Page 24 of The Widows of Champagne

Hélène

H élène sat at her dressing table and invested precisely ten minutes in front of the mirror perfecting her makeup. She kohled her eyes, rouged her cheeks, painted her lips a bold red—von Schmidt’s favorite color on her—then completed the transformation by pressing powder over her skin to give it a matte finish.

She would have liked to dawdle over this ritual, her favorite before a party. She did not deserve the joy. She groomed herself for von Schmidt, not for her own pleasure, not anymore. The woman she’d become was foreign to her, and she felt more isolated than she had in years.

Your own doing.

Encouraging von Schmidt’s affections necessitated pulling away from the people she loved. She’d always kept a certain distance, even from Paulette. But now Hélène added additional coats of aloofness that no one seemed to notice. That was, perhaps, the root of this new brand of loneliness. It was as if the women in her family didn’t miss her because they had never really known her.

Your own doing , she reminded herself, borne from years—decades—of hiding her true self behind a carefully painted mask. Anti-Semitism in France had existed long before Nazi occupation. But, oh, how tired she was of feeding the charade she’d started when she was still a girl. Fabrications, evasions, carefully placed lies, all to protect herself from judgment. The stakes were higher now, and her nerves were constantly on edge. She was afraid of making a mistake, of pushing too hard, of not pushing hard enough.

They received news of the war from von Schmidt and the wireless, all of it censored by the German propaganda machine. It was impossible to know what was really happening outside of France. The Nazis monitored the postal service, the telephones. Some claimed even the walls had German ears.

So, she continued living her lie, biding her time and fighting her own war, in her own way. The relationship she cultivated with her enemy was vile to her. He was vile to her. She knew he would use her for his own pleasure. And when he tired of her, he would toss her away like yesterday’s garbage.

That day could not come soon enough and, when it came, it would be too late.

She was already labeled a collaborator. She’d heard the whispers herself. She grooms herself for him. Wasn’t she doing so now? He clicks his heels, and she does his bidding. Either that, Hélène had learned the hard way, or suffer the back of his hand.

The worst of the comments, the very worst, had come from a woman she’d thought her friend. It appears taking a Nazi lover is all the rage these days.

Hélène’s reputation was sufficiently ruined.

There was nothing she could do now but endure the humiliation.

The door creaked on its hinges, pulling her attention away from her own scowling reflection to her youngest daughter’s devastated face. She was on her feet in an instant. “Paulette, what’s wrong?”

The girl collapsed into her arms, sobbing.

“Here, now.” She held her daughter close and smoothed a hand over her quaking back. “What’s all this about?”

“Oh, Maman, it’s just so awful. Lucien...” Her voice broke on another sob. “He...he’s been arrested.”

“Arrested?”

“By the...the Gestapo.”

This is not the way I wanted my daughter to understand the realities of war.

Hélène attempted to recall the boy. So many came and went in Paulette’s life, too many to remember them all. She gave up and asked, “Lucien is...?”

“A boy from school.” Still clinging, the girl took a shuddering breath. “He’s really quite wonderful. He is always telling me how much he loves me.”

“You feel the same for him?”

The question went unanswered. Paulette was too preoccupied with pulling back and placing a hand to her heart. “I don’t know what I’ll do without him. Lucien is the only reason I get up in the morning.”

Hélène remembered the boy now. But she had to search her memory to bring up his image. Average height, a bit on the lanky side. Dark eyes, nearly black. He’d been one of the boys vying for Paulette’s attention at the anniversary party. Dark hair tousled about his face. Very French. His family grew grapes on a small vineyard. Lucien had a mother and two younger siblings living at home, twin girls. His father had been conscripted into the French army, which meant the boy was the man of the house. “What are the charges against your friend?”

“I don’t know, something to do with passing out pamphlets for the Free French. It’s all so terribly unfair.” Paulette threw herself into Hélène’s arms again. “I’ll die without him, Maman. You have to do something.”

What could she do? She had no power in this world.

“Please, you have to help Lucien.” Paulette’s voice was muffled against Hélène’s shoulder. “You are the only person who can.”

Confused by this statement, she pushed her daughter out of her arms. Paulette’s nose was pink, and her eyes were swollen, and yet she was beautiful. Tragic and gorgeous in her misery. The girl was eighteen, no longer a child and already wielding the tools of a woman. It was a startling revelation, made more frightening because Hélène sensed Paulette knew the influence of her tears. “What is it you think I can do?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You can go to Capitaine von Schmidt and ask him to put in a good word for Lucien. I’ve seen the way you bend him to your will. He’ll do anything you ask.”

Hélène gaped at her daughter. Paulette had caught the undertones between her and von Schmidt, and yet had completely misread their meaning. The despair she felt, she couldn’t describe it. Cold and paralyzing. “I do not have that kind of relationship with the man. While I wish I could help, I can’t do what you ask. It isn’t possible.”

“You think I don’t understand the situation? Oh, I understand, believe me. I do. A lot more than you think.” Her expression was so angry, and her voice was so bitter, that again Hélène hardly recognized her own child. She experienced a moment of utter hopelessness. Some of the emotion edged over into irritation. She started to speak, to correct this terrible mistake, but she paused and looked away, too sick over the example she’d set to bring up the right words.

“Well?” Paulette pushed. “Will you do it? Will you speak to Capitaine von Schmidt?”

“Even if I had that kind of sway with him, which I assure you, I don’t, there is no guarantee he will be able to influence the Gestapo on behalf of your friend. He is not SS.”

“Why would that matter?” Paulette looked genuinely surprised. “Germans are Germans.”

“That is not true, not true at all. Some Germans are worse than others.”

“Be that as it may...” Impatience glowed in the girl’s eyes. “The capitaine likes you, Maman. He will do whatever you ask. I know it, even if you do not. What harm could it be to ask him to help Lucien?”

What harm, indeed. She started to explain. But then an image of the boy came into her mind and Hélène thought of his mother, his sisters. Could she take this risk?

Her father’s words came to her in a rush. What we do for ourselves, Hélène, dies with us. What we do for others, remains forever.

She must be brave, for the sake of this boy and his mother.

Her hands reached for each other, twisted at her waist, fell back to her sides. “I will bring up the matter with von Schmidt. But I must warn you, Paulette. It is not a simple thing you ask of me. To do this I will have to—”

“Oh, Maman. I knew you would agree.”

And just like that, the matter was settled in her daughter’s mind. Paulette, tears quickly drying, took herself to Hélène’s dressing table and proceeded to paw through the jars. Humming an American tune made popular by one of those swing bands, she dipped a brush into a small pot and, without fuss or hesitation, swiped the red dye across her lips. “I think this color suits me.” The girl’s impossibly long lashes fluttered expectantly. “Don’t you agree?”

Desperation tried to get the better of her. She battled it back. “It’s very lovely.” Hélène rubbed at her tired eyes and, again, attempted to explain the situation to her daughter. “Paulette, I want you to understand why I make myself available to our...houseguest. This is important, so I need you to listen to what I tell you.”

“Hmm,” was all she said, her attention buried in a jar of face cream. The girl’s complete disinterest teased Hélène’s guilt to the surface. She’d allowed Paulette to believe their house was a safe haven, when it was anything but.

“France is at war,” she began. “And we are at von Schmidt’s mercy. I do not cultivate a relationship with him for my own pleasure. I do so for our family, for you. I...” The rest of the words slid down her throat. This time, she’d lost Paulette’s interest to an atomizer of perfume. “We will speak of this another time.”

When I have your full attention.

Hélène moved to the window. The pruning had already begun in the vineyard. Another year, another hope. Despite the cold, her hands began to sweat because she knew what she would have to do to save Paulette’s friend. It shamed her, but not enough to turn from this path.

She should do it now, before she lost her nerve. Von Schmidt would be in the library, watching the drive, already dressed for dinner, debating with himself whether to have another cigarette. He would have it, of course. He denied himself nothing.

She left the window and stood before the full-length mirror. The air scratched in her lungs as she studied her dress, her face, the elegant hair. Tomorrow, there would be a different woman in the glass. More jaded, humiliated and stripped of what little pride she had left.

It had to be done. She could put it off no longer.

Hélène bid her reflection a silent farewell and, after smoothing down a stray hair, left the room. Outside the library, her stomach became a nest of writhing snakes.

Remember, Hélène, a boy’s life is at stake. The words in her head were spoken in étienne’s voice. They pushed her through the door.

Von Schmidt was sitting calmly at his desk, smoking a cigarette. “Helmut.” She said his name in a husky whisper. “Do you have a moment?”

“For you?” He smiled with just the hint of the predator in his eyes. “I have several.”

For the boy , she reminded herself. For his family. And for yours.

It was time to meet her fate. And still, she hesitated.

Before von Schmidt had moved into her home, Hélène had done a good deal of entertaining. In the role of hostess her duties had required her to be solicitous and charming, a woman who listened to a guest—a man—and made him feel noticed, admired. Heard. She would use those same skills to take this next—and final—step in her own personal war.

She moved slowly, with obvious intent, her eyes locked with von Schmidt’s. His smile deepened and she felt strangely emboldened. She reached down and put her hand on his knee, squeezed softly.

He reached to her. She skirted away. Not yet. She slinked to the bookshelf, ran her fingertips along a random spine. She didn’t look back to see if von Schmidt watched her. She knew he did. The sun slipped below the horizon, casting the room in a pink-tinged glow. She heard him leave his seat. When he came up behind her, she turned, her back against the books.

Both of his hands came up, landing on the shelving, one on either side of her head, sufficiently trapping her in place. His gaze dropped to her lips.

She would not prevent his kiss. She would not encourage it, either.

He moved a step closer, his smile spreading. A smile to others, a trap for her. She allowed him to press her against the shelves, to brush his fingers across her cheek, then along her jawline. She focused on a spot above his right eye, pretending it didn’t matter that he was taking outrageous liberties without the benefit of a locked door to afford them privacy. Anyone could walk in on them. Anyone could hear what they said.

His head lowered to hers.

Bile rose into her throat. She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t see her revulsion. He took what he wanted, not gently, but with ruthless greed. She hadn’t expected anything else. She figuratively gritted her teeth through every ugly minute of his assault. When he stepped back, her skin burned with humiliation. And hate. He saw neither emotion in her eyes. She gave him submission and nothing else. There were only so many lies she could tell.

“You will come to my room tonight,” he said, hand gripping her throat. “After our guests have left for the evening.”

It was not a request, but she knew he expected a response. She gave him a terse nod. It was all she could manage under the weight of her shame.

He returned to his chair and sat, stretching out his long legs in a languid manner. The satisfaction on his face nearly had her running for the door. Then she thought of Paulette’s friend locked in a cage and leaned over von Schmidt, closing the distance, until her mouth hovered mere inches above his. She noticed, in some distant part of her brain, that the clocks in the hallway chimed the top of the hour, and that the room had turned an ashen, gloomy gray. Or perhaps that was only the color left in her heart. “If I come to you tonight,” she whispered in the same husky tone she’d adopted since entering the library, “I will require something in return.”

This seemed to amuse him. “Naturally.”

“I want to know what is to become of young Lucien Trevon.”

Recognition showed in von Schmidt’s eyes. His slippery smile widened. “He was arrested by the Gestapo for an act of treason. I assume the punishment will fit the crime.”

She shivered at the glee she saw in him and pulled slightly away. She needed distance for this next part. “I know this boy. He’s just a misguided youth in need of a bit of discipline, nothing grand. A small reprimand. Perhaps you could put in a good word for him with the police?”

“You ask much of me, Liebling .”

“Your influence is strong, Helmut.” She knew such a statement played to his ego. “Surely, a word from you will have much weight.”

“If I do this for you...”

“I would reward you dearly.”

“Well, then. Consider it done.”

“Thank you.” She attempted to draw back.

He pulled her closer still. “You will show me your appreciation now.”

Afterward, Hélène made an excuse about needing to retouch her makeup and retreated to the privacy of her room.

Once she was alone, she collapsed to her knees, covered her face with her hands and prayed for God’s forgiveness. She prayed and she prayed. Then, she wept.

When there were no more tears left, she stood, raised her chin at a proud angle and made a solemn vow to herself.

Never again would she shed a tear because of Helmut von Schmidt.