The Widows of Champagne

by Renee Ryan

  Gabrielle chased after him. “Detective Mueller. Please. I’m sure this isn’t necessary.”

  Paying her no heed, he swung open the front door and motioned for his soldiers to come forward. “Search every room.”

  “Detective,” she said again, a little more desperately. “I’m confident there’s a logical explanation for Hauptmann von Schmidt’s absence. He’ll return soon.”

  “He won’t return. One of you made certain of that.” He didn’t say murder. It was implied.

  “Where is your proof?” she demanded.

  “In this house. My men will find it.”

  In that moment, there was nothing of the man she’d met in her wine cellars during the raids. Nothing of the man who’d steered his soldiers away from her most valuable champagnes. Gabrielle had begun to believe...

  She’d begun to hope...

  Bitter disappointment scorched through her. She’d been played a fool, outmaneuvered by a master manipulator. Unable to look him in the eyes, she stared at the intersection of his collar and the iron cross at his throat. “None of us is lying,” she said again, praying it was true.

  “So you keep insisting.”

  “It’s the truth.” She wondered at her own resolve. Her courage. The women in this home hid their secrets well. They’d each prepared for today’s search, knowing it was inevitable. Still, Gabrielle should not feel this calm. Her peace came from God, not herself, not this man she’d begun to think might be more, possibly, than a monster. And thus, as SS soldiers tore through the château, she leaned against a wall and fixed her eyes on the Lord.

  The search took two hours. Mueller conferred with his soldiers several times. Then, suddenly, it was over, and he was approaching her again. “We will leave you now.” His voice took on a low, enigmatic tone that fell only on her ears. “My return is imminent.”

  The next morning, a full hour before dawn broke over the vineyard, persistent knocking woke the entire household. Gabrielle, already dressed and sipping coffee in the kitchen, was the first to arrive in the foyer, Marta only a few steps behind. “They’re here,” the housekeeper hissed. “The Gestapo. They have come to take us away.”

  “Shhh.”

  The knocking stopped. Gabrielle and Marta froze, waiting. Neither spoke. What was there to say? The knocking began again, louder, rattling the door on its hinges.

  Marta took a step forward.

  “No, I’ll handle this. You go upstairs. Wake Paulette, then both of you go to my grandmother’s room. Do not come out until I tell you. Quickly now.” Gabrielle pushed Marta into action. “Quickly!”

  The housekeeper threw herself up the stairs. Gabrielle took her time walking to the door, releasing the lock, turning the handle. The glow of headlights hit her in the face. She blinked away the spots and attempted to stare into the heavy fog. Her efforts were rewarded with the image of German soldiers on her doorstep.

  She counted two of them, with eyes like flints, immaculately dressed in their SS black. She knew these men. They were the brutes that had arrested Max. Behind them stood Mueller. His face held no expression. When he started forward, the soldiers shifted aside to make a path.

  Danger swirled around him, shrouding him as easily as the fog cloaking the morning air. The sweet sound of birdsong contradicted the ugliness of the situation.

  Gabrielle struck a pose of impatience. “It’s rather early for a social call.”

  “And yet,” he said, his gaze traveling over her muslin shirt, wool trousers and heavy work boots. “I see you were expecting me.”

  He’d thought to catch her unaware. Even without his cryptic warning, Gabrielle had known he would come at an inconvenient hour. Let him see her resolve. Let him know she understood how his mind worked. “I have always handled the unexpected well.”

  A flicker of appreciation gathered in his eyes but was gone so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it. “You will step aside and let us in your home.”

  Before she could respond, he moved past her, the two soldiers hard on his heels.

  She scurried around all three, until she was once again face-to-face with the detective. He stood with his feet splayed, hands linked behind his back. The pose of an arrogant man certain in his convictions. Here to do his duty. This, she sensed, was the real Wolfgang Mueller. A man without qualms.

  Rage dominated her thoughts. For one black moment she was tempted to slap that self-righteous look off his face. “What is the reason for this visit?” she asked.

  With a smile slightly warped at the edges, he stated his business in guttural, heavily accented French. “I have come to take your mother to the police station.”

  “You’re arresting her?”

  “That has yet to be determined.”

  The ragged edges of her remaining hope splintered into a thousand pieces. The pain was unbearable. She could feel the soldiers watching her. The anticipation was there in their ready stances. They hoped she would do something foolish and they would be forced to stop her.

  She could feel the urge to battle, but she’d lost Mueller’s attention. His eyes were locked on something behind her. Gabrielle shifted around and gasped at her mother standing calmly at the top of the stairs. She was dressed in a thick robe, her face free of makeup, her hair hanging loosely past her shoulders. She’d never looked so disheveled. And for once, her age showed.

  A dozen warnings ran through Gabrielle’s mind. Run, Maman. Run!

  It was too late. Her mother was prepared to accept her fate. Gabrielle saw her conviction, her acceptance of the inevitable.

  Mueller walked to the edge of the steps. “Hélène Jobert-LeBlanc, you will come with me. You may do so willingly. Or my men will drag you away.”

  “I will come willingly.” She tightened the belt at her impossibly small waist, the gesture highlighting her weight loss. “But perhaps you will allow me a moment to make myself presentable?”

  “You have ten minutes.”

  She was back down in seven, looking more herself, but just barely, in a simple blue dress that hung on her gaunt frame. She’d pulled her hair in a tidy knot at the nape of her neck and had applied lipstick. “Shall we, Detective?”

  Without waiting for his response, she strode out the front door. Head tilted at a regal angle. Marie Antoinette heading to the guillotine.

  Gabrielle stared at her mother’s rigid back, her heart thumping hard in her throat, fear surging in her mind. She bit her lip to hold back a scream. It was Max all over again. She had to do something, say something. She rushed out into the fog.

  Mueller caught her by the arm. The headlights of the Mercedes glinted in his eyes. “I wouldn’t advise interfering.” His gaze bore into hers. “You will only cause your mother unnecessary grief.”

  A threat. A warning. They were one and the same with this man. The cold breath of terror filled her. “Why are you taking her away?”

  “There has been a development.” He didn’t explain. “Now turn around, Madame Dupree. Turn around and go back inside.”

  She refused to move and watched, helplessly, as he climbed in the back seat behind her mother. Gabrielle didn’t dare look away, didn’t dare, as the Mercedes disappeared into the fog.

  Not again. She could not remain passive again. She would beg for her mother’s life.

  She informed the other women of her plan, then sprinted to the shed behind the champagne house. The car had no petrol. She would have to use the bicycle. She lifted up one quick, fervent prayer and took off in the direction of Reims. The journey was both endless and strangely brief.

  Mueller met her at the door of the police station, wearing the face of the Gestapo. “You should not have come here.”

  She felt unusually weak, and very much aware of the perspiration sliding down her back. “You have to let me see her.”

  “She is being prepared for questioni
ng.”

  The Gestapo didn’t question, they interrogated. They coerced. They tortured.

  Helplessness descended over her as it had in the vineyard during Max’s arrest. “Please, let me speak with her. Five minutes, that’s all I ask.”

  “You can do nothing for her now.”

  It couldn’t be true. “There’s been some kind of mistake,” she said, aware of the frantic nature of her tone. “My mother had nothing to do with Hauptmann von Schmidt’s disappearance.”

  He said nothing.

  Gabrielle took a breath and realized she was breathing hard, trying to keep control. “She’s innocent of this crime.”

  Mueller moved quickly, so quickly, she jumped back. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  He already had. He’d arrested Max. And now her mother.

  “Go home, Gabrielle.” The way he said her name sent chills down her spine. Soft, full of kindness, perfectly articulated, his French impeccable in a way it had never been before.

  Who was this man?

  The Nazi with your mother’s life cradled in the palm of his hand. “I can’t leave. She is my mother.”

  He came to stand by her, so close she had to lean back to look into his face. “You must go and let me do my duty.”

  An intimate staring contest ensued. Gabrielle was the first to look away. Mueller was the first to speak. “Go home.”

  “I can’t.”

  “This is not a choice.” He ushered her outside and left her standing alone on the sidewalk. The first light of dawn broke over the horizon, highlighting the cathedral spires.

  She had no power here. All her bravery, all her bluster, was fraudulent at best. She drifted to her bicycle without noticing what she was doing and found herself sitting on the seat.

  Her mind kept circling back to one question. Where was von Schmidt? Was he dead? If so, how? Why? Who would want him dead? There were signs of guilt that pointed toward her mother. Toward all of them, really. Where was the body? No body, no crime.

  The church bells sounded on the air, prodding her into action.

  She pedaled home and used the journey to review the last time she’d seen von Schmidt. They’d been in the parlor. Listening to the wireless. The news from Paris had been devastating. Two days of arrests. 13,000 Jews taken into custody. Von Schmidt had been overly pleased. He’d argued with Josephine. Or rather, Josephine had argued with him.

  He’d threatened reprisal, then insisted Hélène pack his suitcase. She’d gone without protest, looking resigned.

  Something in her mother’s behavior. In the conversation before von Schmidt left the room. Or was it after? She reviewed every word. A memory struck. Words hissed in Gabrielle’s ear. Something must be done to stop him.

  Which of them had said that? Josephine. Josephine had made the vague threat. No, it was absurd. Unthinkable. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe her grandmother had a hand in von Schmidt’s disappearance. Besides, she wasn’t the only one that had cause to see him dead.

  Josephine. Hélène. Neither of them could have done this...alone... But together? United in their common cause? Gabrielle pumped her feet faster, thinking, praying, Please, God, let me be wrong.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Josephine

  Josephine was in her room, lying on her bed, staring at the cracked plaster above her head, enduring the endless stretch of silence between waking, dressing and Gabrielle’s return from the police station.

  Worry seared in her throat, but she kept her eyes on the ceiling. Kept trying to piece together the events of the past two weeks. There was something important she was supposed to remember. A moment, a thought, a quiet act of valor.

  The answer was in her memory.

  Her mind refused to cooperate.

  The darkness that had once been only a nagging presence now bled into every thought, every image, sweet and velvety, more comfort than concern. The sound of hushed female voices filled her head. She thought she heard her name. She couldn’t find the energy to respond.

  The voices changed, becoming more urgent, more agitated. When she heard the unmistakable sobbing from her granddaughter, she flew off the bed and fought her way across the room, pushing aside the foggy thoughts crowding her brain. She found Marta hovering over Paulette, who sat on the floor, hunched over, her arms hugging her knees to her chest, her lips flat, tears pouring from her eyes.

  Josephine dropped to the floor beside the girl, gathered her into her arms and began stroking her hair. “Here, now, what’s all this?”

  “Oh, Grandmère.” Paulette looked up at her, her eyes pools of anguish, her whole body shaking. “They’ve taken Maman away. They’re going to send her to her death, I just know it. Then, what will become of us?”

  In that moment, Josephine felt as though someone had slapped her awake. Everything was clear. The smell of Paulette’s freshly washed hair, the scent of soap and shampoo, the chill in the air. The radiator against the wall useless without fuel. The terror in her granddaughter’s voice. “Your mother has only been taken in for questioning.”

  “By the Gestapo,” the girl wailed. “They know she’s a Jew. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  “The Gestapo is a police unit, Paulette. They investigate crimes. Right now, they believe something has happened to Hauptmann von Schmidt.”

  That, also, was clear in Josephine’s mind.

  The German wasn’t, as she’d suspected, sitting behind some desk in Paris, smug and well rewarded for his loyalty to the Third Reich.

  Where was he, then? Josephine’s mind spun with possibilities. An extended vacation he’d failed to report to his superiors, a missed train, a case of the flu. Foul play. Death. That last possibility seemed unlikely. Except, in her gut, she thought it was more than likely. “I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding.”

  “Do you think Maman did something to Hauptmann von Schmidt?”

  “Your mother is not capable of harming another person.” Or rather, she hadn’t been capable before the enemy moved into their home and demanded she warm his bed. Josephine had witnessed Hélène’s transformation. The confident, elegant woman had become tense and watchful, her quiet fury bubbling just below the surface. “She did not hurt the German.”

  “Will that matter? She’s committed other crimes.”

  “What other crimes?”

  Paulette shuddered so hard Josephine felt it in her bones. “She has lied about her name. If the Gestapo discover she falsified her papers. If they find out that she—”

  “Hush, now. I mean it. Your mother is a LeBlanc. Our name will keep her safe.” Josephine knew that wasn’t true.

  And so, too, it would seem, did Paulette. “We have to do something, Grandmère. We have to protect her or we will all be doomed.”

  “Your sister is already working on the problem.”

  “What can Gabrielle do?”

  What, indeed? Once the Gestapo involved itself in a matter, a miscarriage of justice was sure to follow. Josephine was powerless all over again—as powerless as she’d been when Antoine had collapsed in the vineyard. When her beloved son had succumbed to his unseen wounds left from another war.

  She wanted to climb into the dark shadows that awaited in her mind. She was not that much of a coward. She called on the Lord, praying for His divine deliverance. “We have to trust your sister will do everything she can to save your mother.”

  Paulette said nothing, staring at the floor. The tears continued streaming down her cheeks, and her shoulders shook. Josephine looked to Marta. “She needs tea.”

  “I will see to it at once.” The housekeeper closed the door behind her.

  “My bones are too old for this floor. Help me up, Paulette.”

  She watched the girl rise, her skin pale and gray. Then reach out a hand. “I will go to Friedrich. He will help Maman.”


  Friedrich. Friedrich. That name, Josephine thought as she struggled to her feet, it belonged to a man she knew. A very bad man. “You were supposed to end that romance.”

  Paulette bit her lip. “I did end it.”

  The girl was lying. There was not a whisper of doubt in Josephine’s mind. She had a glimmer of a response to warn her granddaughter from this course. The argument was so clear. The words were on her tongue. And then, they were gone.

  “Don’t worry, Grandmère. I know how to save Maman.” Paulette aimed her body toward the door, then slipped out of the room.

  Josephine let her go, sensing she should stop her. But not sure why.

  She needed to think. Organize her thoughts. Someone—a man—a fiend—had gone missing. No, not missing. Another ending. Guilt, it suddenly filled her until she was choking from the sensation. She took the emotion and turned it into resolve. She would remember. She wouldn’t let the thought fade. She closed her eyes a moment, let her bottom lip go soft and reached for the memory. Reaching...reaching...

  The darkness came quickly, spreading like flame to paper, and she let it swallow her whole. It was easy to bask in the silence that followed. Soothing, pleasant. Infuriating.

  She placed her fingertips to her eyes, pressing hard. No use, she thought, dropping her hands. Her mind was blank again. There was a minor scuffle out in the hallway. The furious female voices forced open her eyes. She tilted her head, listening.

  Footsteps pounding, coming closer, the door swinging open, Gabrielle standing on the threshold. “Where is Paulette going in such a hurry?”

  “I... Paulette?” Confusion blistered her throat, her mind. “Has the baby gone missing?”

  “Oh, Grandmère.” Gabrielle’s shoulders slumped, then she glanced to the heavens. “Please, Lord. Please, not now.”

  Josephine heard her granddaughter’s frustration, her fear. “The baby? Is she ill?”

  “She’s fine.” Again, the frustration. Now peppered with impatience. Then, a snap of her shoulders. “I need to see your journal.”

  Darkness and silence, they filled her mind, rolled around in her brain. Darkness and silence. “I don’t keep a journal.”