The Widows of Champagne Page 11

  Von Schmidt held his silence until they were standing among the vats of fermenting wine. Here, he proved more knowledgeable.

  “You know wine better than you know the grapes,” she said.

  “You speak your thoughts very freely.”

  “What can I say?” She put ice in her voice. “We French are an opinionated breed.”

  “You would do well to curb this part of your nature.”

  She had gone too far. If she wished to win this war, she knew she must lose this battle. Play your role. “I will be more restrained with my comments in the future.”

  “A word of advice, Madame Dupree.” He leaned in close, so close she could see his pupils expanding. “One day this war will be over, and Germany will be the victor. When that day comes, you will want to be on the right side of my favor.”

  So he kept telling her. Play your role. “I understand, Herr Hauptmann.”

  She showed him the outbuildings next, taking her time, allowing him to ask his questions and make his inventory. When she pointed out the shed that housed several bicycles, he held up a hand. “Enough. You will show me your wine cellar now.”

  “Of course.” With each step, her pulse roared in her ears. This was it. The moment of truth. She could stall no longer. He would discover the fake wall, or he would not.

  “Hold.”

  Her feet ground to a halt. She glanced at von Schmidt, but he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze tracked a black Mercedes cresting over the hill, moving as slowly as a funeral procession. “We will finish our tour another time.”

  “Whatever you wish, Herr Hauptmann.” But she realized she was speaking to his back.

  Go away, she thought. By all means, go away. Go far, far away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hélène

  From her perch at the attic window, Hélène watched von Schmidt approach the black Mercedes pulling into the drive. The car’s canvas top had been secured in place, thereby concealing the identity of the man inside. The Nazi flags flapping next to the front headlights declared the occupant’s allegiance to the Third Reich, as did von Schmidt’s deference.

  Hélène pressed her lips together. This cannot be good. More Germans in her home. More Nazis. The sun chose that moment to disappear behind a bank of fast-moving clouds, turning the sky a dingy gray similar to the contents of her heart.

  Through a slit in the blackened car window, von Schmidt began a conversation with the person sitting in the back seat of the Mercedes. His manner was almost submissive, the conversation brief before he removed his hat, tucked it under his arm and climbed into the car.

  He closed the door with just enough force to betray his mood. He didn’t like his superior very much. Hélène filed that piece of information away and turned from the window.

  A rare moment of peace settled over her. She let it come, let it spread light into her limbs, and then into her troubled soul. This space was hers, a natural extension of the artistic nature she kept hidden behind the mask of an elegant Parisian.

  She’d filled the studio with the things she needed to create—graphite pencils and easels. Watercolors, oils. Palettes and brushes. She’d intentionally left the attic unfinished and the windows untrimmed so as to avoid distracting her from creativity. During the summer months, she gathered armfuls of flowers that grew just steps away from the château and arranged them into romantic bouquets. During the winter, she purchased hothouse flowers in Reims.

  Roses were her favorite subject matter, their scent adding freshness to the stuffy studio air. Trite, perhaps. Her former friends would have called her work cliché. She’d long given up desiring their approval even before she’d married Étienne. She painted only for herself.

  In this space above the château, she disappeared into her art.

  Back when Paulette had been growing inside her, she’d needed an escape from her husband’s mercurial moods. Étienne had found refuge in his vines, but she had struggled in the aftermath of his tantrums. The final years of his life had been fraught with turmoil. Hélène had loved him through it all. Even at his worst, Étienne LeBlanc was better than any man she’d ever known. But there had been very bad days that left both of them hurting.

  Étienne had been the one to come up with the solution for Hélène’s need for solitude.

  When he’d first brought her to this dusty attic, she’d looked past the broken furniture, the boxes and the trunks, the layers of dirt, and had fallen in love with the space. She’d cleaned for weeks, and then moved in easels, paints and the rest of her tools.

  A year ago, Paulette had requested a portion of the studio to create her own drawings. Flowers were of no interest to the girl. But she had a fine eye for fashion. Hélène had welcomed her daughter, clearing off a desk in the corner for the girl to sketch and to dream.

  Sighing, Hélène moved to the paned windows on the west side of the studio. She looked past the meticulous rows of vines, to the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims, and felt God’s presence in her soul. She rested in the sensation, her mind lighter, her eyes on the stunning gothic structure with its immense stained-glass windows. There stood history and tradition. The cathedral had been the coronation site of every French king since the thirteenth century.

  Hélène reached for the cross at her neck and wondered. Would the church survive this war as it had all the others before? Only God knew the answer.

  She stepped to the easel with its unfinished painting. She could not find the enthusiasm to apply additional brushstrokes. A full twenty minutes later she was still staring at the canvas, despairing. If she could not create, she would not survive. The Germans had taken her country. They had taken her home. They could not have her soul.

  Mouth set, she picked up her paintbrush and poised it at the ready. Her hand shook. She steadied it with a sheer force of will. She must paint, even if what she produced was drivel. And so, she painted. She knew not how long. A minute, an hour. A knock on the doorjamb had her dropping the brush with a start and whirling around to face the intruder.

  Expecting to see von Schmidt, it took her a moment to realize Josephine stood in the doorway, breathing hard from having climbed the three flights of stairs. Her mother-in-law wore a pair of nondescript men’s trousers and a work shirt that could have come from her husband’s closet.

  Something was wrong. Josephine never came to the attic. Hélène rushed forward. She took her mother-in-law’s arm and guided her to a chair. “Sit, Josephine. Catch your breath. Then you can tell me what has brought you to my studio.”

  The older woman lowered herself onto the seat Hélène indicated.

  “Let me get you some water.” She returned with a glass she’d filled from the pitcher she kept for herself when the day turned hot.

  Josephine pushed her hand away. “Don’t hover, Hélène. It embarrasses us both.”

  “I suppose it does.” She spoke more sharply than she’d intended and winced. Nothing seemed right anymore. Not her words. Her tone. The world had tilted sideways, and Hélène couldn’t seem to find her footing. Even this unexpected visit left her off-balance.

  Frowning, Josephine glanced around the large space, looking a little lost. “It smells of paint and dust and day-old flowers.” She wrinkled her nose. “It is an odd combination.”

  “Is it?” Hélène hardly noticed. To her, the scent belonged to this room, as much as a part of her creative process as the blank canvases and her brushes. “I rather like the smell.”

  The older woman muttered something under her breath Hélène didn’t quite catch. She left it alone. “You don’t often make the trip up so many stairs. I can only assume something of grave importance has urged you to do so now.”

  “Our house has been seized by the enemy. Matters rarely get much graver than that.”

  Hélène could think of many that did. She’d kept herself informed of the unconscionable h
orrors occurring in other parts of Europe. Jewish businesses seized, neighbors telling on neighbors, Jews being deported, many arrested without warning. “We have been allowed to remain in our home,” she countered. “Others have not been so fortunate.”

  “This is true.” Josephine momentarily pressed her lips together and glanced around as if reminding herself where she was. “And yet, our home has become the nest for a viper.”

  “Oui, it has.” While Hélène waited for her mother-in-law to continue, she noted the changes in the older woman. Josephine was not the force she’d once been. She was slower of mind and body.

  This morning there was nothing slow or measured in the way she hoisted herself to her feet. Or in the focused gaze she leveled onto Hélène. “I have come to ask for your help.”

  Hélène could not hide her surprise. Her mother-in-law rarely asked anything of her. “What is it you need?”

  “Our houseguest has provided us a list of his requirements for his stay. Here, see for yourself.” Josephine reached inside the pocket of her trousers, pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to Hélène.

  She gave the bold, masculine script a cursory study, then looked up at Josephine, her eyebrows raised. “He has gone into excessive detail.”

  “Apparently, he doesn’t trust us to see to his wishes without his heavy-handed guidance.”

  That much was clear.

  Hélène returned her attention to the page. The list was full of von Schmidt’s demands. None were wholly unexpected. He wanted someone to see that his clothes were properly cleaned and pressed. He also wanted someone to maintain his social calendar, prepare and review his correspondence, assist with social functions, plan and implement special dinners, meet and host visitors. The list went on and on. “Are these not the duties of an aide-de-camp?”

  “This German is not a complicated man, Hélène. It doesn’t take great effort to understand what is in his head. Even when my mind is muddled, I see him for what he is. Yes, he could assign a soldier to perform these duties. Instead, he uses this opportunity to exercise his control over us. He thinks we will fall in line. We will be one step ahead of him. You understand?”

  Hélène understood perfectly. Her mouth went dry and she thought vaguely of running from the attic, from this house. “You are asking me to serve as von Schmidt’s social secretary.”

  “He has an affection for you.”

  Josephine had noticed that, had she? How could she not? Even, as she’d put it, when her mind was muddled. Von Schmidt had not been especially subtle at the dinner table last night. Hélène had been too relieved that he no longer looked at Paulette with a leering eye, to think what his interest in her would mean. “What if he begins nosing around into my background? What if he has questions I cannot answer without lying?”

  “Better that he asks them of you, rather than our neighbors.”

  She vehemently disagreed. “Our neighbors only know me as Hélène Jobert-LeBlanc.”

  “Are you absolutely certain of this? Are you willing to take that chance?” Josephine came to stand in front of her. She took her hand and looked at her with a transparency that had been missing for months. “Our country has fallen into the hands of a man who considers genocide a form of careful breeding. None of us are safe anymore. You, most of all, are at risk. As are your daughters because they share your blood.”

  “Are you saying I have tainted Gabrielle and Paulette with my Jewish blood?” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  “I am saying nothing of the kind. We must be one step ahead of von Schmidt. It would not take much digging on his part to discover your truth.”

  “My mother was a Christian. She raised me in her faith.”

  “That will not matter to our invaders. The Nazis will bring their anti-Semitic policies with them. We live in the zone occupée, under the same roof as a soldier.”

  “He is a wine merchant.” The words were barely a whisper.

  “He is a man who takes pride in wearing the uniform of the Third Reich. Think, Hélène. Think what that means for you. Do not be naïve.”

  She grabbed her cross at her neck, clutched it in her palm. “I am not a Jew.”

  “You have two Jewish grandparents. By definition, that makes you a Jew. Hitler and his Nazi thugs want to wipe you—you, Hélène—off the face of this earth.”

  Shock bled through her calm, leaving her feeling weak and unsteady on her feet. “Must you speak so plainly?”

  “I will speak plainly, while I still can, before the thoughts leave me.” Josephine took Hélène’s other hand. “You and I have not always gotten along. We have not tried hard enough to understand each other. But, you are the daughter of my heart, if not my blood.”

  She stared at her mother-in-law, shocked and pleased all at once. Warmth rushed through her veins, chasing away the coldness in her heart. She closed her eyes a moment, the cross heating her skin, and gathered up the image of her daughters. Gabrielle with her fierce, warrior beauty and Paulette, a near copy of herself. She thought of Josephine next, the ferocious matriarch of their family. She loved them all.

  If her secret was discovered, they would be in danger. Gabrielle and Paulette because they were her daughters. Josephine because she harbored a Jew. “I will leave this home at once.”

  This morning. This very minute. It was the only way to protect her family.

  “Non. You will not abandon this family. And we will not abandon you.”

  “I...I don’t know what to do.”

  “Yes, Hélène, you do.”

  She felt the icicle forming in the back of her throat, sliding past her heart, into her stomach. “You want me to insert myself into von Schmidt’s life, first as his secretary, then what? As his—” She couldn’t say the words. “Josephine, it...it’s too much.”

  “I’m not asking you to compromise yourself. Never that. I am only suggesting you make yourself indispensable to this German who thinks he owns us.”

  Which of them was being naïve now? Von Schmidt would want more than her company. How long would she be able to satisfy such a man with only her smiles?

  “It will require great courage on your part.”

  Courage, yes. More than she had on her own. She called on her God and thought of the words she’d read this morning in the privacy of her room. I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves... “I have never been brave,” she whispered.

  “You stood by my son through his darkest hours, and never once thought of giving up on him. That, Hélène, is the very definition of bravery.”

  Her chest rose and fell on a sigh. She hadn’t been brave. She’d been a wife. “I loved Étienne.”

  She loved him still. His death had stripped her of any hope for a happy future. What, then, did she really have to lose? “I will approach von Schmidt this afternoon and offer up my services as his secretary.”

  “You are a good girl, Hélène.”

  If only her mother-in-law knew the truth. To borrow Josephine’s own phrase, she was nothing of the kind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gabrielle

  It came as no surprise that von Schmidt failed to keep his word. In the span of a few weeks, he confiscated over 30,000 bottles of champagne from the Château Fouché-LeBlanc cellars, then sent them to his superiors back in Berlin. The action had earned him approval, and a written commendation, but not the promotion he so clearly sought.

  The only good that came from his duplicity, to Gabrielle’s relief, was that her counterfeit wall had withstood the comings and goings of his soldiers. Von Schmidt’s men had been so focused on stealing her family’s champagne they’d paid little heed to the cave itself.

  Unfortunately, Gabrielle’s neighbors suffered even greater losses. In total, German soldiers stole more than two million bottles from the Champenois. Something had to be done to protect the wine.
She was not the only producer to come to this conclusion. When she contacted her father-in-law, Maximillian Dupree invited her to his home to discuss the problem.

  Gabrielle told no one about the meeting, not even her grandmother, and left the château under the cover of the black moonless sky. She chose a bicycle for her mode of transportation, which allowed her to keep to the vineyards and off the main roads.

  The closer she pedaled toward her father-in-law’s property, the more her mind pulled away from confiscated champagne and German occupation and turned to her deceased husband.

  Benoit’s death had been so unfair. So unnecessary. A wagon wheel had fallen on his leg, trapping him for hours before one of their workers found him. He’d downplayed the injury, hiding his pain until gangrene set in. It had been too late to save the leg. Or, as it turned out, his life. He’d sought morphine to dull his pain and died in a drug-induced stupor. Gabrielle had prayed while he suffered, and again during his final hours. God’s response had been silence.

  She’d learned her lesson, and now relied only on herself. Although there were times she felt lonely, it was better that way. Simpler. Also, better, simpler, to set aside her grief and consider what she would say when she arrived at her father-in-law’s château. She would not speak of Benoit. That much, she promised herself.

  Max himself opened the door. Gabrielle felt a pang in her chest. It hurt to see the echo of her husband in the face of his father.

  Shifting uncomfortably, she shoved her hands in her pockets. In the next instant, she found herself pulled into his muscled, vigneron arms. She hesitated, almost recoiling in pain, then hugged him back. “I have missed you,” she whispered.

  “And I you, ma chérie.”

  Gabrielle wanted to cling to him. It had been too long since she’d seen Max. The last time had been at the anniversary party. Their conversation had been brief and stilted. Now, feeling that same awkwardness, she stepped back and studied the man who’d once been both friend and surrogate father.

  He’d aged, and gone paunchy around the middle, but Maximillian Dupree was still a very handsome man. Dark hair with threads of silver at the temples, a lean poet’s face and soulful, impassioned eyes.