Chateau of Secrets: A Novel (31 page)

Cold air slipped under the cracks of the closed doors, and she rubbed her arms. It had been months since she’d been on the third floor. Even though Fähnrich Braun had been reassigned back in November, she was still afraid of meeting another German alone.

When Adeline went down for her afternoon nap, Lisette volunteered to bring up linens to the north wing and clean the two bathrooms. An hour had passed, and Adeline had already awakened, ready for a walk outside before night fell. Gisèle would have taken her, but she was helping Émilie prepare for the evening meal.

Of all of them, Lisette was most comfortable among the Germans after working for almost two years at their headquarters. Since Lisette could translate, the major had sent Lucien on to Cherbourg, and when Gisèle pretended not to understand, Lisette translated for her. After months of serving the soldiers, Gisèle now spoke the basics with them anyway. Unlike Lisette, though, she maintained her distance as much as possible through the barrier of language.

In the past six months, Lisette and Adeline had developed a special bond, and Gisèle was glad that Adeline was well loved,
though she still despaired that Adeline’s idea of normal was to be living among the German soldiers. Some of the men liked to spoil her, while others instilled fear in her heart.

As the months passed, it seemed as if Adeline had forgotten about her parents. Adeline had begun to call her Maman and Lisette Tante. She was sad that the girl had to forget—and perhaps would never be told of—the parents who loved her. Her lies had become Adeline’s reality.

While Gisèle avoided the Germans, Lisette seemed to find a sense of belonging with them and with Adeline. On long winter evenings, after dinner, Lisette told the men some of the chilling stories that Michel had told her, about those who had been murdered in the château during the revolution and about the ghosts who sought revenge. Gisèle cringed when Lisette told them about a tunnel underneath the castle that harbored dangerous trolls and how they came out at night to haunt the floors above them. The Germans laughed at her stories, and yet they kept coming back around the fireplace to listen to more.

Sometimes Gisèle wondered if the men were coming to hear Lisette’s stories or if they were there to admire her beauty. Lisette had always been beautiful and she’d matured into a lovely woman, with her blond curls and shapely figure that was so unlike those of many of the hungry Frenchwomen who’d become shadows of themselves. The way Lisette flirted back with some of the soldiers made Gisèle’s stomach roll, and she prayed Michel never found out how the woman he loved had toyed with them.
They all had to lose a bit of themselves to satiate the enemy, she supposed, but she prayed that in their hearts, they all would remain true to God and to France.

She knocked on the bathroom door. “Lisette?”

There was no response.

Most of the men were patrolling in the valley and town, and she wondered for a moment if Hauptmann Milch was among them, though she had learned through Lisette that when he wasn’t needed to type correspondence, Hauptmann Milch worked in the registration office in Saint-Lô, issuing identity cards and certificates. He avoided her, speaking only when it was of utmost necessity, but even with his brusqueness, he intrigued her. Sometimes she wondered if he was trapped like the French people who had no choice but to entertain the men they despised.

Then she heard laughter from across the hall. And a woman’s voice.

A door opened, and someone stepped into the hall. Gisèle slipped back into the alcove to avoid the German. But an officer didn’t walk out of the bedroom door. It was Lisette.

Usually they would leave fresh linens outside the doors, but perhaps Lisette had felt the need to make the beds. Yet that couldn’t be right. She should never have gone into a room alone with one of the men.

A wave of nausea swept over her.

In the village, Gisèle had heard rumors of Frenchwomen consorting with the German soldiers in exchange for petty favors—lipstick and sugar and silk stockings—but she prayed not here in her house, with her friend.

Gisèle stepped into the corridor and Lisette whirled around. The winter light illuminated the smeared mascara under Lisette’s eyes, and Gisèle wondered for the first time where her friend purchased mascara when there was none to be had in Saint-Lô. And where she found her seemingly endless supply of cigarettes.

“What are you doing?” Gisèle asked.

Lisette brushed her hands over her skirt. “I was cleaning the rooms.”

“The men can care for their own rooms.”

“Some of them need assistance.” Lisette’s hands flew to her throat, straightening the pink scarf crumpled around it. Gisèle should have felt sorrow for her friend, for the years lost and their dreams ravaged by war, but more than compassion, anger raged within her. Anger for Michel, who had remained faithful. Anger that Lisette hadn’t remained strong.

If the Germans had forced themselves on her, like Braun tried with her in the cellar, her heart would have broken for Lisette, but her friend’s laughter echoed in her ears. How could she give herself freely to these bastards? And then laugh with them?

“Michel is the one who loves you, not these men.”

“This has nothing to do with love,” Lisette replied, the passion stripped from her voice.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped . . .”

“This is my secret, Gisèle. Just like you have secrets.”

Gisèle hugged her arms close to her chest. “You give yourself away for nothing . . .”

Lisette’s eyes narrowed and she pressed together her lips as if she teetered between anger and tears. “Don’t act like a saint, Gisèle. It’s not like you’ve taken a stand against them.”

“I had no choice but to let them live here.” She clenched her fists. “I don’t sleep with them.”

“If you think I want to do this—”

The door behind them opened, and the
Oberst
walked into the hall. He looked at Lisette with a mixture of appreciation and ridicule. The man had said he had a wife at home . . . and grandchildren. He looked much less distinguished with his untucked shirt and missing monocle. And when he tweaked Lisette’s thigh.

“Stop it, Rolf,” she hissed.

He ignored Gisèle, his gaze hovering on Lisette. “You’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

Gisèle turned away from them both, disgusted at what was happening under her family’s roof . . . and to the woman her brother loved.

W
ith Mémé’s photo album in my arm, I trekked back up the drive to Madame Calvez’s house. Riley had been gone for two days now, and in his absence, I scoured the recesses of the house, the closets and nooks, as I searched for information about Adeline. And I’d tromped through the forest, searching for any hint of the tunnel that Riley’s grandfather remembered.

My search proved futile, but the woman I guessed could answer my questions was still alive, less than a mile from the château. She may not have wanted my company, but perhaps she would answer a few of my questions, if only so I’d stop bothering her.

After I knocked, Isabelle swung the door open, grinning at me.

“You lost a tooth,” I said.

She grinned even wider.

I glanced behind her. “Where is your great-grandmother?”

She pointed down the short hall. “In her bedroom.”

In the dimly lit hall was a photograph of three women. The oldest woman was Madame Calvez; her blond hair was bobbed and she wore a pale green pantsuit. The middle woman had long sandy brown hair and a smile that warmed the picture. Her arm
was around a young girl who looked a lot like Isabelle. The girl wore a yellow ribbon in her hair and a matching bow on the wide collar of her neck.

I pointed at the girl. “Is this your mother?”

Isabelle nodded.

I tapped on the glass. “And this must be your grandmother.”

“It was my grandmother—she and my grandfather died in a car accident before I was born.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Isabelle grinned with pride. “My mother says I’m just like her.”

“Where did your grandmother live?”

“Paris. My whole family lived in Paris until the government gave Grand-mère this house.”

“Why would the French government give her a house?”

She shrugged as she opened the door to a small bedroom.

We found Madame Calvez in a recliner, a game show blaring music from the small television set at the foot of her bed. Isabelle turned down the volume and climbed up on the bed. Then she folded her hands in her lap like a young lady. It seemed like Isabelle was watching her great-grandmother more than Madame Calvez was watching her.

In spite of the warm air, a blanket rested over Madame Calvez’s lap, and her short hair stood up around her ears. She attempted a smile when I sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you any tea.”

Leaning forward, I kissed both of her cheeks as Riley had done. “I’m not thirsty.”

Madame Calvez closed her eyes for a moment and then reopened them. “The girl next door usually plays with Isabelle in the afternoons, but she took the flu.”

“Are you ill?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Just old.”

I held out the photo album. “I found some pictures in Gisèle’s room.”

Isabelle opened the cover and pointed to two women mounted on horseback. “Who’s that?”

“This is my grandmother,” I said. “And I believe that’s your great-grandmother.”

Madame Calvez leaned forward and squinted at the photo.

“It says, ‘Nadine and I riding along the Vire.’ I thought your first name might be Nadine.”

“My name is Lisette,” she replied, her voice sad. “That was Nadine Batier.”

“I’ve never heard of Nadine.”

Madame Calvez leaned back in her chair. “That’s because your grandmother forgot about us all.”

Shaking my head, I leapt to defend her. “I’m sure she didn’t—”

Madame Calvez stopped me. “How is Gisèle?”

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “Not well,” I finally said. “Her mind is slipping away.”

She started to say something else but stopped herself. Instead she asked, “Can you describe the pictures for me?”

With Isabelle helping me flip the pages, I told Madame Calvez about each of the photographs. Of Nadine and Gisèle sitting in the garden. Of my handsome great-uncle by his fancy roadster, and my grandmother and Michel posing by the front door after his first Communion. Of Michel looking every bit the aristocrat with his fancy riding clothes and horsewhip and hunting dogs.

“Michel was full of life,” she said wistfully, and in that moment, I wondered if Madame Calvez had been in love with my great-uncle.

In her interview with Riley, she hadn’t spoken of her husband or even of her daughter. If she had loved Michel, it must have broken her heart when he died.

“What do you remember most about Michel?” I asked.

Her gaze wandered to the blinds over her window. “It has been a long time.”

I nodded. “My grandmother said he was fearless.”

“But sometimes fear is a good thing. It keeps us alive.” She paused. “There’s more I would like to say, but to you, not the camera.”

“I don’t have a camera.”

She blinked, nodding slowly. “At the beginning of the war, I thought your great-uncle Michel and I would marry, but I was never a patient woman. Four years is an eternity when you’re young and you think the world is about to end.”

“What happened?”

She stretched out her hand and took Isabelle’s. “Could you find some cookies for our guest?”

Isabelle hopped off the bed. “The pink ones?”

“The pink ones would be just fine.” Madame Calvez waited until Isabelle scrambled out of the room before she turned back to me. “When you feel powerless . . .”

I sat with her in the silence until she was ready to speak again.

“You must understand, the Nazis ruled and reigned over us. They had absolute power over everything except . . .” She swallowed, and I knew of what she spoke. “I sold my soul to the Nazis in exchange for power and a promise of protection. I thought I could save myself from them, but I discovered the hard way that the Nazis weren’t very good at keeping their promises.”

I closed the photo album. “After the war, were you still afraid of what they could do?”

“I wasn’t afraid of what they would do to me, but I was afraid of what they would do to someone I loved.”

“Who were you afraid of?” I asked quietly.

She glanced back toward the door, but Isabelle was still gone. “I was afraid of your cousin—Philippe Borde.”

I’d seen that same fear in my grandmother’s eyes when she spoke his name.

“What did Philippe do?”

When she shook her head, I ventured one last question. “Did you know Gisèle’s daughter?”

She leaned back against the chair, her energy seemingly spent. “Gisèle didn’t have a daughter.”

“But what about Adeline?”

“Adeline was . . .” She closed her eyes, and a few seconds later, her chin began to bob against her neck. I had already stayed too long.

Isabelle crept back in the room, carrying three pink meringue cookies on a chipped plate. When she offered me one, I took it and nibbled on the edge. Madame Calvez’s eyes were closed, and I glanced over at Isabelle who watched her as well. “Did I tell you I’m a schoolteacher?”

Isabelle shook her head, and I saw just a hint of admiration.

“And my favorite place in the whole world is, of course, the playground.”

Isabelle clapped. “Mine too.”

I reached out and gently squeezed Madame Calvez’s hand, rousing her. “Would you mind if I took Isabelle to the park?”

She mumbled her consent before she fell back to sleep.

Isabelle skipped toward the door.

Chapter 43