Page 31 of The Widows of Champagne
Gabrielle
G abrielle read the journal entry, her eyes racing over the page, anguish covering her heart. All her attempts to talk reason into her sister had been for nothing. Paulette had done as Paulette always did—whatever she wanted.
Until this moment, Gabrielle had convinced herself her sister was nothing more than an outrageous flirt playing with her admirers’ affections.
She’d been lying to herself.
Deep down, she’d known a forbidden romance was inevitable. Of course she’d known, because here she sat, receiving the news of her sister’s indiscretion without the slightest hint of shock. Anguish, yes. Fury. Alarm. But, no. Not surprise.
Paulette was too impulsive for her own good. Gabrielle read the entry a second time. She had questions. Her grandmother’s comments were not very detailed. Looking up from the page, she asked, “Did you recognize the boy?”
Josephine shook her head. “It was foggy. The light was poor, and they were too far away for me to distinguish more than their shapes.”
Gabrielle had a moment of desperate hope. “You are sure the woman was Paulette?”
“I know my own granddaughter.”
“Of course you do. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” She thought for a moment. Her mind hooked on an image from the party. Paulette’s hand resting on that local boy’s arm. “He’s probably one of her schoolmates. My guess is the boy from the party last week, the server Maman hired.” The boy’s life she’d saved.
It was the most logical explanation, the only one Gabrielle would entertain. Surely, Paulette would not fraternize with the enemy with this level of intimacy. Besides, where would she have met him? As soon as Gabrielle had the thought, another image from the party materialized. Paulette surrounded by German soldiers. One in particular had been especially persistent. A lieutenant with the Waffen-SS. Very good-looking, very attentive to her sister. But not a boy, a man in his twenties. He’d since dined at von Schmidt’s table.
Gabrielle hated the ugly suspicion filling her mind. But she had to admit this theory fit every detail, including—especially—the need for secrecy, and the need for Paulette to break curfew. She had to speak with her sister.
The clock told her Paulette was already in bed for the night. Gabrielle could wake her. No, her sister was still a teenager and all that implied. Confronting her in the middle of the night would only result in deflection and angry denials.
Her mother, then. She would go to Hélène with this. Later tonight, or early tomorrow morning. When she was sure the other woman was in her room and Gabrielle herself was back from her own midnight errand. She glanced at the clock again.
If only Josephine had told her about this sooner. Already, time worked against her. She would have to leave soon to meet Max. She passed the journal back to her grandmother and kissed the older woman’s cheek. “I’m glad you showed me this.”
“The girl must stop this foolishness at once,” Josephine said, the manifestation of the family matriarch in her stiff posture. “I’ll speak to her myself.”
“I think we should leave this to Maman. She has the greatest influence with Paulette.” It was the right move, the only move now that Gabrielle considered the situation with a bit more perspective.
“Perhaps you’re right. But see that it’s done quickly.” Josephine closed the journal and secured the leather strap. “I have a bad feeling about this relationship.”
Gabrielle did, too.
Later, when she exited the house, mounted her bicycle and blended with the night, she put aside her worry for her sister and focused on the more immediate task before her. Another dangerous mission, her role small but important. The midnight air still held the bite of winter and nipped at her exposed skin with needle-sharp precision.
A hawk swooped low, silent and deadly and practically clipped Gabrielle on the shoulder. She swerved, hit a rut and nearly lost her grip on the handlebars. She righted herself before disaster struck. What was she doing, condemning her sister for taking risks when she herself took more than her share?
Not unlike her sister, she put her family in danger every time she broke curfew. She considered ending her resistance work, then immediately rejected the idea. What Gabrielle did for France was necessary, important.
She kept pedaling.
Tonight, she risked her life a third time for the British airman that still lived in Max’s wine cellar. The contact from their network hadn’t shown last week. There’d been no explanation. Until yesterday. He’d been arrested for derailing a large shipment of champagne meant for Berlin.
They would try again tonight, with a different plan and different players, except for Max and Gabrielle. Despite the cold stiffening her muscles, she pedaled harder, putting her farther from the safety of her home and deeper into danger. The Waffen-SS encampment came into view. She increased her speed. Soon, the camp was out of sight and she was breathing normally once again.
Max was waiting for her at his usual spot. He didn’t look good. His calm, careful facade was nonexistent. Gabrielle scrambled off her bike and let it drop to the frozen ground. “What’s wrong, Papa?”
Sadness came into his eyes, and then regret. Or was that fear? “The strain is too much, Gabrielle. I grow weak under the stress. We must have success tonight. We must get this man away from my home.”
The desperation was not like Max.
“We will.” She let the air out of her lungs in a long sigh. “Our plan is a good one.”
They’d decided the railyard was too risky, especially now that an SS unit patrolled the area. A local vine grower authorized to conduct business in the Free Zone had agreed to smuggle the Brit across the border in one of his wine barrels. She didn’t ask the man’s name, or if he was local, and Max didn’t supply this information. Anonymity was always best. “Am I still on watch during the transfer?”
“ Oui. You will keep an eye on the main road. If you see anything suspicious, you will blow into this whistle three times. Three. No more, no less.”
She took the bird whistle he held out. The paint had chipped away from the mouthpiece but, after a careful inspection, it appeared to be in good working order. Just to be certain, she tested the sound with a hard, fast blow and sighed in relief. The whistle would suffice.
It would work. It had to work. For the airman’s sake. And her father-in-law’s.
“I’ll alert you when all is clear with the same signal.” Max showed her a second, identical whistle before shoving it in his coat pocket. “Once you hear the three chirps you will know it’s safe for you to return to your bed. Do not come back here. Go straight home.”
There had to be more she could do. When she said as much, Max refused to entertain the idea. “I already put you at too much risk. Now, go. Godspeed, Gabrielle.”
They embraced. She mounted her bicycle and slipped soundlessly into the night just as a delivery truck rumbled down the drive. She did not look in the driver’s direction and prayed he didn’t look in hers.
The temperatures had dipped since she’d left the chateau and the air carried the scent of snow. Gabrielle hardly noticed as she pedaled past Max’s house, through the courtyard and out onto the road. She swung her bicycle in the direction of the SS encampment, then came to a stop and waited for the signal from Max.
The next twenty minutes progressed without incident. Although she jumped at every sound, every snap of a twig, or click of a cricket, the road remained empty. Gabrielle attributed the lack of activity to the strictly enforced curfew. Her breathing finally found its rhythm when the high-pitched bird whistle rent the night air.
Three shrills. The airman was on his way, tucked inside a wine barrel.
Relief made her knees weak. She would leave for home now. She should leave for home. She could not. Something about Max’s behavior disturbed her. Instinct told her he was on the verge of cracking. She would not sleep well until she saw his face one final time.
The man she encountered in the courtyard was not happy to see her. “I told you not to return.”
“I wanted to say good-night.”
It was a flimsy excuse, but Max only nodded. “The hard part is over, Gabrielle. We did what we could for the boy. The rest is out of our hands.”
She knew he was right. She lifted onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “Then I’ll say good-night.”
“Wait. Now that you are here, I have something to discuss.”
“All right.”
He placed a hand on her shoulders. “This German living in your home, this wine merchant.” He nearly spat the words. “He flaunts his relationship with your mother. Talk of their liaison is all over Reims.”
Heat drained from Gabrielle’s face. “How bad is the gossip?”
“It’s not good. She has few friends left in Reims, and none who will come to her aid if the tide of war shifts.”
Gabrielle had known Hélène would be judged for her relationship with von Schmidt. But this? It was worse than she’d expected. Fear for her mother scrambled to the surface. She tried to breathe through the worst of it. No air came into her lungs.
“I also understand Detective Mueller has taken a special interest in you.”
The accusation all but slapped her in the face. Her first instinct was to defend herself. But she made her mind slow down, to think logically. She must explain the situation calmly, and with truth. Only truth. “His attention is motivated purely by suspicion. He is a hard man, Papa. He trusts no one. Not the French. Not his fellow Germans. And most definitely not me.”
This was her truth, her reality. As a widow, she was easy prey for a man such as Mueller, if her father-in-law was right. He could not be right.
“You are certain his interest in you is nothing more than Nazi suspicion and distrust?”
It was clear Max didn’t fully believe her, and now she doubted herself. She forced her wild beating heart to find a steady cadence. “Why do you ask such questions?” She clamped down on the sob bubbling in her throat. “What have you heard that makes you believe petty gossip over my word?”
“You were seen with Mueller on the terrace during a recent party at your chateau. He had hold of your hand. It is said you did not pull away.”
French spying on French. Friends turning on friends. No one is safe. Josephine had said this. Her neighbors had made it so. “Detective Mueller approached me that night, this is true.” She sounded too defensive and readjusted her tone. “He’d previously discovered I still had a sizable amount of the 1928 in my cellar and told me to send the remaining stock to Berlin. He was assuring himself I’d followed through with his demand. He grasped my hand to make his point.”
“Gabrielle.” Max met her gaze with less suspicion and more concern. “Do not forget this man is Gestapo. He is a wolf in wolf’s clothing. I sense no mercy in him. You must keep your distance.”
“I have come to the same conclusion. Do not let your heart be troubled, Papa. I am always careful in his presence.”
“That’s all I ask.” He kissed her on one cheek, then the other. The affection was real, even if his eyes were still flat. “Go home and get some rest.”
“I will say the same to you. Get some rest. You seem especially tired tonight.”
He gave her a soft smile. “Nothing the end of the war won’t cure.”
That sounded more like the man who’d been her staunchest ally following étienne’s death. “May that day come soon.”
They shared a grim smile. With nothing more to say, she mounted her bicycle and pedaled toward the fog rolling in from the north. At the edge of the vineyard, she glanced over her shoulder. Max remained rooted to the spot, his eyes not with her but fixed on a distant spot beyond the courtyard. Something in his posture, the stance of a defeated man, left her with the impression that she would never see him again.
She raised her hand in farewell. He did not return the gesture. His eyes were on the black Mercedes coming down the drive. She hadn’t heard the engine. Max must have. He remained perfectly still, his hands stuffed in his pocket. He didn’t try to run. He merely stood in the harsh glare of the headlights, resigned and defiant. Gabrielle instinctually moved toward him. He must have sensed her purpose, because he gave a single shake of his head, as if to say: stay back .
Clutching the handlebars, she squeezed hard, so hard her knuckles turned bone white. At the last instant, she would run. But not before. If possible, she would come to Max’s rescue. She hovered just inside the fog’s milky-white shroud and waited for some signal to act, to retreat, to call out—she didn’t know which would be best.
Two men—SS soldiers—climbed out of the vehicle. “Hands up,” one of them shouted in German, then repeated the command in French.
Max did as he was told, hands aligned with his head, palms facing the men. A third figure exited the car. He moved at a slow, casual pace, as if he were out for an evening stroll.
Gabrielle struggled to think over the wild drumming of her pulse. She was too far away to make out the man’s features. But she knew that slow, predatory gait. She recognized those broad shoulders, that hard, unbending spine. Detective Mueller.
A wolf in wolf’s clothing.
A man without mercy.
The wind picked up, battering at her exposed face and hands. She should have worn gloves. It was a ridiculous thought at a time such as this. It seemed impossible, unimaginable that Mueller could be here. That he could know to come to Max’s house, tonight, of all nights, at this very moment.
He stopped his approach just outside the halo cast by the headlights.
“Monsieur Dupree,” he said in that guttural, broken French that was an abomination to the ears. “You are under arrest. Your vineyard and champagne house have been seized and placed under direct control of Berlin.”
Max arrested. His home taken. Gabrielle placed her hand over her mouth. No. She moved closer. No! She screamed the word in her head. Over and over and over. No, no, no.
“What is the charge?” Max asked, palms still facing his accuser, his voice sparked with very real panic, his outstretched arms shaking.
“Treason. Sabotage. And several other lesser offenses against the Third Reich. Now, put your hands behind your back. You, there.” Mueller motioned to the soldier on this left. “Bind this man’s wrists.”
Max’s eyes were huge as the soldier circled him. He was shaking uncontrollably now, and several tears leaked onto his cheeks.
Gabrielle’s own tears fell. She leaned forward, willing her father-in-law to stay strong, to know that she would do what she could to rescue him. If not tonight, tomorrow. She would go to de Vogüe and seek his help. Unless he’d been arrested as well.
Would the Gestapo come for her next?
She choked on her own breath, just a small stammer of sound. A mistake. Mueller’s head rotated in her direction. He remained outside the light, but she knew his eyes searched the dark. She melted deeper into the mist that was growing thicker, ever thicker. Not thick enough. For a ghastly second, she thought he saw her.
But he didn’t move toward her.
The rushing in her head became a painful throbbing in her throat, in her ears. Seconds passed. She allowed herself a single pull of air, and then held it.
She was still holding her breath when Mueller finally turned away and addressed the soldier at Max’s back. “Put him in the car. We will finish the rest of this at the police station.”