Page 30 of The Widows of Champagne

Josephine

A s German occupation crept on, Josephine’s sense of time fragmented into a spattering of unrelated moments. She spent hours examining the contents of her memory, too many times coming away empty. The champagne house continued meeting the impossible quotas set by the weinführer , but Josephine left the particulars to her granddaughter and spent more time in her room, or in Marta’s company.

This arrangement suited her. She tired easily and rarely ventured out of her bedroom during waking hours. She tried not to wander too much at night, though there were moments when she would find herself in a dark part of the chateau, confused and frightened, unsure how she’d ended up there.

Some good came from her moments of confusion. Von Schmidt had grown tired of her ramblings. He’d banished her from the evening meal. Tonight, however, he’d demanded her presence. She couldn’t think why. Perhaps for no other reason than to throw her off-balance and relax her guard, as deceptive and cunning as the serpent in the garden.

He’d compiled the usual coterie of guests at his table. No Frenchmen, of course. Only Germans, and only men who served his upward mobility within the Third Reich. They brought their well-groomed, heavily jeweled companions. It appalled Josephine to see so many local women taking Nazi lovers. Some did so for survival, others for more selfish reasons. How dare they prefer their comfort over their pride.

Hélène lifted her glass and made a toast in honor of one of the couples at the table, a woman not much older than Paulette and a German officer close to von Schmidt’s age. “To your engagement,” she said, raising her glass a bit higher. “May you find eternal happiness as husband and wife for many years to come.”

Josephine and Gabrielle shared a horrified look. Hélène appeared truly pleased by this abominable union. She also appeared perfectly comfortable in her role as hostess at the right hand of her own German. There was truth and there was deception, Josephine thought. Hélène’s relationship with von Schmidt appeared to fall somewhere in between.

Josephine’s fault, she knew. She’d encouraged her daughter-in-law to make herself indispensable to their oppressor.

Or had the idea come from Hélène? Josephine couldn’t remember which of them had broached the subject first. She needed to remember. She thought, maybe, the distinction was important, a clue as to whether or not Hélène could still be trusted. Or if she’d become...

No assumptions, not yet.

Josephine would check her journal later, when she was certain the rest of the household slept. In the meantime, she had her own role to play. That of a woman with a frail mind. The charade was not so far from the truth.

“I have a desire for duck tonight.” As she glanced around the table, she pretended to slip deeper into a state of confusion. “Perhaps in a lovely orange sauce. Marta does such a fine job with sauces.”

“Grandmère,” Gabrielle said gently, her hand coming to rest on her forearm. “We already ate the main course. You praised Marta’s culinary skills, several times in fact.”

Had she? Josephine went quiet, thinking maybe...yes. Her granddaughter was correct. She’d already eaten the fish. Not duck, but a lovely sea bass. You know this, Josephine. Taking her glass, she tried to drink, but the water turned acrid in her mouth and she choked on the sip.

Von Schmidt expelled an impatient breath and stared at her through hard, unforgiving eyes. She knew the look. He was preparing to give her a harsh insult.

Hélène forestalled the reprimand. “I believe we can all agree that the sea bass was cooked to perfection. The cherries jubilee will be even better. It is one of your favorites, is it not, Helmut? As it is mine.”

He reached out and closed his hand over Hélène’s in a gesture that spoke of a shared intimacy that made Josephine heartsick.

“You and I, my dear, are of a similar mind in this, as we are in so many areas.” He brought her hand to his lips. “It is always a pleasure to have your exquisite presence at my table.”

His table. The swine.

Josephine had to lower her head to hide the snarl of contempt that formed on her lips, but not before she caught Hélène’s stricken expression. That look told her much and she thought of an Oscar Wilde quote. Truth is rarely pure and never simple. Josephine sighed. She wanted to be anywhere but at this table.

When the dismissal came, she was happy to escape to her room.

Time passed. She didn’t know how much. She sat alone, dressed for bed in a warm robe, the air scarred by the grating of her breath. When had she changed out of her evening gown? Had Marta helped her?

Her feet were cold.

They were always cold. Josephine glanced down. She still wore the shoes that matched her dress. She tapped her toes on the floor, tap tap tap , and tried to recall when she’d slipped them back onto her feet. Or had she never taken them off?

She tried to stand. Her ankle twisted, sending sharp pain up her leg. Stupid, stupid shoes. She reached down to remove them. They were too heavy and clumsy in her hands. She dropped them to the floor with a thud and gave them a little kick. That felt good. She kicked them again. Then went on the move, pacing from bed, to window, to dressing table, faster, faster, faster, her mind whirling, her bare feet circling within the same path. She hated this confusion in her head.

A familiar spurt of fear tangled with the first stirrings of anger. Not anger, rage. So much of it. She wanted to howl in frustration. This world, it was too much for her. A sob burst from her throat. I want to come home, Lord.

But her blood still pumped. Her failing, traitorous body still coursed with life.

Let me come home. It’s time.

There was no response from the Father. No sound but the shuffling of her feet between bed, window, dressing table. Bed, window, dressing table.

Bed, window. Her feet stopped. She shoved aside the heavy blue curtains. Blue? No, that wasn’t right. They were supposed to be green with gold brocade. Josephine had chosen the pattern not long after her wedding day. Had someone replaced them?

Had she?

Outside, the dark of night was not so black anymore. The pearly light of the moon had married with the hazy mist of dawn. She’d been pacing all night. And her journal was in her hand. She didn’t remember retrieving it.

She stared out across the vineyard.

Through the fog, she could see a movement, the gauzy sway of something black against the gray. She blinked, squinted, trying to see past the stingy light, determined to separate the foreign from the familiar. Two shadows came together, merging into one big smudge inside the fog. They separated and then joined again. Josephine rubbed her eyes.

A chill of foreboding galloped through her blood as she glanced at the strange, moving images. Neither dark nor light, but a dingy ash. She rubbed at her eyes again, her vision slowly clearing. The details were more visible now. They made more sense.

The two figures, easier to distinguish apart from the fog, came together and separated a third time. She identified the taller, larger form. A man. The shorter, smaller belonged to a woman. Young, old, she couldn’t tell. Arms entwined, heads moving together, bodies pressing closer. A lover’s embrace.

Josephine gasped, suddenly empty of the ability to breathe. She forced herself to watch, when all she wanted to do was look away. To pretend she wasn’t witnessing the ugly truth playing out before her eyes. Her suspicions were realized in a moment of painful clarity.

And then, it was over.

The man stepped back from the woman. She reached to him, but he turned, shoulders set at a proud angle, and walked away, melting deeper into the mist. Even before he disappeared, the woman placed a hand to her heart. Lifted her fingertips to her lips, touched her heart again.

The image froze in Josephine’s mind. She stood suspended in a moment of disbelief, her hand itching to write down what she’d seen. How could she put this terrible reality on the page?

She must.

She did.

When she was through, a breath went out of her in a hard exhalation of ragged sound and air. She was shocked, of course. But part of her experienced only acceptance. Part of her had expected nothing less from her granddaughter.

After all they’d sacrificed, all the risks each of them had taken, part of Josephine couldn’t shake the notion that this one, selfish act would result in her family’s doom.