Page 42 of The Widows of Champagne
Chapter Forty-Two
Josephine
J osephine couldn’t find her journal. It wasn’t where it should be. She fitted the baseboard back in place and stood. She frowned, fearing she’d misplaced it. A deadly mistake. She ran her gaze around the perimeter of the room, searching for some small item, a pen, a piece of fabric, anything, that would spark her memory, unwilling to admit, even to herself, that she’d forgotten where she’d put the book. Badly done, Josephine. She told the pages secrets, some her own and some that belonged to others.
Anyone could have found it.
She sank onto the bed and glanced around helplessly. As a child she’d spent her nights writing in her journal, filling the pages with her hopes and dreams. When she filled one book, she began a new one, recording details of the future she would have, wondering if her life would be a happy one, or one full of sorrow like her mother’s.
The men in her family died young.
But that wasn’t what she was supposed to be thinking about. A blackbird landed on the ledge outside her window, edging cautiously along the sill, as birds often did when they were on unfamiliar territory. The creature stared at her through the glass. His small dark eyes blinking at her knowingly, as if he understood she was losing her mind. He could not know such a thing. He could not know.
She went to the window to shoo him away. Below, in the final burst of light from the sun, she saw her granddaughter moving quickly, practically running. The young woman flew across the terrace, disappeared over the balustrade, then reappeared at the very edge of the vineyard. She didn’t look right or left, only straight ahead. She was holding something in her hand, Josephine couldn’t see what it was. A man in a black Nazi uniform, the crisp red armband with the swastika visible even from this distance, appeared in the vineyard. Moving like a predator.
Josephine had seen this man and this woman come together in the vineyard.
The scene was all wrong.
Wrong man. Wrong woman.
Find the book.
She quickly retreated from the window and began a frantic search, tossing pillows to the floor, blankets, sheets. She tore apart the closet next. Ravaged the drawers. Somewhere along the way she forgot what she was looking for, then remembered—the book with her secrets—and began searching harder.
In the bathroom, she caught sight of her reflection and cried out as she saw the crazed look in the overwrought, unfocused eyes. The sweep of tangled gray hair billowing around her face. So, this was what she’d become.
Grimacing, she returned to the bedroom she’d ransacked herself. It took several slow intakes of air for her to slow the wild beating of her heart. She wanted to turn off her mind, to forget that unhinged woman in the mirror. You are Josephine Fouché-LeBlanc. You are strong and capable. You are better than this.
She emptied her mind of the panic, of the blackness creeping in until finally—finally—she was thinking clearly, coolly. With purpose. A name came to her then. Marta. Marta was the keeper of Josephine’s memory now. She would know what had become of the journal.
Josephine swung open the door and called out into the abandoned hallway. “Marta, hurry. I need you. Come quick.”
At least two seconds passed, then she vaulted toward the stairs, down the first flight, and the second. She couldn’t wait for the housekeeper to come to her. Marta met her in the foyer and took her arm. “What is this? Josephine, what is wrong?”
“The book. Marta, I can’t find the book.”
“You mean your journal. I have it. You gave it to your granddaughter Gabrielle, who then gave it to me.”
A pounding filled her head, loud and insistent. A memory flashed. The woman in the vineyard. The man following her. The book. That incessant pounding again. Marta letting her go, turning...
Someone at the door.
Marta moved quickly.
The man in the black Nazi uniform, the crisp red armband with the Nazi swastika, standing on the threshold, holding on to her granddaughter’s arm. Again, the scene was all wrong. Different man. Different woman.
Josephine shook her head. The gesture served its purpose, replacing her confusion with clear thinking. “Detective Mueller, I demand to know what you are doing with your hand on my granddaughter.”
If he noticed the angry intonation, he didn’t react. “I am releasing her into your custody. You will want to keep a close eye on her in the future. She should not be out past curfew.”
His words confused Josephine. He’d taken Hélène away with him this morning. But was returning with Paulette. “What of my daughter-in-law?”
“The matter is more complicated with Madame LeBlanc.” Without asking permission, he stepped across the threshold, his hand still on Paulette’s arm. Only then did Josephine notice her granddaughter’s red-rimmed eyes, her puffy cheeks, the subdued posture.
This was not the Paulette she knew. The girl’s mouth was drawn, and she seemed incapable of walking on her own, as evidenced by her leaning into Detective Mueller as he guided her into the foyer.
A foul Nazi should not be allowed to touch her granddaughter. Josephine quickly took Paulette’s hand. Marta moved to the other side. Together, they half carried, half dragged the girl to a chair.
Eyes void of emotion, Paulette stayed seated, upright and silent. Unresponsive, at first, until Josephine said her name. Then, she began crying. Hot, miserable tears. The girl tried to speak, but her sentences ran together, and she made no sense.
Nothing about this made sense.
Mueller spoke into the confusion. “She was brought to me by her—” he seemed to search for the right word “—friend. The lieutenant wanted her arrested, but she is guilty of no crime. The Nuremberg laws are clear on this. Her mother, on the other hand, is not so fortunate.”
“You arrested Hélène? On what charge?” Josephine demanded, then remembered the missing German. “You have news of Capitaine von Schmidt?”
“That matter is still under investigation.” He seemed to think over his next words. “I have arrested your daughter-in-law for lying about being a Jew and for falsifying her papers accordingly.”
He spoke the words simply. Without emotion. Josephine could only gape. Hélène’s secret was out and here this man stood, a representative of the Gestapo, calm and detached as he gave her the news.
Was he waiting for confirmation, a confession of her own?
He would get none of that from Josephine Fouché-LeBlanc.
She was guilty, all of them were guilty. They had committed crimes against the Third Reich, and he knew. Somehow, he knew that they had lied and schemed to protect each other. They would lose everything now. Their champagne house, the chateau, possibly their lives.
Battling furiously against the pain in her heart, Josephine held the man’s stare. There was nothing there, no indication what he would do next.
What was he waiting for? Perhaps he wanted the women together, so he could cart them off as a family and make an example of them for their neighbors.
Then why did he not have an entire battalion with him?
“Where is your other granddaughter?”
She said nothing. Only held his stare.
“Where is Madame Dupree?” he asked again, the first signs of impatience in his voice. “You will tell me where she is,” he demanded.
Josephine looked up into his eyes, scowling, and searched through the wreckage of her mind for something she was supposed to remember about her granddaughter. Gabrielle. Moving through the vineyard. The other man following her. “You are not the only German to come seeking her.”
The detective stiffened. Something came and went in his eyes. Alarm? Fear? “There’s been another?”
“The lieutenant,” she said. “Paulette’s friend. He followed Gabrielle into the wine cellar.”
Mueller was on the move before she finished the thought. “ Mein Gott. Pray I’m not too late.”