Page 34 of The Widows of Champagne

Josephine

J osephine flattened her hand over the book in her lap. The thick creamy pages made a pleasant, fluttery sound as she leafed through the entries, searching, searching. For what? She couldn’t remember. The reason was gone. So many lost moments, too many, most of them recorded in this book.

She continued turning the pages. Once she started she couldn’t stop. Some unknown, urgent purpose drove her. She’d learned to follow the instinct. This book, it was personal, used by someone who took her words seriously. Was that her? She never thought of herself as a serious writer. She felt a small spark of a thought. It nearly slid away, but she grabbed for it and then...

It rattled clear.

There was something she was supposed to remember. Yes, yes. Something for her granddaughter Gabrielle. A day, a time, an event. It was here, in this book. If only Josephine could recall what she was supposed to be looking for, then she could relay the information.

She would find it.

But not if she rushed.

Dipping her head, she inhaled deeply of the sweet, papery scent. Nothing—her mind was still a blank. Flip, flip, flip. A sense of calm moved through her, down along her spine, deep into her bones. This was her journal, her words. She told her secrets to these pages. When her mind went blank, and her thoughts became tangled, she was able to come here, and revisit forgotten moments from her past. This book was her memory now, both her pain and her comfort. Her refuge. Her truth.

And yet, even here, there were certain things her memory refused to relinquish onto the page. Entire voids of time and events were missing. That left her sad and frustrated.

Why had she not started keeping track of her thoughts sooner? Possibly, the failure was a small mercy. She was only supposed to remember her husband kissing her before heading to tend his vines. Not his collapse—she could not recall that clearly and rarely tried anymore. Had she been in the vineyard with him that day? Beside him, picking the grapes? Or had she been at the chateau, tending to their small child?

The details would not come, and they weren’t in this book. Josephine started to wonder if maybe his death never happened. Maybe it was just a terrible dream, a waking nightmare she couldn’t seem to shake. Antoine was alive, working the vines even now. He would walk through the door and—

She was so confused.

Her hand opened and closed over the silky paper beneath her palm. Her journal. She would locate her memory in these pages. She stopped her frantic searching and read.

3 September 1939

France declared war on Germany today. Hélène answered the phone and gave us the news. I decided to cancel the anniversary party, then agreed to postpone instead.

There was more here. But not what she’d come looking for.

22 June 1940

Helmut von Schmidt, the German wine merchant who lies on invoices, has requisitioned my home.

Not that, either.

She kept searching, sometimes going forward, sometimes backward. The tone of the entries seemed to change in the winter of 1941. A page, and then another, and then two more. Each filled with lists and other information Josephine found in von Schmidt’s desk. A record of shipments, mostly champagne, to various war zones. She’d added a personal note. Where the wine goes, so goes the German army.

Another page listed valuables and personal treasures missing from the chateau; some had marks next to them, others did not. Josephine couldn’t remember why she’d made those strikes on the page. Or why she’d included mention of a shipment to Portugal. She read her personal comment, made in bold, angry strokes. Von Schmidt is a swine. Something must be done to stop him.

She found another meticulous record of events and dates. The activities of the resistance. She read quickly through the entries.

—Three of my neighbors were caught palming off inferior blends to the Germans. All three have been thrown in jail, their champagne houses shut down indefinitely.

—Marta and I switched the labels on several single vintages. Josephine’s note: Marta knows which are the real single vintages and which are the fakes.

—Francois and Pierre transported a family of Jews in wine barrels across the demarcation line last night. They returned to the Occupied Zone with wine in the same barrels. Josephine’s note: I have very brave men in my employ.

—Train car derailed carrying large shipment of wine. Josephine’s note: Better the soil drinks our wine than the German dogs taste a single drop.

—Local man shot for raising a clenched fist as Germans soldiers were staging a parade, another caught and executed for cutting telephone wires. Josephine’s note: None of us are safe.

—Lucien Trevon arrested for handing out pamphlets for the Free French, released the next day. Josephine’s note: Hélène has made a terrible bargain to save this boy.

Josephine kept reading, stopping on the page that spoke of Hélène becoming von Schmidt’s social secretary, then the hostess for his parties, then something uglier. She’d recorded other dates and times. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December of 1941. The Americans entering the war at last. Gabrielle slipping out of the house at night. Paulette’s clandestine meetings with a boy. Josephine’s note: My home has become a breeding ground for liars and cheats. I include myself in this judgment. We do what we must to survive.

Next page...

SS conducted an unplanned inspection of our wine cellar. They found nothing. Gabrielle was fully prepared for the search. Josephine’s note: How did my granddaughter know about the raid?

Next page...

There. At last. The entry she’d come seeking, not for her granddaughter. For herself.

11 May 1942

Capitaine von Schmidt and Hélène are arguing as I write this. I listen at the wall with my ear pressed to the plaster. He accuses her of hiding her jewelry from him. He accuses her of many things. There is more shouting, mostly from him, terrible vows of retribution for her deceit. I hear the breaking of glass, the crack of a fist, von Schmidt’s furious exit from the house. Josephine’s note the following day: Hélène’s makeup is heavy this morning. It does nothing to conceal her black eye and split lip, or the fury in her eyes. Her anger is nothing compared to mine. Von Schmidt is out of control. Something must be done to stop him.

Josephine’s hand trembled over the page, her resolve robbing her of air.

Yes , she thought. Something must be done.