Page 35 of The Widows of Champagne
Gabrielle
17 July 1942
M ax disappeared two days after he was taken into custody. More arrests were made. Gabrielle was not one of them. She couldn’t feel grateful, not until she knew what had become of her father-in-law. Unfortunately, no one in their network had the information. Nor were they looking for answers. They had their own worries.
German occupation was slowly starving the people of Reims. The SS continued their random searches, which extended beyond wine cellars into homes and businesses, often because of tips from local citizens. The Nazis encouraged these betrayals, offering rewards as small as a few extra eggs in a basket, or a piece of rancid meat.
The LeBlanc wine cellar was often the target of these raids. Gabrielle had begun receiving cryptic warnings ahead of time. Always from an unknown source, usually a telegram with a series of random letters that spelled out no word she knew, not in French, German or English.
The first time she’d received one of the messages, she hadn’t understood. The SS soldiers had arrived unexpectedly, and she’d been forced to explain the reason behind an entire rack of mislabeled bottles. Later that night, she’d pored over the telegram with renewed vigor. It hadn’t taken her long to understand a warning had been buried in the strange cipher. By morning, she’d cracked the code. When the second telegram arrived, she’d been ready for the raid. The soldiers left with several cases of mediocre champagne, while satisfied with the answers they received to their questions.
Although Detective Mueller accompanied his soldiers, he physically separated himself from the actual plundering. He rarely touched the bottles himself, but always—always—directed his men to the less sought-after blends instead of the truly superior ones.
Today, he took his usual place beside Gabrielle and aligned his shoulders perfectly parallel to hers, with only inches standing between them, as if they were a united front. His solid presence beside her made her feel less alone. It was another one of his lies. Another lure that cost her sleepless nights. After all, he did nothing to stop his men from stealing her champagne.
“Halt,” Mueller said when a soldier bent over a case of Josephine’s rosé and pulled out one of the bottles to inspect it closer. “Give that to me.”
He studied the label, inspected the bottle itself, rotating it around slowly. He released the cork with startling finesse, his head set at an angle so he could listen to the sound the wine made. Gabrielle heard the satisfying sigh of effervescence and wanted to weep over its perfection. Mueller gave her a quick glance. The look, one of approval. Warmth wanted to overwhelm the coldness in her heart. It was a sensation she did not trust. He studied the cork next, testing its feel in his palm, remarking on its color, checking the sides and then the bottom.
The detective knew what he was doing.
He motioned to one of the soldiers. “Glass.”
The man dug inside the pouch slung over his shoulder, then handed the detective a champagne coupe. Without glancing at Gabrielle, Mueller poured the rich pink liquid into the glass. He studied the bubbles, sniffed at the wine, took a sip. Several seconds went by before he swallowed.
More seconds passed as he lingered over the afternotes. “This is an inferior blend.” The declaration contradicted the appreciation in his eyes. “Germans deserve better than this fizzy dishwater.”
She gasped at the insult.
He made a grand show of emptying the rest of the rosé onto the wine cellar’s floor. “Leave it for the French. Take that wine instead.” He pointed to crates of a blanc de blanc. A remarkably inferior blend, comparatively speaking, to her grandmother’s rosé. “All twenty cases.”
The men went to work.
Gabrielle shrank back from the activity, arms wrapped around her waist, her mind in a whirl of confusing thoughts. She knew Mueller had just shown her extraordinary favor, but she couldn’t comprehend why he’d saved the rosé. What did he hope to gain? His behavior made no sense. Unless...
Was this part of some sort of twisted strategy to lull her into submission?
She knew better than to trust him. It was the uniform. That emblem of Nazi power. Wearing it made him less human. Something to be feared.
She was right to fear him, to distrust him. To hate him, even. He’d arrested Max, among others, and had made them disappear.
Mueller was still looking at her, and she tried not to look back, but the intense quality of his stare started the blood rising up to her throat, to her cheeks. Miserably confused, she glanced down at her feet. The toes of her work boots were only inches from where he’d dumped the precious rosé. The pink liquid had turned several shades darker as it seeped into the limestone, looking more like blood than wine.
The raid finally came to an end.
Gabrielle was given permission to leave.
She said not one word of farewell to Detective Mueller. They exchanged a final look absent of expression. He nodded and retreated with his soldiers. And, of course, her wine.
Gabrielle returned to the chateau.
On her way, she glanced over her shoulder, not sure what she hoped to find. There was nothing there. No threat. No promise. No enemy. No ally. No one waiting to arrest her. No one standing to help her carry her burdens. Only empty air stood between her and a wine cellar with fewer bottles of champagne now that Mueller and his men had seized another twenty cases.
She could only assume the wine was being loaded on a train to Berlin, never to be seen again. Not unlike the people Mueller arrested. Her mind wanted to believe he was not what he seemed, that he was somehow better than the uniform he wore. Somehow...more. She could not quite get there. He saved some of her champagne, but still took too many cases. He continued making arrests, and people still disappeared.
She must see things as they really were, not how she hoped them to be. She must be smart, and not be fooled by whatever game he was playing.
Lies within lies. She was suddenly very tired.
I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves.
Entering the chateau, alone, exhausted, she set aside her mangled thoughts and considered the ever-growing problem in her home. Von Schmidt’s behavior was becoming more and more erratic. Behind his eyes, Gabrielle could see him thinking, plotting. Making plans. He no longer pretended civility when it was just the LeBlanc women in the house. More often than not, his true nature won over the sophisticated mask he wore around his fellow Germans. He was rude, scathingly dismissive and feral in his displeasure whenever his patience snapped.
Which was too often, and mostly directed at Hélène.
“Gabrielle, come quickly.” Her mother beckoned from the small parlor just off the main salon. “There’s news from Paris.”
Gabrielle hurried into the room. The rest of her family were already gathered around the wireless, every one of them in a state of shock. Von Schmidt was also there, not shocked, instead pleased by the news coming in from Paris. He stood near the fireplace, studying the glowing tip of his cigarette. The small, secretive smile curling his lips meant nothing good.
A German voice spoke through the wireless in heavily accented French. “With the assistance of the French police, 13,000 Jews have been arrested for crimes against the Third Reich. They are being held in the Vélodrome d’Hiver until transportation can be provided...”
The voice droned on. Gabrielle barely heard the details of how the French police had joined forces with the SS to arrest innocent people for alleged crimes.
What crimes? She wondered, knowing she wasn’t the only one of her family silently asking this question. Shock and horror showed in the wide, darting eyes of everyone in the room.
All, except von Schmidt. “At last,” he said. “At last, the Jews are being punished for their crimes against humanity.”
“ Mon Dieu. I can’t bear to hear any more.” Paulette, hands over her ears, ran out of the room, sobbing.
What crimes had so many Jews committed? Gabrielle asked herself again, her own hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Men, women, children, arrested. For what? For being born Jewish? For daring to breathe the same air as Germans?
It was all so unbelievable. Gruesome. Anti-Semitism on a whole new level.
And von Schmidt, the deplorable human being, was happy. “Tell me, Herr Hauptmann,” Gabrielle said, unable to hold silent a second longer. “What did 13,000 French citizens do to deserve arrest and deportation?”
“They are not French. They are Jews. They have infested Europe with their tainted blood. They have stolen jobs and dominated businesses where they have no right. It is long past time they were put in their place.”
Gabrielle had heard much of this before, at the dinner table in this very home. But never out of von Schmidt’s mouth. He’d shown his approval with a nod of his head. A smile, a grunt. “How can you advocate sending innocent people to their deaths?” she asked him. “Many of them children.”
“Ridding the world of Jews is an acceptable sacrifice for the good of Germany.”
Stunned speechless, Gabrielle watched the hate flicker across his face. The fervor of a true believer shone in his eyes. When had he become so bold with his convictions, so rabid? “You fiend. You are a—”
“Be very careful what you say next, Madame Dupree. You would not wish to be labeled a sympathizer of the Jews.”
Hélène flinched. Tears filled Josephine’s eyes. Marta openly wept.
Scowling, von Schmidt extinguished his cigarette, immediately lit another and turned his displeasure toward the settee. “You, there. Old woman.” He stabbed his cigarette in Josephine’s direction. “Why do you shed tears for the filthy Jews?”
“You want to know why? I will tell you.” Josephine stood, her tears falling without remorse, her head tilted at an incensed angle like a wild boar uprooted in the forest.
This would not end well. Gabrielle rushed to her grandmother’s side, linked their arms, and pulled her close. “Grandmère, you don’t have to answer his question. You don’t—”
“Yes, Gabrielle, I do.” Josephine’s eyes glittered with purpose. “The Jews are God’s chosen people. All nations will be blessed through them. All but the Third Reich. The Lord will not bless such evil.”
Von Schmidt went very still. “I have to wonder why you defend a race so far removed from your own. What, Madame, drives this loyalty? Or perhaps, I should ask...who?”
Josephine lifted her chin higher. There was no hesitation in her, no fear, only conviction. “I am a Christian, this is no secret. Jewish history is our history. Their pain is our pain.”
Von Schmidt drew closer, the look of retribution in his eyes.
“Herr Hauptmann von Schmidt.” Gabrielle said his name in an overloud voice. “We’re all on edge after the news from Paris. The shock has made us not quite ourselves.”
He placed his gaze on her face. “Mark my words, Madame, the Jews will be eradicated from France, as will anyone who comes to their defense. Keep that in mind the next time you want to speak your thoughts aloud. You do not want to find yourselves on the wrong side of history.”
Clearly outraged, Josephine started to respond.
He cut her off with a slash of his hand. “Another word out of you and I will be forced to report your sympathies to my superiors.”
Gabrielle’s skin heated with anger. She wanted to shout at von Schmidt that he and his superiors were the ones on the wrong side of history. That they would one day be forced to answer for their sympathies . But she kept silent and continued holding on to her grandmother, silently urging her to stop engaging in further discussion.
“Your silence is sensible. Now. I have a meeting with several wine merchants in Paris tomorrow. You,” he said, taking Hélène by the arm, “will accompany me upstairs and pack my bags.”
“Yes, Helmut.”
Josephine, her arm still entangled with Gabrielle’s, waited until the two disappeared before muttering barely above a whisper, “That man, he is out of control. Something must be done to stop him.”