Page 37 of The Widows of Champagne
Gabrielle
V on Schmidt’s departure was met with wary celebration in the LeBlanc home. He did not return in three days. He did not return in four. A week passed. And then half of another. A surprisingly stoic Detective Mueller showed up twice during the second week, asking rapid-fire questions of each woman, saving the harder ones for Hélène.
She seemed perfectly at ease under the continued questioning, a little too perfectly at ease to Gabrielle’s way of thinking. She could not dislodge a chilling suspicion that her mother knew more than she was letting on. Hélène said pleasant, ambiguous things about von Schmidt, but nothing that helped explain his continued absence or ongoing lack of communication.
Mueller arrived for a third visit, no longer stoic. He insisted the entire household meet him in the parlor. “I have a few more questions.”
He started with Hélène.
Before he began, she asked, “May I smoke?”
He nodded.
She brought a cigarette to her lips, reached for her lighter. Her eyes stayed on Mueller as she lit the tip and blew out a stream of smoke that gave away the brand. Lucky Strikes. American. She had not switched, as she’d promised. She took another drag.
Mueller’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t remark on her impudence. “When did you last see Hauptmann von Schmidt?”
She studied her cigarette as if the answer was written across the paper cylinder. “The seventeenth day of July.”
Mueller consulted his notebook. “You are certain it wasn’t the sixteenth?”
“It was the seventeenth.”
“And that was the last day you saw him? The seventeenth,” he said, then added before she could respond, “What was the reason for his trip? How long was he supposed to be gone?”
Unruffled by the barrage, Hélène batted back her answers as fast as he’d fired off the questions. “Yes. The seventeenth. Business. Three, possibly four days. He wasn’t clear.”
“Why didn’t you report him missing when he didn’t show up as planned?”
She took a long, slow drag of her cigarette, blew it out just as slowly. “I am not his keeper.”
“You are employed as his—” Mueller glanced at the notebook again “—secretary?”
“His social secretary,” she corrected, twisting her head and blowing another stream of smoke into the air. So calm. So in control, Gabrielle thought. Even her mother’s eyes gave away nothing of her thoughts. “I am mostly a glorified party planner. Helmut tells me the number of guests he plans to entertain, what he wants served at the table, and I accommodate his wishes.”
“Helmut? You are on a first-name basis with Hauptmann von Schmidt?”
Hélène crushed out the cigarette, crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. “He encourages familiarity.”
“You two are close?”
Her eyes blinked once, twice, then went blank. No one looking at her would think she had a deadly secret hidden behind that cool exterior. “He expects me to anticipate his needs. That requires a certain level of familiarity.”
“These are not the duties of a glorified party planner.”
She shrugged. “I serve as his hostess. I organize his calendar. Ensure that his clothes are properly cleaned and pressed. Basically, I see to his comfort.”
“You see to his comfort, nothing more intimate than that?”
“Nothing, no.”
Gabrielle was still considering her mother’s lie, told without a slice of hesitation, when Mueller darted a look at her. “And you, Madame Dupree. Why did you not report Hauptmann von Schmidt’s disappearance?”
“Please understand, Detective Mueller. Capitaine... Hauptmann von Schmidt seized our home for his personal lodgings.” She could not keep the heavy judgment out of her voice. “He did not ask our permission. He is not our guest. He is not our friend.”
Mueller’s eyes, a rigid, clear blue, skimmed over her face. “You wished him harm.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He fired the next question at Josephine in a precise, cold tempo that grated on the ears. “When was the last time you saw Hauptmann von Schmidt?”
Josephine drew back. “I don’t...” A small flutter quivered at her throat and the color in her cheeks completely ebbed away. “I don’t know this man, I...” Her words trailed off.
Mueller took a moment to study each of them in careful, meticulous succession. “One of you is lying. I will find out which one.” He snapped his notebook shut and rose abruptly. “My men will now search the chateau.”
He headed out of the parlor.
Gabrielle chased after him. “Detective Mueller. Please. I’m sure this isn’t necessary.”
Paying her no heed, he swung open the front door and motioned for his soldiers to come forward. “Search every room.”
“Detective,” she said again, a little more desperately. “I’m confident there’s a logical explanation for Hauptmann von Schmidt’s absence. He’ll return soon.”
“He won’t return. One of you made certain of that.” He didn’t say murder . It was implied.
“Where is your proof?” she demanded.
“In this house. My men will find it.”
In that moment, there was nothing of the man she’d met in her wine cellars during the raids. Nothing of the man who’d steered his soldiers away from her most valuable champagnes. Gabrielle had begun to believe...
She’d begun to hope...
Bitter disappointment scorched through her. She’d been played a fool, outmaneuvered by a master manipulator. Unable to look him in the eyes, she stared at the intersection of his collar and the iron cross at his throat. “None of us is lying,” she said again, praying it was true.
“So you keep insisting.”
“It’s the truth.” She wondered at her own resolve. Her courage. The women in this home hid their secrets well. They’d each prepared for today’s search, knowing it was inevitable. Still, Gabrielle should not feel this calm. Her peace came from God, not herself, not this man she’d begun to think might be more, possibly, than a monster. And thus, as SS soldiers tore through the chateau, she leaned against a wall and fixed her eyes on the Lord.
The search took two hours. Mueller conferred with his soldiers several times. Then, suddenly, it was over, and he was approaching her again. “We will leave you now.” His voice took on a low, enigmatic tone that fell only on her ears. “My return is imminent.”
The next morning, a full hour before dawn broke over the vineyard, persistent knocking woke the entire household. Gabrielle, already dressed and sipping coffee in the kitchen, was the first to arrive in the foyer, Marta only a few steps behind. “They’re here,” the housekeeper hissed. “The Gestapo. They have come to take us away.”
“Shhh.”
The knocking stopped. Gabrielle and Marta froze, waiting. Neither spoke. What was there to say? The knocking began again, louder, rattling the door on its hinges.
Marta took a step forward.
“No, I’ll handle this. You go upstairs. Wake Paulette, then both of you go to my grandmother’s room. Do not come out until I tell you. Quickly now.” Gabrielle pushed Marta into action. “Quickly!”
The housekeeper threw herself up the stairs. Gabrielle took her time walking to the door, releasing the lock, turning the handle. The glow of headlights hit her in the face. She blinked away the spots and attempted to stare into the heavy fog. Her efforts were rewarded with the image of German soldiers on her doorstep.
She counted two of them, with eyes like flints, immaculately dressed in their SS black. She knew these men. They were the brutes that had arrested Max. Behind them stood Mueller. His face held no expression. When he started forward, the soldiers shifted aside to make a path.
Danger swirled around him, shrouding him as easily as the fog cloaking the morning air. The sweet sound of birdsong contradicted the ugliness of the situation.
Gabrielle struck a pose of impatience. “It’s rather early for a social call.”
“And yet,” he said, his gaze traveling over her muslin shirt, wool trousers and heavy work boots. “I see you were expecting me.”
He’d thought to catch her unaware. Even without his cryptic warning, Gabrielle had known he would come at an inconvenient hour. Let him see her resolve. Let him know she understood how his mind worked. “I have always handled the unexpected well.”
A flicker of appreciation gathered in his eyes but was gone so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it. “You will step aside and let us in your home.”
Before she could respond, he moved past her, the two soldiers hard on his heels.
She scurried around all three, until she was once again face-to-face with the detective. He stood with his feet splayed, hands linked behind his back. The pose of an arrogant man certain in his convictions. Here to do his duty. This, she sensed, was the real Wolfgang Mueller. A man without qualms.
Rage dominated her thoughts. For one black moment she was tempted to slap that self-righteous look off his face. “What is the reason for this visit?” she asked.
With a smile slightly warped at the edges, he stated his business in guttural, heavily accented French. “I have come to take your mother to the police station.”
“You’re arresting her?”
“That has yet to be determined.”
The ragged edges of her remaining hope splintered into a thousand pieces. The pain was unbearable. She could feel the soldiers watching her. The anticipation was there in their ready stances. They hoped she would do something foolish and they would be forced to stop her.
She could feel the urge to battle, but she’d lost Mueller’s attention. His eyes were locked on something behind her. Gabrielle shifted around and gasped at her mother standing calmly at the top of the stairs. She was dressed in a thick robe, her face free of makeup, her hair hanging loosely past her shoulders. She’d never looked so disheveled. And for once, her age showed.
A dozen warnings ran through Gabrielle’s mind. Run, Maman. Run!
It was too late. Her mother was prepared to accept her fate. Gabrielle saw her conviction, her acceptance of the inevitable.
Mueller walked to the edge of the steps. “Hélène Jobert-LeBlanc, you will come with me. You may do so willingly. Or my men will drag you away.”
“I will come willingly.” She tightened the belt at her impossibly small waist, the gesture highlighting her weight loss. “But perhaps you will allow me a moment to make myself presentable?”
“You have ten minutes.”
She was back down in seven, looking more herself, but just barely, in a simple blue dress that hung on her gaunt frame. She’d pulled her hair in a tidy knot at the nape of her neck and had applied lipstick. “Shall we, Detective?”
Without waiting for his response, she strode out the front door. Head tilted at a regal angle. Marie Antoinette heading to the guillotine.
Gabrielle stared at her mother’s rigid back, her heart thumping hard in her throat, fear surging in her mind. She bit her lip to hold back a scream. It was Max all over again. She had to do something, say something. She rushed out into the fog.
Mueller caught her by the arm. The headlights of the Mercedes glinted in his eyes. “I wouldn’t advise interfering.” His gaze bore into hers. “You will only cause your mother unnecessary grief.”
A threat. A warning. They were one and the same with this man. The cold breath of terror filled her. “Why are you taking her away?”
“There has been a development.” He didn’t explain. “Now turn around, Madame Dupree. Turn around and go back inside.”
She refused to move and watched, helplessly, as he climbed in the back seat behind her mother. Gabrielle didn’t dare look away, didn’t dare, as the Mercedes disappeared into the fog.
Not again. She could not remain passive again. She would beg for her mother’s life.
She informed the other women of her plan, then sprinted to the shed behind the champagne house. The car had no petrol. She would have to use the bicycle. She lifted up one quick, fervent prayer and took off in the direction of Reims. The journey was both endless and strangely brief.
Mueller met her at the door of the police station, wearing the face of the Gestapo. “You should not have come here.”
She felt unusually weak, and very much aware of the perspiration sliding down her back. “You have to let me see her.”
“She is being prepared for questioning.”
The Gestapo didn’t question, they interrogated. They coerced. They tortured.
Helplessness descended over her as it had in the vineyard during Max’s arrest. “Please, let me speak with her. Five minutes, that’s all I ask.”
“You can do nothing for her now.”
It couldn’t be true. “There’s been some kind of mistake,” she said, aware of the frantic nature of her tone. “My mother had nothing to do with Hauptmann von Schmidt’s disappearance.”
He said nothing.
Gabrielle took a breath and realized she was breathing hard, trying to keep control. “She’s innocent of this crime.”
Mueller moved quickly, so quickly, she jumped back. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He already had. He’d arrested Max. And now her mother.
“Go home, Gabrielle.” The way he said her name sent chills down her spine. Soft, full of kindness, perfectly articulated, his French impeccable in a way it had never been before.
Who was this man?
The Nazi with your mother’s life cradled in the palm of his hand. “I can’t leave. She is my mother.”
He came to stand by her, so close she had to lean back to look into his face. “You must go and let me do my duty.”
An intimate staring contest ensued. Gabrielle was the first to look away. Mueller was the first to speak. “Go home.”
“I can’t.”
“This is not a choice.” He ushered her outside and left her standing alone on the sidewalk. The first light of dawn broke over the horizon, highlighting the cathedral spires.
She had no power here. All her bravery, all her bluster, was fraudulent at best. She drifted to her bicycle without noticing what she was doing and found herself sitting on the seat.
Her mind kept circling back to one question. Where was von Schmidt? Was he dead? If so, how? Why? Who would want him dead? There were signs of guilt that pointed toward her mother. Toward all of them, really. Where was the body? No body, no crime.
The church bells sounded on the air, prodding her into action.
She pedaled home and used the journey to review the last time she’d seen von Schmidt. They’d been in the parlor. Listening to the wireless. The news from Paris had been devastating. Two days of arrests. 13,000 Jews taken into custody. Von Schmidt had been overly pleased. He’d argued with Josephine. Or rather, Josephine had argued with him.
He’d threatened reprisal, then insisted Hélène pack his suitcase. She’d gone without protest, looking resigned.
Something in her mother’s behavior. In the conversation before von Schmidt left the room. Or was it after? She reviewed every word. A memory struck. Words hissed in Gabrielle’s ear. Something must be done to stop him.
Which of them had said that? Josephine. Josephine had made the vague threat. No, it was absurd. Unthinkable. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe her grandmother had a hand in von Schmidt’s disappearance. Besides, she wasn’t the only one that had cause to see him dead.
Josephine. Hélène. Neither of them could have done this...alone... But together? United in their common cause? Gabrielle pumped her feet faster, thinking, praying, Please, God, let me be wrong.