Chateau of Secrets: A Novel

by Melanie Dobson

  But right now I wasn’t feeling very thankful.

  Closing my eyes, I replayed the conversation I’d had with Riley tonight. He had hinted at my engagement, but I supposed I hadn’t been honest with him either. I was so frustrated about my suspicions that I’d never stopped to consider that I was hiding information from him as well.

  I rolled over on my pillow. It was the second time I’d gone to bed and still I wasn’t able to sleep. In contrast to Riley’s determination to fight jet lag, I had taken a long nap to fight the change in time, so now, long past midnight, I was wide awake.

  It was a good time, perhaps, to explore. Before the interview tomorrow morning.

  Pulling on a pair of socks, I padded out into the hallway in my long T-shirt. The light bulb in the hallway had burned out, but in the faint beam of my cell phone’s flashlight, I puttered across the second floor, trying to locate my grandmother’s bedroom.

  I opened two doors, and in each room was a time capsule from the past—some of the décor seemed to be from the past twenty years, while some of the pictures looked as if they hadn’t been updated in hundreds of years. Portraits of both men and women hung on the walls, some of them with ruffled collars and powdered wigs. Other pictures were of men and horses alongside their hunting dogs. As I stared into their faces, I wondered which of these people were my ancestors. It was a bit unnerving to see the people who’d gone before me all hanging on the wall, as if they were keeping tabs on their descendants.

  As I crept to the third door, I imagined myself to be Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden, a stranger to the mysterious Misselthwaite Manor, walking down the dark corridor. Since Mémé couldn’t tell me her stories tonight, I pretended she was here, sharing her favorite memories. The wonder of Christmas mornings in the château. The ornery escapades of her brother. The weekend parties her mother used to throw with their friends from Paris. The walls might have wanted to whisper more stories to me, but I couldn’t hear them.

  “The ghosts refuse to leave this place.”

  Marguerite had said it so matter-of-factly, as if the talk of ghosts was normal, but in these dark corridors, under the scrutiny of the portraits, my imagination raged. What if the ghosts of the past really were here? What would they say?

  I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I could almost imagine them watching me here. Perhaps they too were each clamoring to tell their own stories.

  The door in front of me creaked open, and my inadequate cell phone light faded out in the vast space of the room. I flipped on the light switch by the door, and the bulb in here worked.

  To my right was a canopied bed, and as I stepped left, I saw an antique dresser with rounded edges and a painting of faded flowers on the drawers. On top of the dresser were two tarnished candlesticks and a black-and-white photo of two young women smiling atop their horses. The woman in a light, button-down blouse looked like Mémé.

  This must have been my grandmother’s room. It seemed untouched, as if Stéphane and his father never stepped inside when they’d occupied the château.

  I picked up the wooden frame from the dresser, examining the other woman. Could it be Isabelle’s great-grandmother with her? As I studied the photo, their laughter captured on film, I was glad they had no idea about the destruction that awaited France.

  But if this was Madame Calvez, playing with my grandmother, why wouldn’t she welcome me into her home now?

  Opening the armoire, I discovered a dozen colorful hatboxes in two neat stacks. I opened several of them, and spread the hats across the bed—there were felt hats with bows and flowers, a chic black velvet hat, one with netting in the front and daisies on the side. Mémé was always elegant in my eyes, even in these twilight days of her life. I could imagine her sporting any of these hats with a tailored suit or evening gown.

  I picked up an ivory hat with a scalloped trim and copper-colored ribbons plaited in the front. Putting it on my head, I posed in the mirror, pretending I was a vicomtesse from long ago, preparing for a visit from a French king and queen. Then I opened another box and found a smart little navy hat. As I lifted it, I realized there was something underneath. A photo album.

  The house creaked, and I jumped. I could almost hear the German soldiers shuffling on the floors above and below me.

  Was Mémé alone in this house with the soldiers? She had always seemed strong, but with the Nazis under her roof, she must have been terrified.

  Shivering, I snagged the photo album and bolted back to the master suite, locking the door. I opened the album and began flipping through the black-and-white pictures, each one secured by faded white corners. There were cursive captions below many of them.

  Mother bringing me home from the hospital.

  Papa holding me in his arms.

  Michel and I collecting Easter eggs on the front lawn.

  Nadine and I diving into the lake.

  Riding Papillon Bleu.

  I held up a picture of Michel beside an old roadster. My great-uncle was a handsome fellow when he was young, his curly hair dipping over his eyes. Mémé said he’d died during the war, but like so many of the other stories, the end of his story was lost, at least to me.

  I put down the photo album and opened up my iPad again, to the notes Olivia had compiled for my interview. She’d detailed the German occupation in Normandy and then the destruction of Saint-Lô. Once the Allied troops landed on the Norman beaches, she wrote, Hitler and his men knew defeat was inevitable, yet he refused to surrender. Until he took his life—if he took his life—Hitler had refused to be wrong.

  The Nazis wouldn’t relinquish Saint-Lô. The Allies initially tried to chase them out of the area from the air, but they ended up fighting a bloody battle in the hedgerows that surrounded the city. Even as the French rejoiced that their enemy had been defeated, thousands of their civilians lost their lives in this final fight.

  The darkness of what men could do to one another disturbed me deep in my soul. I had no desire to even try to understand a man like Hitler, but I was intrigued by Riley’s idea to document the stories of some of the German soldiers. What if some of them hadn’t wanted to fight? What if some of them tried to run?

  I turned to the last pages of Mémé’s photo album and several colored papers flitted out, falling onto the floor.

  I picked up the top one and scanned it. Then I picked up the next one.

  Chapter 29

  The German officer with the golden stick—Major von Kluge—toured the Château d’Epines as if he were the owner surveying his property. He flipped light switches, opened closets, prodded the carpets with his walking stick, all while telling three soldiers about his exploits in the Great War. The soldiers swarmed around him like mosquitoes on a horse’s rear, and Gisèle wished she could swat them all away from him and from her house.

  After the arrival of the automobile this morning, three canvas-covered trucks had deposited dozens of officers and soldiers onto the château’s front lawn. They descended into the crevices of her home like a plague of green locusts. Then the major ordered up dinner. As Émilie scrambled to make a simple meal, Gisèle followed the locusts and their leader through the corridors, lest they forgot they were guests in her home.

  At Major von Kluge’s command, the men scuttled into the dining hall. The officers took the chairs and the soldiers found their seats on the stone hearth of the fireplace, in cane chairs along the wall. As Gisèle served the men bread alongside sautéed zucchini and squash from the farmers’ gardens, she tried to listen to the conversation, but even though she knew German, she couldn’t understand the men. They spoke in low tones as they pointed toward the paneled windows that overlooked her valley, her serene oasis of river and trees. The lush hill across the river, the forest above that crowned the beauty—it all felt contaminated by their stares.

  When they finished their food, the major pounded the tip of his walking stick on the table as if it were a bell, and when she responded, he sent her to fetch coffee and cognac and cigars,
as if no one had informed him of the rationing they’d mandated in Normandy.

  At least Adeline was safe from these men. The child played happily in the pen Gisèle and Émilie had found for her in the attic. Each time Gisèle returned to the kitchen, she pecked a kiss on the child’s forehead.

  The major pointed at his coffee—made from ground acorns since real coffee was scarce. “Sucre?”

  She shook her head. “No sucre.”

  It fascinated her that one of the few French words the German man knew was sugar.

  “Oui,” he demanded.

  She turned to Lucien and explained that all their food supplies were low, and just like they had no meat to serve the men, they hadn’t had sugar for months. Major von Kluge wasn’t pleased when Lucien translated her words. She retrieved a little cream from the supply the farmers brought for them, but she reserved the milk for Adeline.

  As she set the cream on the table, she studied the faces of the men around her—some didn’t look much older than sixteen, while others, like the major, bore shoulders heavily laden with ribbons and medals. None of the men smiled. Their clean-shaven jaws were set in a grim pattern, their hair shaved at their collar and above their ears.

  Could these men in her house, drinking cognac purchased by her father, smoking his favorite cigars, be the same men who had killed him? Hatred welled inside her again—hatred at them and hatred at herself for serving them.

  She scanned their sleeves, searching to see if any of them wore an onyx-and-gold cuff link like the one she and Michel found by her father’s body, but all of these men wore silver cuff links on their wrists. She didn’t know what she would do if she came face-to-face with the man who’d murdered him.

  Her glance turned toward Lucien, sitting on a chair by the door, clinging to the cup of tepid coffee she’d brought him. He was stuck, just like her. The Germans had killed his family, just like they killed her father, and then forced both her and Lucien to serve them. If she refused, they might kill her as well. And Émilie and Adeline.

  Should she stand for all that was good and refuse them, even if it cost her her life? Or should she continue to compromise her morals to save her life—and the lives of those in her care?

  The major commanded his men to follow him out into the main hall and then the dining hall was quiet. She knew not where they went, but after the room emptied, she and Lucien were alone.

  Lucien glanced at the open doorway before whispering to her, “There are rumors of people resisting.”

  She nodded, wishing she could take the man into her confidence and tell him those who resisted were living below their feet. “I have heard them.”

  “It is making the Germans nervous. They pride themselves on maintaining control, and the more people resist, the harsher they will become. It is not only the Jewish people they will punish . . .”

  She glanced toward the doorway. The hall remained quiet. “Do you know where they take the French Jews?”

  His eyes heavy with sadness, he gave the slightest nod. “To an internment camp called Drancy.”

  Her heart began to race. If André and Nadine were waiting at this camp, she could petition the government for their return. Perhaps she could even have someone drive her there to retrieve them. If the French officials knew they were loyal citizens, if they knew they were good parents and André a schoolteacher, if they knew André wasn’t even a Jew and Nadine had converted, surely they would let them return to Saint-Lô.

  He rubbed his hands together. “No one stays in Drancy for long. They are deported to Germany.”

  She stood. There was no time to delay then. Father had once had many friends in the government. If any of them remained in the Vichy government down south, she had to contact them right away. If none of them were left, perhaps Philippe could help her. “Where do they go in Germany?”

  He shrugged. “They don’t talk about it when I’m around.” He glanced back toward the door and then spoke again, his voice barely a whisper above the silence. “When we were at the police headquarters, I heard the gendarmes speaking of a baby missing from one of the Jewish families. Her name was Louise.”

  She shivered.

  “They were angry about what happened but too proud to tell the Germans of their loss.”

  “They can’t find out . . . ,” she pleaded.

  Her worry was mirrored in his eyes. “If you contact the authorities about Drancy, you would bring suspicion on yourself.”

  She thought of Adeline and how Major von Kluge already seemed to suspect something was amiss. André and Nadine hid their daughter for a reason. She couldn’t point the police back to what they’d lost.

  Jackboots hammered across the hall, outside the door, and she sprang to her feet, snatching a plate from the table and stacking it on another. Lucien seemed to shrink back into the plaster wall, as if the house might swallow him.

  Major von Kluge marched into the room, his eyes sparking like flint when he saw her. Then, in spite of Lucien’s attempt to disappear, the officer motioned to him. “Come with me,” he demanded. “Both of you.”

  Lucien went first, and with trepidation, she followed him through the hall and down the narrow steps that led into their cool wine cellar—the cave. Two light bulbs illuminated the bricks that lined the arched ceiling, the rounded brick bins on both sides of the narrow hall, and the wine casks stacked in the back.

  This underground fortress held Papa’s brandy and what remained of the family’s vintage Bordeaux. The walkway between bins was only about two meters across and six meters long. The wooden door at one end led up to the house, and the room was filled with thirty of the brick bins on each side. The soldiers were removing dozens of bottles from each one. Another soldier had begun to roll aside the casks, but there was no other place to stack them in the narrow room.

  Major von Kluge motioned Lucien forward, around the two soldiers who remained in the cave, until Lucien stood under the arch. “Listen!” the major commanded.

  The room grew quiet, some of the soldiers cradling the wine bottles in their arms, as they listened to the brick.

  “I heard voices,” he insisted.

  Gisèle placed her hand on the curve of a bin as Lucien translated. Was it possible they could hear the men hidden in the tunnel? After Michel had told her they couldn’t keep Nadine’s child because of the noise, his own men might betray him.

  “Voices?” she asked dubiously, searching the walls alongside Lucien even as she prayed that the men below wouldn’t speak again.

  Major von Kluge tapped his walking stick on the ceiling and then on the inside of an empty bin. “There were people talking somewhere down here.”

  “Perhaps it was the wind,” she told Lucien.

  “No!” Major von Kluge barked after Lucien translated. Then he began to falter, as if he realized how ludicrous his words sounded. “There were voices—muffled voices.”

  “Ghosts haunt these walls,” she said, but the major shook his head, the suggestion of the supernatural seeming to make him even more angry. Sometimes it did seem to her as if the house groaned, as if it couldn’t help but tell its story even if those who listened were invaders, but she doubted the noises today were from ghosts.

  Lucien pointed at Gisèle. “Perhaps you heard her speaking overhead—with her housekeeper.”

  A sound from one of the bins startled her, and she held her breath.

  What if one of the entrances to the tunnel was in here? What if one of the members of France’s resistance stuck his head into a room filled with Germans? Surely none of them would be so stupid . . .

  But they had no way of knowing the Nazis were here, on the other side of the wall.

  She and the soldiers stepped away from the bin, though Lucien remained, as if nothing could surprise him.

  They heard the sound of a bottle rocking back and forth across the ruts in the brick, and one of the men gasped. She held her breath, praying that no one would enter the room. Then she watched as a gray paw stretched
out from the depths.

  Her cat hopped out, and the soldier next to her leapt backward. With a long meow, Shadow seemed to scold them for waking him from his nap. Gisèle suppressed her grin as he brushed against her leg. She glanced up at the soldier who had jumped, and in the dim light, she saw him trying to bite back a smile.

  “She can be a noisy sleeper,” Gisèle said, but Lucien didn’t translate for her this time.

  Major von Kluge’s eyes narrowed again into slits, his finger on the revolver at his side. Swallowing hard, Gisèle plucked her cat off the floor and edged toward the entrance. Being insulted by a cat seemed to muddy the major’s thinking. If he pulled the trigger, a bullet would surely ricochet off the bricks until it lodged itself into Shadow—or a person.

  She rushed up the stairs and the soldiers followed her. They waited in silence in the lobby until minutes later, when the major emerged. His face was flushed red, but his thinking seemed to be clear again. He spoke directly to Lucien. “Tell her we will return in two days.”

  A hundred questions flooded her mind, but she waded rapidly through them, afraid her intrusion of being too inquisitive would muddle his thinking again. The most pressing question she dared to ask. “How should I prepare?”

  He didn’t answer her.

  She stood in the doorway, watching their trail of dust as they drove away.

  If only she knew what God required of her . . .

  — CHAPTER 30 —

  I lifted the paper from those slipped into the back of the photo album. It was a faded marriage certificate between Gisèle Duchant and Jean-Marc Rausch—my biological grandfather. It was strange to see his name in print, the only link I had to the man who fathered my father.

  Out of respect for Grandpa, I suspected, Gisèle never talked about her first husband, even after Henri passed away. But I did wonder sometimes what he must have been like. I had my mother’s eyes and Gisèle’s wavy hair and my father’s love of the water. Did Jean-Marc pass along any of his features or traits to me?