by Renee Ryan
“Oh, but you do.”
In the next moment, Gabrielle was on her knees, tossing aside the rug that lay in the middle of the room, slipping her hands over the floorboards.
“What are you doing on the floor, dear?”
Her granddaughter didn’t answer. She pushed and tugged at a wooden slat. Her fingers were clumsy, slick with sweat, trembling. Her face had gone unnaturally pale, but her eyes burned with determination. At last, she worked one of the planks free. A low, strangled hiss escaped her lips. “It’s not here.”
Josephine peered into the shallow crevice, seeing nothing but wood shavings and dust. What had her granddaughter hoped to find hidden in the floor?
Gabrielle jumped to her feet. Hands planted on her hips, her eyes darting around the room. She made a choking sound in her throat. “Where did you put it?”
“Put what, dear?” The fog in her mind was growing thicker. She rubbed at her temples. The darkness crept over her thoughts. She wanted to succumb. Oh, how she wanted to take refuge in the blessed nothingness that called.
But Gabrielle was speaking to her, at her, asking her questions. One, and then another. The words came at her too fast. Josephine couldn’t keep up. She shook her head, forcing aside her confusion. “Does Marta know? Grandmère, does she know where you keep it?”
“Do I know where she keeps what?”
Gabrielle whirled around, the slab of wood still clasped in her hand. “My grandmother’s journal. I need to know where she hides it.”
The housekeeper swallowed, her nervousness plain as she caught Josephine’s eye.
Josephine didn’t know what to tell the other woman, except the one thing she knew to be true. “You may trust Gabrielle with my secrets.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Gabrielle
Gabrielle caught a familiar wisp of flour and sugar as Marta hastened past her. She watched the older woman approach her grandmother, her own thoughts swirling. Sorrow built, a need to mourn reared, but Gabrielle remained determined to think only of the journal, and finding the truth, not that her grandmother’s closest confidante was a woman other than herself. The revelation did not belong in this moment.
Marta paused beside Josephine. “You are sure you want your granddaughter to read your private thoughts?”
Josephine hesitated. “I think, yes. Oui.”
“All right.” The housekeeper continued to the nightstand, then shoved it aside before lowering to her hands and knees. She removed a section of the baseboard that ran along the floor and retrieved several items from the wall. She handed them, one by one, to Josephine. A diamond bracelet. A rope of pearls. More jewelry. A pair of silk stockings.
The treasures kept coming.
Gabrielle watched her grandmother accept each item, study it, then set it aside on the nightstand. Not a single light of recognition showed on her face. Josephine had retreated to some hidden place in her mind.
A sense of failure crept along Gabrielle’s spine. She fought it. Von Schmidt wasn’t dead, not by her grandmother’s hand. Or her mother’s. There was another explanation for his disappearance. There had to be. She would find it.
At last, Marta’s hand came away from the wall with the leather-bound journal. Bypassing Josephine, she gave the book to Gabrielle. She opened the cover and began leafing through the pages as her grandmother looked on. Reading Josephine’s most intimate thoughts felt wrong, a violation of her privacy. It had to be done.
Gabrielle continued flipping, skimming the pages. She kept searching for...she would know when she found it. There were long, emotional, beautifully worded entries that read almost like poetry. She ignored those—no time, no time—and concentrated on the lists. Then the entries that included dates and times and brief descriptions of events, many pertaining to the current war, some from the previous one.
The entries were as varied and sporadically penned and randomly phrased as Josephine’s recent behavior. Gabrielle hadn’t expected that. Nor had she expected the very real sense of sorrow fluttering in her stomach as she read what seemed to be the ramblings of a senile old woman. She continued flipping through the entries. The time it took gnawed at her patience.
She stopped at a list of family heirlooms. The hair on the back of her neck quivered. Some of the items had marks by them, others did not. She asked Marta for clarification.
The housekeeper studied the page. “Those—” she pressed a fingertip to several items with marks next to them “—are the valuables your grandmother and I hid from the Germans.”
Another jolt of surprise. No time for shock. “And the ones without the marks?”
“Those are the valuables that have gone missing since Hauptmann von Schmidt arrived.”
The swine. She turned to a single entry about a shipment to Portugal. Her mind worked quickly, measuring, calculating, drawing conclusions until certainty filled her. This was it. Proof, or at least the suggestion of proof, that von Schmidt hadn’t met his doom in this house. He’d run off to a neutral country to sit out the rest of the war at the LeBlancs’ expense. It wasn’t hard evidence, but perhaps enough to deflect suspicion away from her mother.
It was, quite possibly, even the truth. At the bottom of the page was a personal note. Von Schmidt is a swine. Something must be done to stop him.
More proof, pointing away from Hélène. And straight to Josephine. Gabrielle ripped the page from the journal. Confident she had a viable theory to bring to Mueller. But at what cost?
Her hands started to sweat. She had to think, had to protect both women. Her finger moved over Josephine’s personal notation, smudging the ink, blurring the incriminating words.
Josephine came up beside Gabrielle. The older woman said nothing, not a single whisper of a word passed her lips. Only a firmness around the mouth showed her mood, a light in the eyes that spoke of quiet resolve. Gabrielle remembered how they’d stood in this same posture. The night before von Schmidt left for Paris. Something must be done to stop him.
Her finger moved faster, scrubbing at the page, erasing the evidence against her grandmother. Her throat went dry. It couldn’t be true. Grandmère wasn’t strong enough of body, or mind. Others were. Others loyal to their family. Gabrielle could think of at least three candidates, four if she included her mother.
Needing to know the truth, she asked Marta to follow her into the hallway. “Did you help my grandmother get rid of von Schmidt?”
“She would not have asked that of me.”
“Would she have asked it of my mother?”
“Non. Of this I am absolutely certain.”
Gabrielle wanted to be as confident as the other woman. Something held her back. She consulted the paper in her hand, then thought back to the page before it. Almost immediately, she remembered the entry, and the personal note beside it. I have very brave men in my employ.
Pierre. François. She needed to speak with them both. François first. He would be in the wine cellar. She hurtled toward the back of the house, chased by the roar of blood in her ears and the cold dread that her grandmother had followed through with her threat.
Chapter Forty
Hélène
They didn’t start the interrogation immediately. They left Hélène in a tiny, windowless room, seated before a scarred table in a ladder-back chair, her arms secured at her back. The air smelled of sulfur and human sweat. Each of the four walls were painted a dark, dingy gray. A Nazi flag hung directly in front of her. Taunting her. Reminding her where she was and who held the power.
Hours passed. How many, she didn’t know, but long enough that her bladder filled to capacity. She sensed this was some sort of intimidation tactic. By the time her interrogator entered the room, her head was pounding. Her stomach hurt and all she could think about was her need for relief.
Face expressionless, Detective Mueller took his place across from her on the
other side of the table. He set a thick file on the scratched surface between them. She felt sick looking at all those papers. “Hélène Jobert-LeBlanc,” he said, opening the cover. “Is that your full name?”
“Oui.”
“Jobert is your birth name? Your, how do you say it in French? Your nom de jeune fille?”
“Yes.” She lied with remarkable ease. She’d had decades of practice. “Jobert was my name before I married Étienne LeBlanc.”
He made no comment.
Returning his gaze to the dossier, he searched several pages. Hélène shifted uncomfortably in the chair and feigned a haughtiness she did not feel. “Am I being charged with a crime?”
Mueller glanced sharply at her. “We will get to that in good time.”
The questions began in earnest then. He asked her when von Schmidt had requisitioned her home. The details of his daily routine. On and on, the same questions over and over. “When did your relationship become intimate?”
He caught her by surprise, though she did her best to conceal her reaction. She pondered the merits of truth over lie. She chose evasion. “I was not aware I was being watched so closely.”
“Do you work for the Free French?”
She froze in her chair. “I do not.”
“Really?” He flattened his hand on the file. “We have information that someone from your home has been relaying vital information about the destination of champagne shipments from Reims to certain war zones.”
Hélène’s mind raced, recalling overheard conversations between Helmut and others. None of them were about champagne shipments. “I am at a loss.”
“Hauptmann von Schmidt kept detailed records in his desk. As his secretary, you had access to this information.” He did not refer to the file when he said the words. “Are you still claiming it was not you?”
She crossed her legs, fumbling for calm. “It was not me.”
“You answer too quickly.”
“The truth always comes quickly,” she said, unable to contain a hint of defiance in her tone.
He seemed to consider this. “If you didn’t pass along the information, someone else in your home did. Perhaps you have a name for me.”
Her fear peeled away, exposing her fury. “Are you asking me to betray one of my own family members?”
“I am suggesting you think carefully before you answer my questions. Cooperation with the Free French is an act of treason.”
The threat settled over her. She thought she’d been arrested for von Schmidt’s murder. That, she could understand. She’d plotted, and planned, and was certain she could make him disappear. Her mistake had been waiting until morning. Von Schmidt had departed the château before dawn, giving her no chance to rid the world of one more Nazi rat.
As if the detective’s thoughts tracked in a similar direction, the questioning returned to von Schmidt’s disappearance. He stopped only when a knock on the door heralded one of the local French police. “Detective Mueller, sir. Pardon me. We have a situation that needs your immediate attention.”
“It cannot wait?”
“Non.”
“Very well.” He pushed his chair back. “A moment, please,” he said to Hélène. Gathering up the file, he stepped toward the doorway.
Before he left, she requested the use of the facilities.
He directed his icy regard over her. Then, to her surprise, granted her request. He did not, however, uncuff her hands. “When she is finished,” he told the guard before he left, “take her to one of the cells.”
For a terrifying moment, she could not rise. Her legs were boneless, so that she had to lean on the table to find her balance. After she found blessed relief, and the guard had shoved her into a cell, her hands finally free of their manacles, she thought she heard the heartbreaking sound of soft, pitiful weeping.
She tried to pinpoint the source, but a hard, angry masculine voice dominated all other noises in the building. “I demand you arrest her.”
Hélène thought she recognized the furious tone of that voice. It belonged to a man, younger than Detective Mueller. It belonged to—no, mon Dieu, no. The voice belonged to the lieutenant Paulette had been sneaking out to meet.
“Arrest her on what charge?” This, from Detective Mueller.
“She is a liar, just like her mother. She...” Hélène couldn’t hear the rest of the lieutenant’s accusation. Only the weeping, now gut-wrenching sobs that belonged to Hélène’s child. Her baby. She would know the sound of Paulette’s tears anywhere.
Oh, Paulette, what have you done?
Hélène pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle her own sob. She felt a strange sense of disorientation, like falling endlessly into a void.
“You have proof of this, Lieutenant?”
“She told me herself. And this girl, this child, she is complicit in the lie.” The lieutenant’s voice held a savage tenor. “She must be punished.”
“I am French,” Paulette wailed. “My mother is French. We are—”
A loud crack cut her off. Someone had hit her daughter. Hélène went blind with rage.
“I’ve heard enough. Take her away.”
“Please, no. I can explain.” Paulette’s panicked cries were ignored. “I am French. My father’s family is of noble blood.”
There was no response to her daughter’s claim. Mueller seemed solely interested in praising the lieutenant. “You were right to bring the girl to me. You are an asset to the Third Reich, Lieutenant Weber. I will make certain you receive a commendation. You’re dismissed.”
The click of heels, then the dreaded “Heil Hitler.”
Hélène could feel the sting of tears at the back of her throat. She knew then, with unavoidable certainty, her time was up. Her daughter had gone to her Nazi friend and told him everything. Oh, Paulette. All the terrible compromises Hélène had made to hide her identity, all the sinful deeds she’d done to stave off discovery, all the lies she’d told to protect her family. They had been for nothing. Deep down, she’d always known the truth would come out.
She’d thought that when the moment came, she would be ready to face the consequences. And she was. For herself. She would never be ready for her daughter to suffer alongside her.
The guard appeared in the hallway—his hand buried in Paulette’s hair as he dragged her along behind him. My baby. My child.
The girl stumbled, gripping her jailer’s wrist, begging for mercy.
He wrenched open the cell door and tossed Paulette through. She landed at Hélène’s feet. She quickly pulled her daughter into her arms, drew her up onto the dirty cot and waited for the girl to catch her breath.
Don’t panic, Hélène told herself. Think clearly. Comfort your child. “Paulette.”
“Maman?” Paulette lifted her head, revealing eyes empty of light. Of hope.
Hélène’s anguish was complete. “My dear sweet child,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Paulette stared at her with wide, wounded eyes. “This is all my fault,” she said. “I should never have gone to Friedrich. He claimed he loved me. He said I could trust him. He lied.”
“Hush, now. None of this is your fault.” It is mine.
“But it is my fault, all of it. I told your secret and now we are both in trouble.”
Yes, Paulette had told her secret. A secret Hélène should never have shared with her daughter. But maybe Paulette was still safe. She wasn’t, by law, a Jew. “You are guilty only of trusting the wrong man.”
Paulette didn’t seem to hear her. Her eyes clouded over as more tears tracked down her cheeks. “He promised me we would sort everything out once we got to the police station.” She swiped at her eyes, gave a bitter laugh. “He was very kind and understanding. He kept reassuring me all would turn out well. And I believed him.”
Oh, Paulette, Hélène thought
on a sigh. How could you have been so naïve?
“He told that awful Gestapo agent you’re a Jew. He held nothing back. He called you terrible names. He called you—” she choked on a sob “—a dirty, filthy Jew. He said I was no better.”
It was not the first time Hélène had heard the slur, though not since she was a girl.
“They’re going to send you away, aren’t they?”
Hélène had no fancy lies to give her daughter. Not a single word of hope. She only had the truth. Stark and painful. “Yes, Paulette. They’re going to send me away.”
And she couldn’t stop it from happening. She didn’t mourn for herself, but for her daughters. And for Josephine. They had known the truth and kept it to themselves. That alone was a crime against the Third Reich. Would Gabrielle and Josephine would be arrested next? Hélène had brought ruin to her family. Her greatest fear realized.
The guard, a member of the French police, entered the cell again.
She struggled to stand. But he didn’t look at her. He reached for Paulette’s arm and yanked her to her feet. Paulette shattered into uncontrollable sobs. “Maman.”
Hélène was by her daughter’s side in a heartbeat. “No, please.” She clawed at the guard’s arm. “She is just a girl. She did nothing wrong. It was me. I confess. I—”
“Shut up.” He placed his hand over her face and shoved her to the ground. She hit hard, but immediately tried to rise. He kicked her in the stomach. “Stay down.”
Again, she ignored the pain and tried to stand. She was too slow. He’d already dragged Paulette out of the cell. The girl was blubbering, begging, pleading, her words incomprehensible.
Her daughter was breaking right before her eyes.
“Please,” Hélène begged, lurching forward, reaching for her daughter. “Take me. Not her. It’s me you want.”
He slammed the door on her pleas. She had a moment of complete and utter despair. It’s over. Paulette would never withstand interrogation. Hélène wanted to close her eyes, to find a prayer, an image for the future. All she saw was death.