Page 40 of The Widows of Champagne

Hélène

T hey didn’t start the interrogation immediately. They left Hélène in a tiny, windowless room, seated before a scarred table in a ladder-back chair, her arms secured at her back. The air smelled of sulfur and human sweat. Each of the four walls were painted a dark, dingy gray. A Nazi flag hung directly in front of her. Taunting her. Reminding her where she was and who held the power.

Hours passed. How many, she didn’t know, but long enough that her bladder filled to capacity. She sensed this was some sort of intimidation tactic. By the time her interrogator entered the room, her head was pounding. Her stomach hurt and all she could think about was her need for relief.

Face expressionless, Detective Mueller took his place across from her on the other side of the table. He set a thick file on the scratched surface between them. She felt sick looking at all those papers. “Hélène Jobert-LeBlanc,” he said, opening the cover. “Is that your full name?”

“Oui.”

“Jobert is your birth name? Your, how do you say it in French? Your nom de jeune fille ?”

“Yes.” She lied with remarkable ease. She’d had decades of practice. “Jobert was my name before I married étienne LeBlanc.”

He made no comment.

Returning his gaze to the dossier, he searched several pages. Hélène shifted uncomfortably in the chair and feigned a haughtiness she did not feel. “Am I being charged with a crime?”

Mueller glanced sharply at her. “We will get to that in good time.”

The questions began in earnest then. He asked her when von Schmidt had requisitioned her home. The details of his daily routine. On and on, the same questions over and over. “When did your relationship become intimate?”

He caught her by surprise, though she did her best to conceal her reaction. She pondered the merits of truth over lie. She chose evasion. “I was not aware I was being watched so closely.”

“Do you work for the Free French?”

She froze in her chair. “I do not.”

“Really?” He flattened his hand on the file. “We have information that someone from your home has been relaying vital information about the destination of champagne shipments from Reims to certain war zones.”

Hélène’s mind raced, recalling overheard conversations between Helmut and others. None of them were about champagne shipments. “I am at a loss.”

“Hauptmann von Schmidt kept detailed records in his desk. As his secretary, you had access to this information.” He did not refer to the file when he said the words. “Are you still claiming it was not you?”

She crossed her legs, fumbling for calm. “It was not me.”

“You answer too quickly.”

“The truth always comes quickly,” she said, unable to contain a hint of defiance in her tone.

He seemed to consider this. “If you didn’t pass along the information, someone else in your home did. Perhaps you have a name for me.”

Her fear peeled away, exposing her fury. “Are you asking me to betray one of my own family members?”

“I am suggesting you think carefully before you answer my questions. Cooperation with the Free French is an act of treason.”

The threat settled over her. She thought she’d been arrested for von Schmidt’s murder. That, she could understand. She’d plotted, and planned, and was certain she could make him disappear. Her mistake had been waiting until morning. Von Schmidt had departed the chateau before dawn, giving her no chance to rid the world of one more Nazi rat.

As if the detective’s thoughts tracked in a similar direction, the questioning returned to von Schmidt’s disappearance. He stopped only when a knock on the door heralded one of the local French police. “Detective Mueller, sir. Pardon me. We have a situation that needs your immediate attention.”

“It cannot wait?”

“Non.”

“Very well.” He pushed his chair back. “A moment, please,” he said to Hélène. Gathering up the file, he stepped toward the doorway.

Before he left, she requested the use of the facilities.

He directed his icy regard over her. Then, to her surprise, granted her request. He did not, however, uncuff her hands. “When she is finished,” he told the guard before he left, “take her to one of the cells.”

For a terrifying moment, she could not rise. Her legs were boneless, so that she had to lean on the table to find her balance. After she found blessed relief, and the guard had shoved her into a cell, her hands finally free of their manacles, she thought she heard the heartbreaking sound of soft, pitiful weeping.

She tried to pinpoint the source, but a hard, angry masculine voice dominated all other noises in the building. “I demand you arrest her.”

Hélène thought she recognized the furious tone of that voice. It belonged to a man, younger than Detective Mueller. It belonged to— no, mon Dieu, no. The voice belonged to the lieutenant Paulette had been sneaking out to meet.

“Arrest her on what charge?” This, from Detective Mueller.

“She is a liar, just like her mother. She...” Hélène couldn’t hear the rest of the lieutenant’s accusation. Only the weeping, now gut-wrenching sobs that belonged to Hélène’s child. Her baby. She would know the sound of Paulette’s tears anywhere.

Oh, Paulette, what have you done?

Hélène pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle her own sob. She felt a strange sense of disorientation, like falling endlessly into a void.

“You have proof of this, Lieutenant?”

“She told me herself. And this girl, this child, she is complicit in the lie.” The lieutenant’s voice held a savage tenor. “She must be punished.”

“I am French,” Paulette wailed. “My mother is French. We are—”

A loud crack cut her off. Someone had hit her daughter. Hélène went blind with rage.

“I’ve heard enough. Take her away.”

“Please, no. I can explain.” Paulette’s panicked cries were ignored. “I am French. My father’s family is of noble blood.”

There was no response to her daughter’s claim. Mueller seemed solely interested in praising the lieutenant. “You were right to bring the girl to me. You are an asset to the Third Reich, Lieutenant Weber. I will make certain you receive a commendation. You’re dismissed.”

The click of heels, then the dreaded “Heil Hitler.”

Hélène could feel the sting of tears at the back of her throat. She knew then, with unavoidable certainty, her time was up. Her daughter had gone to her Nazi friend and told him everything. Oh, Paulette . All the terrible compromises Hélène had made to hide her identity, all the sinful deeds she’d done to stave off discovery, all the lies she’d told to protect her family. They had been for nothing. Deep down, she’d always known the truth would come out.

She’d thought that when the moment came, she would be ready to face the consequences. And she was. For herself. She would never be ready for her daughter to suffer alongside her.

The guard appeared in the hallway—his hand buried in Paulette’s hair as he dragged her along behind him. My baby. My child.

The girl stumbled, gripping her jailer’s wrist, begging for mercy.

He wrenched open the cell door and tossed Paulette through. She landed at Hélène’s feet. She quickly pulled her daughter into her arms, drew her up onto the dirty cot and waited for the girl to catch her breath.

Don’t panic , Hélène told herself. Think clearly. Comfort your child. “Paulette.”

“Maman?” Paulette lifted her head, revealing eyes empty of light. Of hope.

Hélène’s anguish was complete. “My dear sweet child,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Paulette stared at her with wide, wounded eyes. “This is all my fault,” she said. “I should never have gone to Friedrich. He claimed he loved me. He said I could trust him. He lied.”

“Hush, now. None of this is your fault.” It is mine.

“But it is my fault, all of it. I told your secret and now we are both in trouble.”

Yes, Paulette had told her secret. A secret Hélène should never have shared with her daughter. But maybe Paulette was still safe. She wasn’t, by law, a Jew. “You are guilty only of trusting the wrong man.”

Paulette didn’t seem to hear her. Her eyes clouded over as more tears tracked down her cheeks. “He promised me we would sort everything out once we got to the police station.” She swiped at her eyes, gave a bitter laugh. “He was very kind and understanding. He kept reassuring me all would turn out well. And I believed him.”

Oh, Paulette , Hélène thought on a sigh. How could you have been so na?ve?

“He told that awful Gestapo agent you’re a Jew. He held nothing back. He called you terrible names. He called you—” she choked on a sob “—a dirty, filthy Jew. He said I was no better.”

It was not the first time Hélène had heard the slur, though not since she was a girl.

“They’re going to send you away, aren’t they?”

Hélène had no fancy lies to give her daughter. Not a single word of hope. She only had the truth. Stark and painful. “Yes, Paulette. They’re going to send me away.”

And she couldn’t stop it from happening. She didn’t mourn for herself, but for her daughters. And for Josephine. They had known the truth and kept it to themselves. That alone was a crime against the Third Reich. Would Gabrielle and Josephine would be arrested next? Hélène had brought ruin to her family. Her greatest fear realized.

The guard, a member of the French police, entered the cell again.

She struggled to stand. But he didn’t look at her. He reached for Paulette’s arm and yanked her to her feet. Paulette shattered into uncontrollable sobs. “Maman.”

Hélène was by her daughter’s side in a heartbeat. “No, please.” She clawed at the guard’s arm. “She is just a girl. She did nothing wrong. It was me. I confess. I—”

“Shut up.” He placed his hand over her face and shoved her to the ground. She hit hard, but immediately tried to rise. He kicked her in the stomach. “Stay down.”

Again, she ignored the pain and tried to stand. She was too slow. He’d already dragged Paulette out of the cell. The girl was blubbering, begging, pleading, her words incomprehensible.

Her daughter was breaking right before her eyes.

“Please,” Hélène begged, lurching forward, reaching for her daughter. “Take me. Not her. It’s me you want.”

He slammed the door on her pleas. She had a moment of complete and utter despair. It’s over. Paulette would never withstand interrogation. Hélène wanted to close her eyes, to find a prayer, an image for the future. All she saw was death.