as he’d fired off the questions. “Yes. The seventeenth. Business. Three, possibly four days. He wasn’t clear.”

  “Why didn’t you report him missing when he didn’t show up as planned?”

  She took a long, slow drag of her cigarette, blew it out just as slowly. “I am not his keeper.”

  “You are employed as his—” Mueller glanced at the notebook again “—secretary?”

  “His social secretary,” she corrected, twisting her head and blowing another stream of smoke into the air. So calm. So in control, Gabrielle thought. Even her mother’s eyes gave away nothing of her thoughts. “I am mostly a glorified party planner. Helmut tells me the number of guests he plans to entertain, what he wants served at the table, and I accommodate his wishes.”
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  “Helmut? You are on a first-name basis with Hauptmann von Schmidt?”

  Hélène crushed out the cigarette, crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. “He encourages familiarity.”

  “You two are close?”

  Her eyes blinked once, twice, then went blank. No one looking at her would think she had a deadly secret hidden behind that cool exterior. “He expects me to anticipate his needs. That requires a certain level of familiarity.”

  “These are not the duties of a glorified party planner.”

  She shrugged. “I serve as his hostess. I organize his calendar. Ensure that his clothes are properly cleaned and pressed. Basically, I see to his comfort.”

  “You see to his comfort, nothing more intimate than that?”

  “Nothing, no.”

  Gabrielle was still considering her mother’s lie, told without a slice of hesitation, when Mueller darted a look at her. “And you, Madame Dupree. Why did you not report Hauptmann von Schmidt’s disappearance?”

  “Please understand, Detective Mueller. Capitaine...Hauptmann von Schmidt seized our home for his personal lodgings.” She could not keep the heavy judgment out of her voice. “He did not ask our permission. He is not our guest. He is not our friend.”

  Mueller’s eyes, a rigid, clear blue, skimmed over her face. “You wished him harm.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” He fired the next question at Josephine in a precise, cold tempo that grated on the ears. “When was the last time you saw Hauptmann von Schmidt?”

  Josephine drew back. “I don’t...” A small flutter quivered at her throat and the color in her cheeks completely ebbed away. “I don’t know this man, I...” Her words trailed off.

  Mueller took a moment to study each of them in careful, meticulous succession. “One of you is lying. I will find out which one.” He snapped his notebook shut and rose abruptly. “My men will now search the château.”

  He headed out of the parlor.