Chateau of Secrets: A Novel (13 page)

Slowly I began to type again, anger fueling me.
I’m just great. When were you planning to tell me?

Sorry,
he wrote
. I didn’t think budgets interested you . . .

They do now.

What do you want to know?

This time I didn’t hesitate as I typed.
I want to know the name of your girlfriend.

I leaned back, relief filling me as the words vanished on my screen. The truth was the only thing that would free both of us.

Where are you?!?

I took a deep breath before I texted him back.
Sitting outside your door.

Seconds later, Austin Vale stood before me in the doorway, dressed in a white robe, the Plaza insignia embroidered on his chest.

“What are you doing—” he demanded, stumbling over his words. I’d never seen Austin flustered before.

“I was going to surprise you.” I tucked my phone back into my purse. “Apparently I succeeded.”

His mouth gaped open. I’d never seen Austin at a loss for words either.

Standing, I eyed his attire. “Do you always conduct budget meetings in a bathrobe?”

He glanced down at the robe as if he’d forgotten it was on, and then he raked his fingers through his dark hair. What had appeared so handsome to me hours before suddenly looked fake. Plastic. Why had I kissed those lips with such fervor? Lips that told me they loved me and then lied.

He motioned back into the room. “I was just getting dressed for a meeting. I didn’t mean to confuse you—”

Inside my heart was crumbling, but I had no choice—I had to cling to the thread of strength dangling within me. “What’s her name?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about—”

Then she—the woman he didn’t know—stepped into the doorway behind him, wearing a matching robe. Her triumphant smile was nauseating. “My name is Starla,” she said, mocking me. “Starla Dedrick.”

Austin ignored the woman, his eyes focused on me. “This is not what it looks like.”

“Of course it is.” The bitterness in my laugh made him wince. “How much are you paying her?”

Starla’s smirk began to fade. “I think I’ll let you two work this out alone.”

Austin glanced both ways before stepping into the hallway. Then he shut the door behind him. “You are supposed to be on your way to Normandy,” he said as if this problem was somehow my fault.

“You are supposed to be faithful!”

“I don’t love her—not like I love you.” He looked so genuine, so pathetic. I didn’t feel sorry enough to run back into his arms, but I wavered. For the briefest of moments.

Then I remembered. Lisa had asked if I was meeting Starla—the old family friend—to shop in New York. My hands sank to my sides. “How does your sister know her?”

Austin dug his hands into the pockets of the robe. “Starla and I dated in college.”

I almost wished that he’d hired her for the day.

“I love you, Chloe.” He reached for my hands, but I yanked them away. “Truly.”

I wanted to pull every hair out of his head. One at a time. “I can’t believe this, Austin.”

“I’ll never do this again.” He took another step forward. “Nothing will change between us.”

I picked up my handbag off the bench. “It’s already changed.”

I rushed back toward the elevator doors. Thankfully, they opened right after I pushed the arrow.

The last sound I heard from the eighteenth floor was Austin Vale, the distinguished gubernatorial candidate from Virginia, banging on his hotel room door, begging his girlfriend to let him back inside.

Do not judge your fellow until you have stood in his place.

—RABBI HILLEL
ETHICS OF THE FATHERS

Chapter 17

August 1942

J
uif.
The vile word was woven into the star on the boy’s black vest. Eyes wide, the boy stared into the window teeming with croissants and bread, but the branding prevented him from entering the bakery in Saint-Lô.

When the child lifted his head, Gisèle met his gaze. He couldn’t have been four years of age, but his face was gaunt, his eyes flush with fear, like one of the prisoners she’d seen laboring along the road into town.

She lifted her hand to greet him.

“Don’t encourage him.” Turning, Gisèle watched the baker lift a woven basket onto the counter.

“But he looks so sad,” she said as she handed him her coupon for bread.

Monsieur Cornett glanced down at the coupon and then looked back at her. “He’s manipulating you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s a dirty Jew.”

The baker’s words made her cringe, as if the child were a dog or a maggot instead of a hungry boy.

For decades France had been a haven for the Jewish people
escaping persecution in Germany and Austria. Thousands of Jews—like Nadine’s family—found refuge among the French, but since the Germans had
liberated
the northern districts of her country, they’d inundated France with propaganda about the threat of Jews.

How could anyone believe the Nazis’ propaganda, the wretched manipulation and lies? Their frightening obsession with harassing even the youngest and oldest Jews had infected some of her neighbors, their blatant hatred sickening her.

The baker brushed the flour off his apron and disappeared into the back room to retrieve her ration.

The Germans seemed to be everywhere now—living uninvited in the homes of people in Saint-Lô, playing like chums with the children after school, patrolling the streets of the city to enforce order during the day and the curfew at night. They’d set up a headquarters in the town center for the entire French district of La Manche, across from the prison that they’d filled with people brave enough to resist their occupation. And even before her uncle passed away, they’d forced Lisette to work for them.

Still she feared that too many French people had begun to identify with their occupiers instead of fighting against them. Some French men and women were simply resigned to the occupancy, while others joined their occupants in despising the Jewish population, fanning the flames of bitterness until it raged in their hearts.
Hatred, it seemed, was a powerful unifier of even the greatest enemies.

Hatred for the Nazis had also unified those resisting them. The more regulations the Germans inflicted on them, the faster Michel’s resistance cell grew. Her brother’s group now included dozens of men, former business owners, farmers, soldiers, schoolboys who’d become men during the occupation. They left for weeks at a time, wreaking havoc on their occupiers across France.

The Nazis had confiscated most of the wirelesses in the town, but Gisèle had kept hers, listening to it in Papa’s office and relaying the information to her brother. Charles de Gaulle was hiding in London, but he spoke regularly to the people of France on the wireless.

“France is not alone,” he’d pronounced. “She has a vast empire behind her.”

When Gisèle heard his words, hope rekindled in her heart. Perhaps the entire world hadn’t given up on them. With the help of others, perhaps they did still have a chance to win back their country.

“Whatever happens, the flame of the French resistance will not be extinguished,” de Gaulle had said. Then he urged the resistance to cut telephone wires, sabotage the railways, print underground newspapers that promoted freedom for the French people.

Her brother and his men continued to stoke the embers of their freedom, and when they returned to the tunnels, she provided food and water for them.

The Nazis tried to regulate what the French people planted and what they ate, even from their own gardens. But no matter how hard they tried, it was impossible to monitor every apple and carrot stick.

She and Émilie didn’t need bread from the bakery—the families who farmed their property continued to supply flour and cheese and vegetables to Gisèle and Émilie in abundance—but they had to use their ration coupons so the Germans wouldn’t suspect. As the months passed, Émilie had taught her how to bake bread and cook the leeks, potatoes, and cabbage. Émilie knew the food they prepared wasn’t for the orphanage, but she didn’t ask questions. It seemed best for all of them not to question.

She glanced back out the window again and saw the child peeking around the glass. Where were his parents?

Last month the Germans mandated that the Jews living among them—even those born in France—wear the stars on their coats. If Jews refused to wear it, the Germans threatened a penalty of imprisonment, but Nadine thought wearing the badge was a greater threat than refusing. Gisèle was terrified as to what would happen to her friend Nadine if she didn’t wear the star. Her daughter, Louise, had been born more than a year ago now, and Gisèle had tried to convince her friend to wear the star for Louise’s sake, but Nadine refused.

Until the government began requiring the badges, Gisèle hadn’t realized how many Jewish people lived near Saint-Lô. Now their city seemed to glow yellow from the fallen stars. Instead of finding safety, their haven had crumbled.

People wouldn’t hate the Jewish people if they were blessed with a friend like Nadine. Nadine Batier was a French citizen, a devout Catholic. Her husband had been one of the favorite teachers at the secondary school until the headmaster in Saint-Lô terminated his position last term, citing the fact that he was no longer qualified to teach. They all knew the truth—the administration didn’t want the husband of a Jewish woman teaching their children.