Page 18 of The Widows of Champagne

Josephine

A t seventy-seven, nearly seventy-eight, Josephine was not the woman she’d once been, neither physically nor mentally. Old age was not the only factor in her decline. Perhaps not even the most significant. That revelation came as both a shock and a sorrow. She carried too many sad memories in her head. What had once been the occasional trespasser was now a living, breathing presence. Always there, dark and sinister, laying claim on her sanity.

Sometimes the images were so real they pulled tears from her eyes. Sometimes they were nothing more than gray, lifeless shadows within a watery haze.

Forgetfulness was an easy defense that protected her from the harder work of remembering the loss of loved ones, the bad decisions she’d made in her youth, even the betrayals she’d endured from trusted friends and colleagues.

Oh, yes, absentmindedness had its appeal. How else was she to survive from one moment to the next? By being stronger than she’d ever been before, that’s how.

The battle grew harder each day. Each hour.

Even now, her mind lured her into blessed oblivion. Josephine fought the invitation to rest in the comfort of darkness. She resisted not for herself, but for her family. She’d done what she could to prepare Gabrielle and Hélène for combat within the walls of their home.

Her own contribution had been minimal. She would be bolder this afternoon, fearless and unafraid. Course set, she made her way through the chateau in the clothes she’d donned for the vineyard, though she’d never made it outside. Too tired. Marta had fitted the men’s trousers and baggy shirt to accommodate Josephine’s shrinking frame. She would have to change for dinner with the German. Always, he demanded the family’s presence at his table.

Always, they answered his summons without complaint. He thought this made them submissive, and that he had them sufficiently cowed. He was too arrogant to consider he might be wrong.

There was no honor in such a man, no character, no compassion or sense of fairness. Von Schmidt was the same as his führer. Greedy and selfish. Like Hitler, he knew how to break things, and how to tear down. He did not know how to create. But his greatest flaw was his lack of respect for women. Josephine knew how to fight this war. She’d been doing so since the untimely death of her husband fifty years ago.

She hurried her steps, knowing her time was limited. When she reached the top of the staircase, she listened to the chiming of the clocks. The six strikes told her she had two hours to complete her mission and still dress for dinner. The silence in the hallways broadcasted a similar message.

Allowing herself a small smile of triumph, she took the staircase to the first floor and continued to the west wing of the chateau, her slippered feet soundless on the tiled floors. She practically floated. A few minutes, that’s all it took, and Josephine found herself in a darkened corridor, unsure how she’d ended up in this particular hallway. She’d lost her way.

Focus , she told herself.

She thought for a moment. And remembered. She’d given herself a task. Finish it.

Bolstered, she moved wraithlike to the library, where von Schmidt had set up his private office. The door stood halfway open, beckoning Josephine to take this risk. She paused, listening for voices, the rustle of papers, anything to tell her someone worked in the room her husband had loved most of all. She heard nothing. Von Schmidt must be elsewhere in the house.

He could come back at any moment.

Josephine had a plan for that.

She peered around the black lacquered door into the empty room. This was her chance. She stepped inside, straight into the smell of leather-bound books, parchment paper—the scents belonging to her husband—and...German cigarettes.

That smell, it confused her. Why did this room reek of foreign cigarettes? Antoine smoked cigars. Her thoughts twisted, turned, battled with the whispers for her mind. She would not let the darkness win. There was important work left to be done.

If caught? She would pretend confusion—no great stretch—or perhaps she would try a more daring approach. Either way, she wasted precious time lost in her head. She picked her way across the patterned rug to the rolltop desk. Neat stacks of papers shared space with embossed stationery, pens, letter openers. Such obedience to the German’s preference for order. Hélène had found her calling.

But again, Josephine wasted time allowing her mind to drift.

Breathe , she told herself. Finish it.

With quick fingers, she rifled through the documents, careful not to upset their position, then turned her attention to the drawers. She found tickets to the theater, stubs for train rides to épernay, one to Paris, stamps, a host of official-looking documents and invoices. Within this cluster, she found a piece of buried treasure. An order for an outrageous sum of champagne. Its destination, North Africa.

Josephine held up the paper and read. She wasn’t as well versed in the German language as she would like, but she knew enough to understand a large portion of the words, the markings, the numbers. She continued reading and, again, told herself: breathe .

She read and she breathed.

When she was confident she understood what she’d found, she replaced the document in the drawer and closed it with a noiseless click. Slowly, she stepped back and breathed. She took another step. Eyes still on the desk, she swallowed a smile, sensing— knowing —she had come across a significant piece of information. Where the champagne goes, so goes the German army.

Someone must be told. Someone she trusted. Someone—

“What are you doing in my office? You do not have permission to be in this room.”

Stifling a gasp, Josephine whipped around and met von Schmidt’s angry stare. She allowed herself one instant of panic. Then remembered she had planned for this.

Her voice, when it came, was hard and unforgiving, bordering on shrewish. “I will ask the same of you. What is the meaning of this, Antoine?” Letting her eyes go a little wild, she picked up a random stack of papers, waved them in the air, slammed them back on the desk. “You conduct business in a foreign language now, one I do not understand? Why is this? Why hide these transactions from me? Me? Your wife of nearly ten years.”

Shocked at how authoritative she sounded, when inside her head the voices wailed, she watched von Schmidt hover in the doorway. His face contorted. Uncertainty coated over his obvious distaste, as if he wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with this madwoman in his office. “Madame LeBlanc, I think you are confus—”

“Madame LeBlanc? Non , you will not address me as though I am a stranger to you. I am your wife.”

“Madame. LeBlanc.” Through gritted teeth, von Schmidt enunciated her name with furious precision. “You clearly have me mistaken for—”

Josephine spoke over him again. “You will not speak to your wife in that tone. I won’t have it.” She slid her gaze away from von Schmidt, looked frantically around the room, allowing a bit more paranoia to show in her eyes. “I have done nothing to deserve such treatment. When I think how I have cared for you, and now you—”

“Grandmère!” Gabrielle rushed into the room, all but shoving von Schmidt aside in her haste. “We were supposed to meet in the parlor. The parlor,” she repeated. “Not the library.”

Josephine turned her head slowly, taking her time, forcing herself not to rush, though she wanted to. Her granddaughter should not be here. This was not part of the plan. Gabrielle must have heard the shouting. And now Josephine would have to adjust, when all she wanted to do was escape this room before she forgot what she’d discovered. The shipment. To North Africa. Do not forget.

She managed a weak smile, added a vacant look in her eyes. The shipment. To...

Where? For a moment, she was overwhelmed by how tenuous her hold on the information had become, how rash she had been to snoop among von Schmidt’s things when she hadn’t known where he was in the house.

Had she known he was in the house?

The shipment. North Africa. Yes—that was where it was going. North Africa.

“Gabrielle?” She folded her lips into an expression of bafflement. “You have... You are...” She chased her gaze around the room, then flapped a hand in front of her own face. “I don’t remember why I came into the library.”

Gabrielle put a tense but protective hand on her shoulder. “To get a book, perhaps?”

More glancing around the room. Then she looked inside her mind, and saw the darkness creeping in from the edges. “I...perhaps I did come for a book.” She made a grand show of pulling her eyebrows together. “Oui, perhaps .”

“Do you recall which one?” Gabrielle asked the question gently, while also putting herself between Josephine and the German. The shipment. To North Africa. Do not forget.

Josephine shook her head. The appearance of her granddaughter brought a sort of cold comfort. She’d momentarily lost herself in the fiction she’d created. For just a moment, she’d thought von Schmidt was her beloved Antoine and that he had betrayed her. “I forgot.”

“I’ll help you remember.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the exact moment von Schmidt’s patience came to an end. “Out. Both of you. Now. You will have this ridiculous conversation anywhere but in my presence.”

“Of course, Herr Hauptmann.” Gabrielle linked her arm through Josephine’s. “We will not bother you a moment longer.”

Grateful for the support, Josephine allowed her granddaughter to lead her across the rug, onto the hardwood floor. They made it nearly to the doorway.

“Halt.” Stepping into their path, von Schmidt gripped Josephine’s arm. Hard. His gaze was savage as it ran across her face. She nearly buckled under his rage, but somehow forced her knees to hold herself up. “I will allow you this one mistake. Next time I will not be so lenient. Do I make myself clear, Madame?”

“Very.”

“Gut.” He let go of her arm. “You will leave now, before I change my mind.”

She hurried out of the room, practically dragging her granddaughter with her. The moment they stepped into the hallway, von Schmidt slammed the door behind them. Gabrielle winced. Josephine hardly heard the terrible sound. Shipment. North Africa. “Take me to my room. Hurry, before I forget.”

“You found something.”

“Oui.” She would wait to explain until they were inside the safety of her room. Once there, she said, “Close the door. Quickly now. I must record what I discovered.”

“Grandmère.” Fear covered Gabrielle’s voice. “You cannot take such risks as you did today and, mon Dieu , you cannot record anything you discovered on paper.”

Josephine waved away the warnings. Shipment. North Africa. Her journal.

Where had she put it? She moved to her bedside table. Not there. Somewhere close. Hidden in the wall. Behind the baseboard.

“Tell me what you found, Grandmère.” Gabrielle touched her hand. “I will pass it on, as we discussed.”

Josephine hesitated, calculated the consequences of bringing her granddaughter into her confidence, then remembered their agreement. “I found an invoice for a large shipment of champagne.”

“How large?”

The details rolled from her lips as quickly as she could think them. The destination, the number of bottles to be shipped, the date the train would depart Reims, even the houses that would be required to supply the enormous quantity.

“This is excellent information.” The young woman looked prepared to say more, perhaps give her another warning.

Josephine was not in the mood. “I’m tired, Gabrielle. I wish to rest now.”

“I’ll leave you alone.” She came close and kissed her on the cheek. Then, at the door, said over her shoulder, “We aren’t finished with this conversation. I will have my say and you will do me the honor of listening.”

Josephine knew she deserved a lecture. She’d been reckless today. She’d also been successful. She’d done her part for the war. For the good of France. The shadows could have her mind now.

At least, until she had to dress for dinner.