Page 23 of The Widows of Champagne

Chapter Twenty-Three

Gabrielle

G abrielle delivered the provisions to an exasperated Marta.

“He has added another person to his guest list,” the housekeeper muttered, shaking her head in disgust. “A very important man. This is what he emphasizes over and over. Very important, he says. The food is to be perfect. I am not to disappoint him. He will have no excuses from me. The German...” She slapped at the pile of dough beneath her hands. “He is a tyrant.”

Gabrielle agreed.

“The very worst of his kind.”

This, Gabrielle could not agree with. After her trip into Reims she knew there were worse men than von Schmidt. Men whose gazes missed nothing and who were very clever with their questions. Men who knew her name and where she lived. She shut her eyes and tried to shed her unease. “Did von Schmidt make any special requests for champagne?”

Marta paused in her kneading. “Aside from a rosé, he wants to serve the 1928, no less than ten bottles. Ten! He is a greedy man.”

The LeBlancs’ personal stock had been depleted weeks ago. Gabrielle would have to go into the caves to fulfill this demand. She did a quick mental calculation. She’d left more than enough of the 1928 on the right side of her fake wall to accommodate von Schmidt’s insatiable desire for several months, perhaps even a year. There were many cases left, cases that should have been sent to Berlin per order of the weinführer . Somehow, von Schmidt had managed to circumvent this request. And, if caught, he would somehow lay the blame at Gabrielle’s feet.

It was a worry for another day. “I’ll pull the bottles myself.”

“I have already sent Francois.”

This was an acceptable alternative and so she let the matter drop. “Thank you, Marta.”

“Gabrielle, before you go. I was told to remind you to dress appropriately for dinner, no men’s trousers or bulky sweaters.”

“Von Schmidt said this?” Of course he had. Nothing was more certain to rouse Gabrielle’s ire than for von Schmidt to suggest she didn’t know how to dress like a woman.

“Do not scowl at me,” Marta warned. “I am only the messenger.”

Although she considered several small ways to aggravate von Schmidt, in the end Gabrielle dressed appropriately for dinner. She even took a few moments to twist her hair into an elegant chignon and swipe a modicum of makeup on her face. Satisfied she looked acceptable, she went in search of her grandmother. The night always went better when the two of them presented a united front.

She found Josephine in her room, already dressed for dinner, sitting in a chair by the window, a leather-bound book in her lap, her head bent over the pages. Gabrielle had to breathe through a wave of great affection for this woman. If anything happened to her...

Gabrielle would lay down her life before she allowed any harm to come to her grandmother. On that note, she should warn her about the Gestapo agent. “Grandmère, I have something I want to share with you before we head downstairs.”

Josephine placed a hand on the open book, then looked up. She blinked several times, as if focusing through a haze. “Is it that time, already?”

“Nearly.” Gabrielle moved deeper into the room. The toe of her shoe caught on a loose floorboard and she nearly tripped. She looked down, gasping at the sight beneath her foot.

So, this was where Josephine kept her secret journal. It was good to know, but also troubling. If von Schmidt had been the one to seek out her grandmother, if he had taken the same route and hooked his toe on the floorboard...

What would he have found?

Gabrielle dropped to her knees and dug around with her fingertips. With very little effort, she freed the loose slab of wood. The shallow hole was empty. Her relief was short-lived because Josephine flashed a shrewd smile. “It’s not in there.”

“Where is it?”

She patted the book in her lap.

The emotion that swept through Gabrielle was like an afternoon summer thunderstorm. Quick, violent, startling in its ferocity. “Grandmère, you must be more careful. If von Schmidt had been the one to come into your room, he could have—”

“He never comes into my room.”

Gabrielle put a hand to her forehead, pressed hard for several seconds. “What you mean to say,” she corrected, lowering her hand, “is that von Schmidt hasn’t come into your room yet .”

“This is not a concern.” She waved her hand. “Your mother keeps him occupied.”

Gabrielle couldn’t bring herself to respond. It was just too awful to have her own suspicions confirmed. Frowning, she fit the wooden slat back into place, stood, then stomped down to make sure it was securely set. “It would take only a small hint of suspicion for von Schmidt to come searching for the secrets you write in that book.”

She understood why her grandmother kept the journal. The pages were her memory. And possibly could get her grandmother killed if the book fell into German hands.

“Gabrielle, chérie .” Josephine set aside the book in her lap. “This is not my first war. I know what I am doing.”

Her own hands clenched into fists. “You keep your journal under a loose floorboard.”

For several seconds, she held Gabrielle’s stare, saying not a word. Then, “Do I?”

Had her grandmother’s mind slipped behind a curtain of confusion? It was hard to tell in the dim light. “It’s the most obvious of places.”

Josephine’s answer was to tap her fingers on the book she’d set on the table beside her chair. “What did you find when you pulled away a piece of the floor?”

“I found an empty hole,” she replied. “I assumed you’d retrieved your journal before I arrived and had failed to secure the floorboard properly.”

“You also thought you’d come upon me reading it by the lingering afternoon light.”

That was exactly what she’d thought.

Josephine offered her the book. Gabrielle took it, read the title on the spine, shook her head in sudden relief. Prometheus by Goethe. She opened to a random page. Not in its original German but translated into French. Well, well, her grandmother’s mind was still sharp. Even her choice of reading material was selected with purpose.

There were times when Josephine’s confusion was real, but maybe not as often as she pretended. What other chances did the older woman take, besides recording her secrets in a single, leather-bound book? And who knew what else, things that could incriminate others in the house. Gabrielle thought, I must do something . She had to do something, before her grandmother made a false step that would get them all killed. “Where do you keep your journal?”

“It is better you don’t know.”

She felt the lump rise in her throat and pushed it down with a hard, silent swallow. “What if you forget where you put it?”

“I have a plan for that.”

“Grandmère—”

“You have your secrets, Gabrielle. And I have mine.” She went to the mirror, smoothed a perfectly steady hand over her hair. “Our system.” She turned away from her reflection. “It works. When I discover something that I think is important, I tell you. You relay it to your father-in-law. He takes it to the next person in the chain.”

She made it sound so simple. But she’d missed a very key component to the process. “You also write the information down in your journal.”

“I write many things in my journal.”

And if that single, leather-bound book was discovered? In a flash, Gabrielle saw the face of the man she’d met in Reims this afternoon. She heard his demand to see her papers, remembered his careful questioning of her name, her place of residence. The encounter had left her confused and off-balance. Von Schmidt was a common, ill-bred, grasping individual. He looked to others to feed his own sense of importance. And still, he’d stolen into the LeBlanc home and caught them by surprise.

Now, an even more dangerous opponent had moved into Reims. With far greater power than their houseguest. “Matters have changed, Grandmère. I met the Gestapo agent Berlin sent and he is...” She flung her hands in the air, unable to come up with a description. “He is...”

Where were the words to describe this new enemy? What were the words? Clever. Cunning. Cruel. He was all of those things, and more. All-knowing, all-seeing. He seemed to know more about the LeBlanc household than he should. But what really scared Gabrielle was her inability to read him, to know what was inside his mind, to unpack his agenda. She could usually look past even the most carefully constructed masks and see the true character of a person beneath. It was one of her gifts, and perfectly useless with him. “I believe,” she said, her hands trembling, “that he is the most dangerous German we have come across in this war.”

“You are afraid of this man.”

There were, Gabrielle knew, many ways to respond. She could ease her grandmother’s apprehension. She could tell a pretty lie. Or she could speak a small half-truth. But nothing would change the fact that she believed, deep in her soul, that Wolfgang Mueller was the worst thing that had happened to her family.

“No, Grandmère, I’m not afraid of him. I’m terrified.”