Page 28 of The Widows of Champagne
Hélène
I t snowed overnight, a light dusting that would melt by midday. The weather mirrored the condition of Hélène’s heart, cold and bleak. How ill-prepared she’d been for war within her own home. How utterly unsuited and na?ve to think she could control the battle. That the decision had been hers to make.
The layers of protection she’d placed around her heart had not been enough. She was shattered, a sketch of her former self, left with nothing but shame and dishonor and a heart in pieces. The first night had been the hardest. The following two had proved no easier. A fair trade for her life, and that of her family—her daughters—that was how she rationalized her relationship with von Schmidt in her mind.
Hélène would not allow herself a moment of regret. It was done. No going back.
She fell to her knees and prayed for forgiveness, as she did every morning. How could the Lord forgive her? How could she forgive herself?
Shoving to her feet, she searched for her cigarettes. As she fit one between her lips she thought of her encounter with the Gestapo agent three nights ago. Hélène hadn’t expected Detective Mueller’s instant suspicion of something so simple as the brand she chose to smoke, purchased from a little shop in Paris because it had been étienne’s favorite.
She didn’t even like to smoke. She did so in honor of her husband’s memory. Every puff filled the void he’d left in her life and made her think of him. Closing her eyes, she tried to summon up his image. His features wavered in her mind, nearly there, nearly real. But not quite. She barely recalled the hue of his hair, the tenor of his voice. She whipped open her eyes. She would not lose étienne again. Not again. Hands trembling, she opened a drawer in her dressing table and withdrew the photograph first, then the wristwatch.
It took her only a moment to memorize the beloved oval face, the impossibly green eyes, the thick wavy hair their daughters had inherited from him. She glanced at the watch next. It had stopped again. She’d forgotten to wind it. She reached for the stem, then changed her mind. No. She would let the gears remain dormant in silent tribute to the man she still loved.
She returned the items to their resting place and reminded herself. No regrets. She’d made her choice. She now had a purpose. For as long as Germany occupied France, and von Schmidt occupied the chateau, she would pander to the enemy and organize his parties.
Seeing to her duty, she spent the rest of the morning, and most of the afternoon, finalizing last-minute preparations for tonight’s official welcome of Detective Mueller to the region. The details kept her busy all day, making it impossible to find a spare moment for herself. Now, with plenty of time left to dress for the party, she entered her youngest daughter’s bedroom.
Paulette stood at her closet, studying the contents. “Maman, perfect timing. Which gown should I wear tonight? The blue?” She reached in and plucked out a dress the color of a brittle, cloudless sky. “Or—” her hand plunged in again “—the green?”
Hélène considered both options, then pointed to her choice. “The green. It will highlight the golden tints in your hair and make your eyes sparkle.”
A self-satisfied smile met this response. “I think so, too.”
Hélène didn’t linger. She had her own evening gown to choose. Tonight’s party would be a difficult test, and only the first of many. Another step deeper into the lie of her own making.
She would not regret, or think of herself, or what her actions did to her soul. She would think only of her daughters. They were alive and would one day—someday—live in a free France. She had to believe that, or she would break. She slipped into her evening gown, one of her most flattering and von Schmidt’s favorite. He would notice, and assume she’d dressed for him. She would not correct his assumption.
Mouth grim, she secured the last pin in her hair and studied the result of her efforts in the full-length mirror. Skimming a half inch above the ground, the pale lavender silk, tucked at her waist by an invisible seam, clung to her curves and left just enough to the imagination to be considered elegant rather than tasteless.
She retouched her makeup, adding kohl liner to enhance the almond shape of her eyes. At her writing desk she reviewed the guest list, mostly Germans but a few local Champenois . Would they speak to her? Only the ones who’d made similar liaisons as herself.
How many? she wondered. Too many, and she pitied them all, as she pitied herself.
Consulting the clock, she decided she had time to check on the caterer. The kitchen was a hive of activity. Under Monsieur Chardon’s careful watch, a sea of hired staff moved with purpose and efficiency, filling silver serving trays with caviar, poached salmon and all forms of French delicacies. Lucien Trevon and his sisters were among the servers.
Hélène nodded in approval.
She entered the main salon and paused a moment to catch her breath. The stillness on the air was disconcerting but would be shattered soon enough. Her heels struck the parquet flooring with ruthless efficiency as she checked the decorations. A few mistakes caught her notice, not enough flowers in one arrangement, too many in another.
The sound of heavy footsteps had her gasping. Her hand went to her throat. “Gabrielle, you startled me.”
Dressed to contend with the bitter temperatures in the vineyard, her daughter wore heavy boots and a thick jacket, and held a mug of fragrant coffee between her palms. “I was heading to my room when I thought I heard a noise.” She took a sip of the steaming liquid. “You look tired, Maman.”
She was tired. Bone tired. But she thought she’d camouflaged the signs with her makeup brush. She went to the closest mirror to check for herself. One glance was enough to send her back upstairs to her dressing table. She headed for the stairwell.
Gabrielle followed her. The entirety of her worry shone in her eyes. Hélène hated seeing her daughter so conflicted. “You have something you wish to say to me?”
“I... Yes. Wait a moment.” She placed the mug of coffee on one of the stairs then pulled Hélène into a fierce embrace. “I hate that you are in so much pain.”
She stiffened in her daughter’s arms. “Any pain I suffer is my own doing.”
“I love you, Maman,” Gabrielle whispered. “I love you. I don’t say it enough.”
Hélène began to cry. She wanted to cling to her daughter a moment longer. Just one more moment. “I love you, too, ma fille . I don’t say it enough, either.”
By uttering the words, she took ownership of her past and present sins, and silently appealed to the Lord for forgiveness. She stepped back and asked the same of her daughter. “Forgive me, Gabrielle. I have not been the best of mothers.”
“You have been the best mother you know how to be. And that, Maman, has always been enough.”
She didn’t deserve such leniency from the one daughter she’d neglected in favor of the other. Hélène cupped Gabrielle’s cheek. She knew it was futile to say the words, but she said them anyway. “I should have done better by you. I should have done more.”
Gabrielle’s hand came up to cover hers. “You did plenty.”
They shared a sad smile, then parted ways.
Hélène staggered to her room. She made a moue of distaste at her reflection. She’d vowed not to cry over her fate, and here were tear tracks on her cheeks. She cleared her mind of all thought and began erasing her distress with a calm, steady hand.
The transformation took longer than it should have. By the time she arrived back downstairs, the guests were already arriving. Her heart took an extra hard beat. Too much laughter rang from French lips, a cruel mockery of the young men dying on the battlefields so that they could enjoy this freedom of drinking champagne with their German occupiers.
Von Schmidt caught her eye and motioned her to join him. She answered his call with a slow, steady pace. He was encircled by a group of men of varying ages and sizes. Several were dressed like him. Some were in formal dinner attire. One wore the black uniform of the SS.
She made the short journey across the room to the sound of whispers spoken loud enough for her to hear. So much condemnation, so much indignity to endure.
Humiliation wanted to overwhelm her, wanted to slow her steps and quicken her breath. “Good evening, gentlemen.” Her smile was meant for the entire group, and none of them individually, not even von Schmidt.
He seized her arm at the elbow and squeezed harder than was necessary, a silent warning to speak nothing but happy words to their guests. His gaze roamed her face, then lowered over her gown. There was an air of ownership in his manner. And why wouldn’t he look at her that way? He did own her. “You’re wearing my favorite.” Appreciation filled his voice. “I approve.”
“I...” She swallowed back the catch in her throat and forged ahead with this unpleasant charade. “I dressed tonight with you in mind.”
An audible gasp from a woman off to her left told Hélène she was still being watched. She could not let that knowledge flummox her. She had Nazis to entertain. One of their group, a short little man with small eyes and a receding hairline, openly leered at her. He wore a black Waffen-SS uniform, the iron cross pinned at the center of his shirt collar. He held a high rank. The single oak leaf signified he was a full colonel.
“You have exquisite taste in women, Herr Hauptmann,” he said. “Please, introduce us.”
“Hélène, this is Standartenführer Bauer. He is the regiment leader of the SS unit that is currently billeting in Reims.”
She drummed up a smile. “Welcome, Herr Standartenführer .”
“ Enchanté , Madame.” He took her hand and touched a kiss to her knuckles. A flush crept up her neck. His breath reeked of alcohol and cigarettes and the grip on her hand felt like a vise. She tried to pull away. She couldn’t help herself. He repulsed her. But he held fast to her hand, his grip tightening, as if he was used to such a reaction and enjoyed the opportunity to display his dominance over a weaker individual.
Von Schmidt did not come to her rescue. He, too, repulsed her.
Hélène thought matters couldn’t get any worse. But then she heard a familiar female tittering from across the room. Her eyes went wide at the sight of Paulette surrounded by a group of male admirers. All of the young men wore Waffen-SS uniforms. A strangled sound slid past Hélène’s lips, immediately muffled.
“You will excuse me, gentlemen. I must see to my daughter. She is young and...” Hélène hesitated, trying to find the words that would explain this new terror in her heart. There were none. So, she said again, “She is young.”