by Renee Ryan
One look at her mother’s face and Gabrielle’s first thought was of death. “Maman?”
“France has declared war on Germany.”
Chapter Four
Hélène
With the horrible news lingering in the air, Hélène attempted to pull herself together. She stood quietly clutching her hands at her waist, tighter, tighter, until each knuckle turned white as bone. A movement from somewhere in the distance had her glancing out the window that overlooked the kitchen gardens.
Rain silvered the glass, obstructing Hélène’s view beyond her own watery image. There was something chilling in that distorted reflection with the red lacquered lips and kohl-black eyelashes. Like looking into a lie. Not far from the truth. The line between her true self and the veneer she carefully constructed each morning was practically invisible now. The expensive makeup was a tool in her ongoing charade, as was the couture clothing she traveled weekly to Paris to purchase.
But now, the identity Hélène had so carefully built threatened to crumble at her feet. And the stakes were much higher. France was at war with the same enemy that had killed her husband. No, not the same enemy. Not Germany. The Third Reich.
And so, it continued. More secrets. More lies. The rewriting of histories all over again.
Hélène allowed herself a single moment of despair before smoothing a steady hand over her neatly coiffed head. No one could know of her inner turmoil, especially not the other two women in the room. She could feel their eyes trained on her.
Ignoring them—she was very good at ignoring them—she continued staring at her indistinct features in the glass. The blackness surrounding the faint image reflected the blackness creeping into her heart. Hélène knew what came next. Heartache and death, the blind waste of bright young men. The bloodletting would leave no family untouched. As before, France would become a nation of old men, abandoned women, hollow-eyed children and invalids.
Outside, the rain pattered on in a steady, endless stream. The harvest was ruined. It seemed the peasants’ legend about war and wine was more than a cautionary tale. To announce the coming of battle, they claimed the Lord sent a bad crop. Hélène wished she didn’t know what was coming. She desperately wanted to escape to Paris and lunch with friends who’d known her before Étienne.
Dear God...
The prayer remained unformed in her mind. As so many before it. Where was her faith when she needed it most? Not dead, surely. Merely dormant. She would resurrect it. For Paulette’s sake. And possibly for her own. Hélène would not be defeated by war a second time.
Unfortunately, the politicians conspired against her. Cocooned in their smoke-filled rooms, with their expensive brandies in one hand and cigars in the other, they’d made the decision to go to war. Could they not have found another way to stop the Nazi bullies?
She felt the familiar fear rising, swamping her composure until her hands wanted to shake. She would not let them. Nor would she give in to the urge to crawl into a dark, lonely burrow and wait for the worst of her terror to pass.
That weakness was for another day.
Wrapping her signature calm around her like trusted armor, she turned her back on her image in the weeping window. “Monsieur Chardon will arrive within the hour. He and I will finalize the menu today.” The caterer was the best in Reims. They had been wise to secure his services well in advance of the anniversary party. “Do either of you have requests I should convey on your behalf?”
This earned her identical blank stares. Both women seemed frozen in perpetual immobility. Hélène could not allow herself to sympathize with their numbness. The declaration of war was not something meant to be taken lightly, but she would not allow it to interfere with her plans.
She could hardly look at her daughter. Even in stunned silence, Gabrielle’s face was too much like Étienne’s. The feminine version of the perfectly shaped oval, the smooth, unblemished skin that refused to age. The finely sculpted cheekbones, the full lips and, most heartbreaking of all, the serious gray-green eyes. “Truly, Maman?” Gabrielle asked, once she recovered her voice. “The...menu?”
“Yes, Gabrielle. The menu.” Hélène added a confident, breezy air to her words. “For the anniversary party.”
The manner in which she spoke must have betrayed more than she’d intended, for Gabrielle became contemplative in a way Hélène had not seen in recent years, maybe ever.
“There are several details left undone.” She punctuated her tone with finality.
“You cannot think we will have the par—”
Hélène cut off her daughter’s objection with a shake of her head. “Oh, but we will. There will be many days for anguish and despair in the coming weeks.” Perhaps even years, but not yet. Not yet. “We must carry on as usual.”
“But, Maman, we should be putting our efforts into preparing for the enemy. We must—”
Again, Hélène spoke over her daughter. “The menu is nearly complete.” Her voice sounded as cold as the blood rushing in her veins. She softened her tone, but only a little. This was no time for fragility. “There are choices Monsieur Chardon and I are in disagreement over. I will prevail. Nothing will prevent us from serving an exquisite selection of French cuisine.”
“Hélène.” Josephine surveyed her with equal parts frustration and resolve. “We are at war now. We cannot proceed as before. You understand, non?”
Hélène blinked at the forceful way in which Josephine spoke. How quickly her mother-in-law had switched sides. Gabrielle and Josephine, with their identical scowls, were once again a united front. Two against one. Their joining forces wasn’t wholly unexpected, nor was it the first time Hélène had combated these particular odds.
Such familiar ground, she thought, with her looking in from the outside, never quite belonging in this family. Yet also an integral part. Without her, Gabrielle did not exist. No, Hélène would not be dismissed. Her voice would not be ignored. “Have you finalized the list of champagnes you wish to serve our guests?”
The question seemed to throw the other two off their guard. With wary expressions, both women glanced at the paper sitting on the table between them. They looked up simultaneously, then shared a moment of uncertainty. Ah, well, then. Excellent. Their movements had been synchronized, but their alliance was still on unsteady ground. They had yet to decide which of them would take up the gauntlet against their common opponent.
Hélène took advantage of their temporary indecision.
She strode to the table, the click of her heels like hammers to nails, and picked up the scrap of paper. A quick scan told her all she needed to know. Josephine had selected the best of their champagnes, mostly single vintages, with a few unparalleled blends from the previous decade to round out the collection.
“I approve.” She purposely returned the list to its place on the table, turning it slightly until it rested at the same awkward angle as before. “Our guests will be treated to a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
“This. Maman, this...” Gabrielle paused, visibly shuddered, then tried again. “This is not the time for celebration.”
Oh, but it was. Hélène knew this better than most. She would not be swayed by Gabrielle’s protests, which seemed overly intense, even for her serious daughter. “We must continue with our lives. To do otherwise is to let the enemy win before a single shot is fired.”
“We are at war with Germany. You must understand what that means.”
Hélène shook her head in disappointment. This daughter of hers, the one she so rarely understood, actually believed she didn’t comprehend the magnitude of what was to come? Who better than she to know the harsh realities that lay in wait for the French people?
Pictures from the previous war lived in her mind, as did memories of the subsequent battles after the weapons had been laid down. She’d greeted her husband’s return with such hope. Except, Étienne hadn
’t returned. Not really. He’d come home a walking invalid, his lungs burned from mustard gas, his mind shattered from the horrors he’d witnessed.
Étienne had taught Hélène a valuable lesson about war. It was only after the fighting that a soldier’s wounds were revealed. For five agonizing years, her husband had battled his demons. Peace had only arrived in death.
Hélène had wanted to die with him. Who would miss her? Gabrielle had been working in both the vineyard and the champagne house with her grandmother by then, the two more mother and daughter than she and Gabrielle had ever been. Her oldest daughter had also had Benoit, her best friend at the time, a budding romance not far off. But Hélène had another child. Paulette had been little more than a baby at the time of her father’s death. The child had needed a mother.
And so, in her youngest daughter, Hélène had found a reason to live.
Mon Dieu, the Nazis would not steal her purpose.
“We cannot allow the Germans to win before the fighting has even begun. Nothing has changed.” Everything has changed. “We will hold the party as planned.”
“Hélène.” Josephine’s soft voice came from what seemed a great distance, as if she was speaking through water. The older woman touched a light hand to Hélène’s shoulder, making her start. When had Josephine moved to stand beside her? “I know what is in your thoughts. You lost your husband, and I lost my only son. We share that pain.”
Hélène wanted to tell the woman she didn’t need coddling. She didn’t want her sudden, unexpected show of solidarity. And yet, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Étienne was the best of us all.”
“Yes, he was.” The grief swimming in Josephine’s rheumy eyes matched the emotion threatening to consume Hélène.
In that moment, they were allies, united in their loss of the man they had both loved. Hélène was aware of Josephine’s unmasked pain. How could she not be moved by the raw sorrow in the other woman? This was the first time in years she’d spoken of her son. The circumstances surrounding his death were not a topic allowed in the LeBlanc home. Even the mention of his name was forbidden.
But now, less than an hour after France declared war on Germany, Josephine had a point to make. When the matriarch of the family had a point to make, it was always wise to listen.
“The French army is powerful,” the older woman reminded her. “You mustn’t worry. This war will not be the same as before.”
“No,” she agreed. “It won’t be the same.” It will be worse.
The Nazis were strong and clever, and very, very deadly. They operated without conscience. While Josephine returned to sit beside Gabrielle, their heads bent in whispered conversation, Hélène’s mind conjured up images of this new and terrible enemy.
She’d seen the pictures. She’d watched the newsreels, horrified, as the marching masses of uniformed men saluted their leader, swastikas clinging to their outstretched arms. These modern German soldiers—so many of them—had hard, ruthless eyes. They were younger, rougher and more brutal than the men of the previous war. They had anger and hate in their hearts. Hate for people they deemed inferior. People like her father. Like her.
Hélène should have listened to her father, now living and working in New York with his brother in their family’s bank. He’d foreseen this day. After he’d read Hitler’s memoir Mein Kampf, he’d known what was coming. Hitler himself had warned the world what he planned. She should have moved her daughters from this home—this country—as her father had begged.
It is not too late.
Oh, but it was. Gabrielle would never leave Château Fouché-LeBlanc. She was too devoted to the vines and her grandmother. Paulette would be just as hard to lure away. She was a happy, popular girl among her friends. And she adored Paris. Hélène had made sure of that. How did I not see this coming?
“We will cancel the party.” Josephine’s voice was firm, her word final.
“We cannot cancel.” She hated the lack of resolve in her voice.
Josephine held her stare. Hélène remained perfectly still, outwardly calm, her stony silence the final weapon in her arsenal. The tactic seemed to work.
“You are determined?” Josephine asked.
Hélène nodded, knowing not to ruin her argument with more speeches.
“Very well.” The older woman glanced at Gabrielle, a silent warning in the look cast upward. “We will not cancel. We will postpone.” Josephine swept her gaze back to Hélène. “We will hold the celebration after the harvest.”
The matriarch had spoken.
Gabrielle did not argue.
Nor did Hélène, though it required great effort on her part. She wanted to remind her mother-in-law that waiting until after the harvest, although but a handful of weeks away, could prove too late. The battles could have already begun by then. But perhaps not on Champagne soil. The Maginot Line would provide the necessary fortification against the enemy. She refused to believe otherwise.
The thought ignited a spark of hope, and enabled Hélène to maintain her silence. She’d won this round. Not a great victory, but a victory she would claim for herself. Torn between triumph and new resentments, she lifted her chin at a proud angle. “I will inform Monsieur Chardon his services will not be required until after the harvest.”
With nothing more to say, she turned to go.
“Maman?”
That whispered, almost cautious tone, so unlike her oldest daughter, had her glancing over her shoulder. The shattered look on Gabrielle’s face made her heart ache. The young woman carried too much of the burden for their family. And did so without complaint. Hélène vowed to shoulder more of her share in the coming months.
She opened her mouth to make the promise, but Gabrielle was speaking again. “Do you think Paulette will be very disappointed we are postponing the party?”
“Yes. Very.” And now Hélène’s heart ached for her other daughter.
“How will you explain?”
Hélène fought back a surge of annoyance. Did Gabrielle know nothing of her own mother? Hélène indulged Paulette. There was no argument to be made there. And perhaps she pampered her youngest daughter beyond what was sensible. However, she rarely lied to the girl. There were omissions, evasions certainly. Sixteen was, after all, still so very young.
But, in this, no, Hélène would not shelter Paulette. “I will tell her the truth.”
Then, she would pray. Oh, how she would pray, for her family, for her country, for the brave young men they would lose. And, of course, she would pray that the Maginot Line proved as strong as the government claimed, strong enough to hold back the Nazi animals.
Chapter Five
Gabrielle
The LeBlanc women held their collective breaths in the weeks that followed. Each dreading, for her own reasons, the infestation of Nazis on French soil. Other than light skirmishes near the border town of Saarbrücken, it was as if France had never declared war on Germany. The fighting would begin eventually, no one disputed this. But as Hitler forced his will on the rest of Europe, the upcoming harvest took priority.
The rain continued pounding Champagne. Gabrielle battled the weather with the few workers she had left now that all able-bodied men had been conscripted into the French army. As she walked the vines, she thought of her husband. She tasted the grapes as Benoit had taught her—the only way to know if they were ripe—and checked for mold among the leaves. She cut away impending death with the razor-sharp clippers that had once belonged to him. She sampled, studied, snipped.
At last, on a cold day in mid-October, the wait was over. “It’s time to pick the grapes,” she declared to her vineyard manager, a grizzled veteran of the previous war whose loyalty was without question. “We’ll begin tomorrow at first light.”
To his credit, Pierre did not argue her decision. Nor did he point out that the harvest was nearly three weeks behind sch
edule. He did, however, say, “We’re woefully short of workers.”
“We’ll make do,” she assured him. What choice did they have?
The following morning Gabrielle awoke to the familiar peals of church bells echoing in the gray light of dawn. The tolls did nothing to ease the heaviness in her heart, or the loneliness of orchestrating another harvest without Benoit. The day, she knew, would bring more despair than joy. Still, her purpose was clear. For the next two weeks, she would lose herself in the picking of grapes, her hands working by rote, every part of her swallowed up in the process.
Dressed in clothing to combat the cooler temperatures, she exited her room. The sound of the housekeeper’s voice had her pausing on the threshold of the kitchen. Gabrielle didn’t often eavesdrop, but something warned her to stay put awhile longer. Pressed against the hallway wall, she squeezed her eyes closed.
“You will eat every bite,” Marta instructed the other occupant in the room, proving herself a prime example of French fortitude against a formidable opponent. “You will do this, or I will tell your granddaughter you are too frail to join her in the vineyard.”
Holding back a gasp, Gabrielle peeked around the corner. Grandmère glowered at the massive pile of ham, goat cheese and freshly baked croissants. “It is too much.”
Gabrielle winced at her grandmother’s fractious tone. Marta was not so impressed. The short, sturdy woman had served the LeBlanc family since Josephine was a young bride. She had her role to play. And she did so with the conviction of a seasoned mother hen.
“You listen to me, Josephine Fouché-LeBlanc.” Marta’s voice held steel, and very little else. “The day will be long. You must fortify yourself.”
Josephine subjected the housekeeper to her own brand of steel. She, too, had her role to play. She, too, did so with conviction. “This is not my first harvest. I know what is required.”
“We waste time with this arguing. Eat.” Marta nodded to the untouched food. “Or I will prevent your exit from this house.”
