Chateau of Secrets: A Novel

by Melanie Dobson

  Then she heard laughter from across the hall. And a woman’s voice.

  A door opened, and someone stepped into the hall. Gisèle slipped back into the alcove to avoid the German. But an officer didn’t walk out of the bedroom door. It was Lisette.

  Usually they would leave fresh linens outside the doors, but perhaps Lisette had felt the need to make the beds. Yet that couldn’t be right. She should never have gone into a room alone with one of the men.

  A wave of nausea swept over her.

  In the village, Gisèle had heard rumors of Frenchwomen consorting with the German soldiers in exchange for petty favors—lipstick and sugar and silk stockings—but she prayed not here in her house, with her friend.

  Gisèle stepped into the corridor and Lisette whirled around. The winter light illuminated the smeared mascara under Lisette’s eyes, and Gisèle wondered for the first time where her friend purchased mascara when there was none to be had in Saint-Lô. And where she found her seemingly endless supply of cigarettes.

  “What are you doing?” Gisèle asked.

  Lisette brushed her hands over her skirt. “I was cleaning the rooms.”

  “The men can care for their own rooms.”

  “Some of them need assistance.” Lisette’s hands flew to her throat, straightening the pink scarf crumpled around it. Gisèle should have felt sorrow for her friend, for the years lost and their dreams ravaged by war, but more than compassion, anger raged within her. Anger for Michel, who had remained faithful. Anger that Lisette hadn’t remained strong.

  If the Germans had forced themselves on her, like Braun tried with her in the cellar, her heart would have broken for Lisette, but her friend’s laughter echoed in her ears. How could she give herself freely to these bastards? And then laugh with them?

  “Michel is the one who loves you, not these men.”

  “This has nothing to do with love,” Lisette replied, the passion stripped from her voice.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped . . .”

  “This is my secret, Gisèle. Just like you have secrets.”

  Gisèle hugged her arms close to her chest. “You give yourself away for nothing . . .”

  Lisette’s eyes narrowed and she pressed together her lips as if she teetered between anger and tears. “Don’t act like a saint, Gisèle. It’s not like you’ve taken a stand against them.”

  “I had no choice but to let them live here.” She clenched her fists. “I don’t sleep with them.”

  “If you think I want to do this—”

  The door behind them opened, and the Oberst walked into the hall. He looked at Lisette with a mixture of appreciation and ridicule. The man had said he had a wife at home . . . and grandchildren. He looked much less distinguished with his untucked shirt and missing monocle. And when he tweaked Lisette’s thigh.

  “Stop it, Rolf,” she hissed.

  He ignored Gisèle, his gaze hovering on Lisette. “You’ll be back tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  Gisèle turned away from them both, disgusted at what was happening under her family’s roof . . . and to the woman her brother loved.

  — CHAPTER 42 —

  With Mémé’s photo album in my arm, I trekked back up the drive to Madame Calvez’s house. Riley had been gone for two days now, and in his absence, I scoured the recesses of the house, the closets and nooks, as I searched for information about Adeline. And I’d tromped through the forest, searching for any hint of the tunnel that Riley’s grandfather remembered.

  My search proved futile, but the woman I guessed could answer my questions was still alive, less than a mile from the château. She may not have wanted my company, but perhaps she would answer a few of my questions, if only so I’d stop bothering her.

  After I knocked, Isabelle swung the door open, grinning at me.

  “You lost a tooth,” I said.

  She grinned even wider.

  I glanced behind her. “Where is your great-grandmother?”

  She pointed down the short hall. “In her bedroom.”

  In the dimly lit hall was a photograph of three women. The oldest woman was Madame Calvez; her blond hair was bobbed and she wore a pale green pantsuit. The middle woman had long sandy brown hair and a smile that warmed the picture. Her arm was around a young girl who looked a lot like Isabelle. The girl wore a yellow ribbon in her hair and a matching bow on the wide collar of her neck.

  I pointed at the girl. “Is this your mother?”

  Isabelle nodded.

  I tapped on the glass. “And this must be your grandmother.”

  “It was my grandmother—she and my grandfather died in a car accident before I was born.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Isabelle grinned with pride. “My mother says I’m just like her.”

  “Where did your grandmother live?”

  “Paris. My whole family lived in Paris until the government gave Grand-mère this house.”

  “Why would the French government give her a house?”

  She shrugged as she opened the door to a small bedroom.

  We found Madame Calvez in a recliner, a game show blaring music from the small television set at the foot of her bed. Isabelle turned down the volume and climbed up on the bed. Then she folded her hands in her lap like a young lady. It seemed like Isabelle was watching her great-grandmother more than Madame Calvez was watching her.

  In spite of the warm air, a blanket rested over Madame Calvez’s lap, and her short hair stood up around her ears. She attempted a smile when I sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you any tea.”

  Leaning forward, I kissed both of her cheeks as Riley had done. “I’m not thirsty.”

  Madame Calvez closed her eyes for a moment and then reopened them. “The girl next door usually plays with Isabelle in the afternoons, but she took the flu.”

  “Are you ill?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “Just old.”

  I held out the photo album. “I found some pictures in Gisèle’s room.”

  Isabelle opened the cover and pointed to two women mounted on horseback. “Who’s that?”

  “This is my grandmother,” I said. “And I believe that’s your great-grandmother.”

  Madame Calvez leaned forward and squinted at the photo.

  “It says, ‘Nadine and I riding along the Vire.’ I thought your first name might be Nadine.”

  “My name is Lisette,” she replied, her voice sad. “That was Nadine Batier.”

  “I’ve never heard of Nadine.”

  Madame Calvez leaned back in her chair. “That’s because your grandmother forgot about us all.”

  Shaking my head, I leapt to defend her. “I’m sure she didn’t—”

  Madame Calvez stopped me. “How is Gisèle?”

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “Not well,” I finally said. “Her mind is slipping away.”

  She started to say something else but stopped herself. Instead she asked, “Can you describe the pictures for me?”

  With Isabelle helping me flip the pages, I told Madame Calvez about each of the photographs. Of Nadine and Gisèle sitting in the garden. Of my handsome great-uncle by his fancy roadster, and my grandmother and Michel posing by the front door after his first Communion. Of Michel looking every bit the aristocrat with his fancy riding clothes and horsewhip and hunting dogs.

  “Michel was full of life,” she said wistfully, and in that moment, I wondered if Madame Calvez had been in love with my great-uncle.

  In her interview with Riley, she hadn’t spoken of her husband or even of her daughter. If she had loved Michel, it must have broken her heart when he died.

  “What do you remember most about Michel?” I asked.

  Her gaze wandered to the blinds over her window. “It has been a long time.”

  I nodded. “My grandmother said he was fearless.”

  “But sometimes fear is a good thing. It keeps us alive.” Sh
e paused. “There’s more I would like to say, but to you, not the camera.”

  “I don’t have a camera.”

  She blinked, nodding slowly. “At the beginning of the war, I thought your great-uncle Michel and I would marry, but I was never a patient woman. Four years is an eternity when you’re young and you think the world is about to end.”

  “What happened?”

  She stretched out her hand and took Isabelle’s. “Could you find some cookies for our guest?”

  Isabelle hopped off the bed. “The pink ones?”

  “The pink ones would be just fine.” Madame Calvez waited until Isabelle scrambled out of the room before she turned back to me. “When you feel powerless . . .”

  I sat with her in the silence until she was ready to speak again.

  “You must understand, the Nazis ruled and reigned over us. They had absolute power over everything except . . .” She swallowed, and I knew of what she spoke. “I sold my soul to the Nazis in exchange for power and a promise of protection. I thought I could save myself from them, but I discovered the hard way that the Nazis weren’t very good at keeping their promises.”

  I closed the photo album. “After the war, were you still afraid of what they could do?”

  “I wasn’t afraid of what they would do to me, but I was afraid of what they would do to someone I loved.”

  “Who were you afraid of?” I asked quietly.

  She glanced back toward the door, but Isabelle was still gone. “I was afraid of your cousin—Philippe Borde.”

  I’d seen that same fear in my grandmother’s eyes when she spoke his name.

  “What did Philippe do?”

  When she shook her head, I ventured one last question. “Did you know Gisèle’s daughter?”

  She leaned back against the chair, her energy seemingly spent. “Gisèle didn’t have a daughter.”

  “But what about Adeline?”

  “Adeline was . . .” She closed her eyes, and a few seconds later, her chin began to bob against her neck. I had already stayed too long.

  Isabelle crept back in the room, carrying three pink meringue cookies on a chipped plate. When she offered me one, I took it and nibbled on the edge. Madame Calvez’s eyes were closed, and I glanced over at Isabelle who watched her as well. “Did I tell you I’m a schoolteacher?”

  Isabelle shook her head, and I saw just a hint of admiration.

  “And my favorite place in the whole world is, of course, the playground.”

  Isabelle clapped. “Mine too.”

  I reached out and gently squeezed Madame Calvez’s hand, rousing her. “Would you mind if I took Isabelle to the park?”

  She mumbled her consent before she fell back to sleep.

  Isabelle skipped toward the door.

  Chapter 43

  Gisèle stared at the man in the front doorframe of the château, the February snow falling down behind him and his black trench coat. His fancy black coupé had trailed muddied tire tracks through the white carpet of snow.

  Émilie usually answered the door, but after three months of working for the Germans, she obtained a pass to bicycle to her sister’s home in Cahagnes and never returned. Gisèle mourned her leaving, but Émilie had taught her well. Now it was just her and Lisette, serving the Germans in silence.

  “Bonjour,” Philippe greeted her as if no other words needed to be spoken.

  He had matured since she had seen him last, his face stockier and forehead balding. He looked a decade older than his thirty-two years.

  He motioned toward the entryway. “May I come in?”

  The familiar fear twisted in her gut again. She couldn’t explain away Adeline as a friend’s child now, not with the Germans occupying her house. Perhaps Philippe’s visit would be short. And Adeline would remain hidden.

  “Of course,” she said, but she wished she could run away, like she’d done the night of the blitzkrieg. Except now, there was no place left to run.

  She hadn’t talked to Philippe in more than a month, but Tante Corinne wrote that Philippe had taken an important position in the Vichy government. Doing what, she never said.

  Adeline toddled up to her when they stepped into the drawing room, jingling a silver bell one of the officers had given her. Her arms outstretched, Gisèle had no choice but to pick her up.

  Philippe stared down at the child. “Who is this?”

  “Adeline . . .” She swallowed hard. “She is my daughter.”

  “Your daughter?” Fire flashed in his eyes. “How old is she?”

  “Two.”

  He glanced at the window, and she guessed he was calculating the months in his mind. It had been two and a half years since she’d seen him last. She should have said something about Adeline, during one of their brief conversations on the telephone, so he wouldn’t be shocked. But with transportation so difficult now, gasoline almost impossible for a French citizen to obtain even with the coupons, she had never guessed he would show up at her door.

  “Where is Lisette?” she asked, praying she wouldn’t say upstairs.

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Why don’t you go play with her for a bit?”

  Adeline nodded her head before she toddled toward the kitchen.

  Everything had changed that afternoon Gisèle found Lisette with the Oberst. Lisette continued to work at the house, helping with Adeline, and she visited the servants’ quarters almost every day while Adeline napped. But Gisèle and Lisette rarely spoke.

  When Philippe turned back to her, the fire in his eyes was gone, replaced with a coldness as bitter as the winter air. “Is this the reason you never came to Lyon?”

  “One of them.”

  “You should have told me you were pregnant.”

  “I knew you’d be angry.”

  His fist pressed into the back of a chaise longue. “Who is the father?”

  “A man from the village. You don’t know—”

  His eyes blazed again. “What is his name?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  He unbuttoned his trench coat and took it off. “I will find out.”

  Gisèle didn’t know where Jean-Marc Rausch was, but she hoped he was far, far away. She stared at the coat on the chair. Was there another reason Philippe was here?

  “I’ve heard you’ve been entertaining soldiers,” he said.

  “I have housed them, Philippe. Not entertained.”

  “Does your amour know?”

  Irritation flamed within her. “He is my husband.”

  “Your husband?” His laugh crackled with sarcasm. “Of course, you must have been married to have a child.”

  She stepped back toward the main hall. “It’s time for you to leave.”

  He didn’t move. “You may tell people you were married, but I know the truth.” He straightened the porcelain urn on the sideboard. “Where is this husband now?”

  “I don’t know. He was a soldier . . .”

  He turned back toward her. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t have to.” She crossed her arms. “Why are you here?”

  “I came to discuss our marriage, but I see it’s no longer possible for us to marry.”

  Even if she wasn’t pretending to be married, the thought of marrying Philippe repulsed her. Whether or not she had a child, the idea would be revolting to him too when he realized she had been slaving in the kitchen to serve the German officers. In his mind, serving the soldiers was probably as bad as sleeping with them.

  The Germans may have occupied her country, her village, but until she decided otherwise, neither Philippe nor anyone else would occupy her heart.

  Major von Kluge stepped into the room, and when he saw Philippe, he lifted his palm. “Heil Hitler.”

  When her cousin returned the greeting, she cringed. Then he introduced himself. “I am Philippe Borde. Gisèle’s cousin from Lyon.”

  Something passed between the two men, an odd look of understanding. Did the Germans already
know she had a cousin living in southern France?

  The major directed him toward the office. “May I have a word with you in private, Monsieur Borde?”

  “Of course.”

  As they walked away, she heard the major say, “Your château has been most accommodating for us.”

  His château? The château wasn’t his—

  But then a terrible thought came over her. If Michel didn’t return—and she disappeared as well—the château and all the Duchant property would become Philippe’s. She shivered. Philippe wasn’t here to check on her—at least not in a caring sort of way. He was here, she feared, to see what could be done about securing this property for himself. He knew she hadn’t been married when they fled from the château that June. What if he found out that her marriage certificate read May 1940? He could have her deported for her deception.

  Would her own cousin send her to a work camp? She didn’t know to what extent he would go to get rid of her, and it seemed they were sending away the French people without any sort of justice. The yellow stars in Saint-Lô had been extinguished and others had disappeared as well—those who refused to hail the god Hitler. She often wondered about the children at the orphanage and the little boy who’d refused to give his name, wondered if they had been taken too. And she wondered about André and Nadine, and Nadine’s parents, and her old friend Odette.

  When Lisette brought Adeline back to her, Lisette nodded toward the office. “Who is here?”

  “Philippe Borde.”

  Lisette backed away from her. “I must go.”

  Gisèle picked Adeline up, and the girl patted Gisèle’s hair. “Sad, Maman?”

  She kissed her cheek. “There is no reason to be sad when I’m with you.”

  Adeline looked back at the office door, and when she stuck out her tongue, Gisèle rushed her away from the hall. “It’s time for your nap.”

  As Adeline rested in her small bed, Gisèle sang softly like her mother had done for her years ago. When Adeline fell asleep, she stepped back into the hallway and peered down into the courtyard as Philippe drove away.