“You are in Paris, and still you are thinking of him?” Her grandmother clucked her disapproval. “Let him go.”
“I have,” Liv said. “Honestly. I just—I don’t know how I got it so wrong when you knew exactly who he was right from the start.”
Grandma Edith shifted in her seat, her eyes watery. “It’s not your fault, Olivia, not really. When you’re young, you see only the future. When you grow older, you see the past.” She turned to stare out the window. After a long pause, she spoke again, her voice quivering in a way Liv had never heard before. “And the past has a way of showing you things clearly, whether you like it or not.”
six
SEPTEMBER 1940
INÈS
The grapes themselves were the first to resist the Germans, dying on the vines or simply committing suicide in the middle of the night by falling to earth in the darkness. Grape moths and harvest worms had invaded along with the German army, destroying so much of the year’s crop that the champagne houses were already counting their losses before a single piece of fruit had been pulled from the vines.
On the first morning of the harvest that year, Inès and Céline accompanied Michel and Theo to one of the vineyards that supplied many of their Pinot Meunier grapes, and Inès watched with growing unease as children and old men did the work that in years past had belonged almost wholly to strong, able-bodied laborers.
The harvesters worked in pairs, cutting clusters of plump black grapes from the vines with secateurs and placing them into small baskets, which were then carried by some of the school-aged children to large wicker bins called mannequins.
“They are not working quickly enough,” Theo muttered, exchanging worried glances with Michel.
“We should help,” Céline said.
“Non.” Theo turned away. “You will need to save your strength. We have our own to harvest, too.”
“Yes, we should return to our domaine,” Michel said. “This batch should begin arriving soon. We must prepare.”
Inès knew that the grapes that were being clipped now would go to the press in their cellars by that afternoon, their juice extracted by machines that held four thousand kilos of fruit at a time in circular baskets. Plates would be lowered, crushing the fruit and forcing their juice down the sides and base of the press. The first hundred liters or so, full of impurities from the skins, would be discarded, and then the cuvée—the juice richest in sugar—would begin to flow into open tanks. Once two thousand fifty liters had been extracted, a final pressing or two would produce five hundred additional liters of a fruitier liquid called the taille. All the runs would be clarified and brought deeper into the caves for finishing.
There, Theo would start the fermentation process, and by November, the wine—still without its sparkle—would be racked to age, awaiting a series of tastings by Theo and Michel, who together would decide on the final blend that would make up the champagne from the 1940 harvest. It was a fascinating, complex process filled with lots of strict rules and regulations Inès was still trying to understand.
“I’m worried,” Inès said from the passenger seat as they rode home, all four of them crammed into Michel’s Citroën. “The workers were losing so many grapes.”
“It was a doomed harvest from the start.” Michel’s tone was grim, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. “Anyhow, they were doing their best. Now we’ll have to do the same.”
There was silence for a moment.
“But what will we do if we don’t get as many grapes as we expected we would?” Inès asked.
Michel looked at her in the passenger seat. “We will make do.”
“But how?” Inès persisted.
In the back seat, Theo cleared his throat, and Michel glanced at him before turning to Inès. “Darling, it’s not your concern.”
“But of course it is,” Inès persisted, though she could see her husband’s face darkening. “Why won’t you talk to me about any of this, Michel? I just want to help. The Maison Chauveau is my future as much as it is yours.”
She’d meant the words as an expression of solidarity, but as he shook his head, he only looked angry. It seemed to be his default reaction to her most of the time these days.
It hadn’t been like this at the beginning. Michel had seemed enchanted by her inexperience. When she’d asked questions, he’d been happy to answer, explaining complicated steps of the champagne-making process in a way that allowed her to understand.
But things had begun to change just after war was declared. Now, when she inquired about something, he usually answered curtly, dismissively. She knew he had a lot on his mind, but it hurt. She missed the way they’d once laughed together, confided in each other, but that had only lasted for the first few months of their marriage anyhow. What if that had never been real, and this was what the future had in store for her?
“You’ll just have to trust me, Inès,” Michel said at last, his voice tight. “I have it handled.”
“But—” Inès began.
“I’m sure we will make the best of what we have at the end, Inès,” Céline interrupted from the back seat. “We’ll be able to salvage something beautiful. We always do. You needn’t worry.”
Inès wondered if she was imagining the condescension in the other woman’s tone. And who was she to speak for Michel and Theo, as if she was one of them, three against one? “Yes, thank you, Céline,” Inès said stiffly. “Quite helpful.” She turned to stare out the window so no one in the car could see the tears of frustration in her eyes.
Back at the Maison Chauveau twenty minutes later, Michel and Theo headed for the cellars to make their final preparations to receive the grapes for the press, while Céline accompanied Inès into the main house. Despite the shortage of available food, they’d managed to assemble the ingredients for a giant vat of rutabaga and turnip soup and several loaves of bread to feed the workers who would arrive the next day to begin harvesting on the Maison Chauveau’s own plots.
They started off working side by side as they peeled and chopped the vegetables, the only sound the steady slip-slip of their knives.
“I’m sorry if I offended you earlier,” Céline said, breaking the uneasy quiet between them.
Inès didn’t look at her. “Yes, well, I don’t think I’m wrong to be worried.”
“You’re not.”
“Then why does Michel jump down my throat every time I say a word these days?” The question was meant to be rhetorical, so Inès was surprised when Céline spoke again.
“He’s under a lot of pressure, Inès.”
Inès gritted her teeth and attacked the turnip she was holding with a vengeance. “I realize that, Céline. You don’t actually need to explain my husband’s state of mind to me.”
Céline didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“Of course you did.” Inès set her knife down. She had tried for more than a year to be as pleasant as possible to Céline, in hopes that the other woman would finally view her as a peer, but she was sick and tired of playing nice while everyone else walked all over her. “You think I’m a fool, Céline. You think I don’t care about what’s happening here, but I do. I know I’m not as good at helping out in the caves as you are, but I’m not the useless idiot you like to believe I am.” Inès choked on the last word as she swallowed a sob.
Céline sighed. “I don’t think you’re useless, Inès. I think . . . I think you’re just new at this. It’s a lot to learn.”
“I’m trying, Céline, I really am.”
The silence that descended felt awkward, uncomfortable. Inès returned to peeling vegetables, her eyes stinging with tears she refused to cry in front of Céline.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Céline said after a while. “I haven’t always been very fair to you.”
Inès looked up. “No, you haven’t. I know we don’t have much in common, Céline, but I used to imagine that you and I would rely on each other one da
y. After all, we’re stuck out here in the middle of nowhere together. Michel never seems to listen to me anymore, and, well, it would be nice to have a friend.”
“We’re friends, Inès.”
“Are we?”
“Of course.” But Céline didn’t look up or offer anything else, and as Inès lapsed back into uneasy silence, she felt even more estranged from the woman beside her than she had before.
• • •
By the time the vines had fallen into their late autumn slumber and the mornings sparkled with frost, Inès was exhausted. She rose each day before the sun and followed Michel sleepily into the caves, where they affixed labels to bottles from the 1936 harvest and prepared shipments, though it was hard to know when they might have regular clients again.
One night in November, long after darkness had fallen, Michel came up from the caves, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wild. “Klaebisch is coming in the morning,” he announced to Inès, who was standing in the kitchen, frowning into their nearly empty cupboard. “Emile from the commission just sent a messenger to inform us.”
“What does he want?” Inès asked. Otto Klaebisch was the newly appointed German overseer of wine production in Champagne, the Beauftragter für den Weinimport Frankreich, a man they had dubbed the weinführer. His arrival in Champagne that July had been somewhat of a relief, for it had put an end to the cellar looting. Besides, he came from a good family that had been involved for a long time in the wine trade; he had even been born in Cognac, where his parents had been brandy merchants before the Great War. If Champagne was going to be ruled by an invader, it might as well be someone who understood their work, their way of life. But Champagne’s taste for him had quickly soured when he requisitioned Bertrand de Vogüé’s personal château at Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin and moved right in.
“No doubt to demand more wine,” Michel said through gritted teeth.
“And what will you say?” Inès asked.
“I will do my best to accommodate him.”
Inès clenched her jaw and went back to stirring. “They cannot do this.”
“Inès, of course they can.” Michel sounded weary. “This will be a long war, and we must do what we can to survive. We’ve talked about this, yes?”
“Yes,” Inès mumbled, knowing she’d once again said the wrong thing.
The next morning, Inès and Michel rose even earlier than usual to finish labeling the last of their bottles so they would be ready by the time Klaebisch arrived. Inès changed into a pale green dress that swished against her calves, pulled her hair back into a low chignon, and swiped on a bit of lipstick. Before the war, this was how she had always looked—elegant, put together, fashionable. Now, it had been so long since she’d dressed nicely that she barely recognized herself in the mirror.
“You are making much effort for our occupiers,” Michel said with a frown as she emerged from their bedroom to stand beside him in the parlor.
“Don’t you think it’s important that he take us seriously?” Inès asked, smoothing her dress. She felt suddenly self-conscious when Michel didn’t answer. “Are Theo and Céline joining us?”
Michel shook his head. “I thought it better if Klaebisch does not meet Céline. The German opinion on Jews, well . . . Céline’s situation might be less secure than ours.”
“But she doesn’t fall under the statut des Juifs,” Inès pointed out. In October, the French government had issued restrictions on Jews, but only those who had at least three Jewish grandparents. Céline had just two.
“But who knows when the Nazis will change their mind? It’s better to be cautious.”
In truth, Céline’s absence would be a relief; Inès wasn’t sure she could take any more of the other woman’s brooding silence. In the past few weeks, Céline had withdrawn into herself even further, talking only to Michel and Theo curtly about wine production. Inès wondered how on earth Theo managed to bear her coldness behind closed doors.
Herr Klaebisch arrived promptly at eight in the morning, accompanied by two German soldiers who hung back and mumbled to each other. The weinführer was a tall man, his black hair greased, his jowly face punctuated by a wide, beak-like nose. His hooded eyes seemed to glint in the morning light as he gazed around their house, taking everything in. “Thank you for receiving me,” he said, his French as impeccable as that of the beady-eyed officer who had led the looting of their house in June. “You will show me to the cellars now?”
Inès trailed along after Michel and Herr Klaebisch, surprised to hear the almost friendly conversation between the two. The weinführer was asking about the composition of the local soil, and Michel was expounding about how the sand mixed with the native chalk in the vineyards west of Reims helped keep the vines moist, even in dry weather. Inès couldn’t help but think that the German must already know this; he’d been in Champagne for months and in the wine trade for years. But he seemed to be listening intently.
“And yet the harvest this year was a failure,” Klaebisch said mildly as they descended into the cool darkness. “We must do better next year. This region is very important to the führer.”
“But of course you understand that when our labor force is taken away, it is impossible to get the most out of the vineyards, oui?” Michel replied. “You know that this year’s yield was down by eighty percent. Here, we are doing the work of many men to make the champagne. Even our wives are helping with the labor.”
Klaebisch didn’t respond for a long moment, and Inès feared that Michel had overstepped. But then they reached the bottom of the stairs, and the weinführer cleared his throat. “Monsieur Chauveau, I understand your plight, but in wartime, we all must make do with less, ja?”
“Of course.”
“Then I imagine you will find a way. I have always found the French very resourceful.” As Klaebisch made his way down the narrow hall that ran the length of the main tunnel, the thud of his boots echoed in the heavy silence. He walked the rows of racks, pausing to peer at bottles here and there, but he didn’t say another word, and neither did Inès or Michel. As he drew closer to the statue of the Virgin Mary that guarded the false wall, Inès forced herself to breathe normally. She couldn’t help a small sigh of relief when Klaebisch finally turned back toward the cellar exit without noticing anything amiss.
“A beautiful collection,” he said once they had all ascended the winding stairway and exited into the chilly morning. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and jotted something down, squinting at the page and pursing his lips. Finally, he looked up. “I understand you oversee the production with the help of a chef de cave named Laurent?”
“Yes, Theo Laurent.”
“I should like to meet him. Perhaps the next time.” Klaebisch didn’t wait for a reply. “In any case, we will begin with a thousand bottles of your 1935 cuvée de prestige and an equal amount of your thirty-six. Prepare them for shipment immediately. Reichsmarschall Göring will be quite pleased indeed.”
He gestured to the soldiers, who were still lingering by the front door, and together they left in silence. Inès and Michel watched from the front drive until their truck disappeared behind the hills in the distance.
• • •
By the new year, a small rebellion against the Germans had begun. Soon after his arrival, Herr Klaebisch had met with the Commission de Châlons, the regulatory body for the champagne houses, and ordered 350,000 bottles of champagne each week from across the region, paid for with inflated marks, all to be stamped Reserved for the Wehrmacht. Only after those orders were met were the houses allowed to sell champagne to their own countrymen, but there was never enough left to make much of a profit. Now, winemakers were using dirty bottles, bad corks, and second-rate cuvées in shipments bound for Germany, and some in the region were positively giddy with the idea of pulling one over on the Germans. Inès knew that Michel was proceeding cautiously, but even he couldn’t resist the lure of making the Germans look foolish.
“I like to imagine Görin
g and Himmler dining together in Berlin with one of our best bottles,” Michel said one cold evening after he had invited Theo and Céline to join them in front of the roaring fire in the main house for a bit of warmth.
“A thirty-five grand cru,” Theo interjected with a gleam in his eye.
“Bien sûr.” Michel grinned. “They won’t even notice the specks of dirt.”
Theo chuckled. “Or the fact that the bottles are actually lousy nonvintage wines from thirty-seven.”
“Aren’t you worried about getting caught?” Inès asked.
“Everyone is doing it, Inès,” Theo said with a shrug.
But a week later, Klaebisch paid them an unexpected visit, arriving by chauffeured car on a snowy afternoon, accompanied by a uniformed German toting a long gun.
“Monsieur Chauveau,” he said evenly when Michel answered the door. “I have come to discuss the matter of your treachery.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Michel said, his voice even, but Inès, who had come to the door behind him, could see a flush creeping up his neck. He glanced quickly at her before turning his attention back to Klaebisch.
“You believe I don’t notice what you are doing? What all of you damned Champenois are doing?” Spittle flew from the weinführer’s mouth. “Do you think me a fool?”
“Of course not.”
“But you do not deny falsely labeling inferior bottles bound for Germany.”
The corner of Michel’s lips twitched. “I have made sure to treat the German shipments with all the respect they deserve.”
The men stared at each other.
“Sir,” Inès cut in. “If anything is amiss, it was clearly a mistake. Tell him, Michel!”
Klaebisch tilted his head. “Is this true? You have made a mistake?”
Michel said nothing, and finally the weinführer sighed. “Very well. Perhaps you would like to think about it in prison.”
“No, sir, please!” Inès gasped, but Michel didn’t say a word as the German in uniform put a rough hand on his arm and shoved him toward the doorway.
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