The Winemaker's Wife

by Kristin Harmel

  Liv could feel her face flaming as Julien chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m to blame, Madame Thierry,” he said. “But I promise, I’m being a perfect gentleman.”

  “Well, then,” Grandma Edith said, “we should probably depart before the two of you get any more amorous.”

  She turned and walked back toward the hired car, without bothering to wait for them.

  “I should, uh—” Liv gestured awkwardly after her grandmother.

  Julien smiled. “Of course. May I call you later? Or should I let you get your grandmother settled first?”

  “I’ll call you once she heads to bed for the night, if that’s all right.”

  Julien leaned in and gave her a light kiss on the lips, lingering there for a few extra seconds. “Do you need me to follow you back now?” he asked as he stepped back. “Or do you think she’ll be all right?”

  “I think she’ll be okay,” Liv said, touched by his concern. “At least she’s acting like herself again.” But by the time she climbed into the back seat beside Grandma Edith, the indignant energy seemed to have drained from the older woman. Now she sat slumped against the window, her eyes closed, her breathing rapid and shallow. “Are you—” Liv began to say.

  “Please,” Grandma Edith said, her voice hoarse. “Don’t speak, Olivia. I’m perfectly fine. I’d just like some peace.”

  Liv nodded, and as the driver started the car and pulled away, she watched out the window as Julien, and the Maison Chauveau, faded into the distance.

  twenty-seven

  MARCH 1943

  INÈS

  Inès and Céline stood guard over Richter’s large, crumpled body for nearly ninety minutes, waiting for Michel and Theo to return. They couldn’t leave him alone, and they couldn’t move him, either—he was too heavy, and where would they put him anyhow?—but staying there beside him was torture. At least a dozen times, Inès tried to convince Céline to go aboveground to press a clean cloth to her tattered cheek, to rest in case the baby was in danger, but she had refused, saying that she couldn’t take the risk of leaving Inès alone with such a monster. “What if he wakes up?” she fretted aloud again and again.

  Finally they heard the growl of an approaching car overhead. As brakes squealed and the engine cut off above them, the women exchanged worried glances. “Will you go up and make sure it’s Michel?” Inès asked.

  Céline shook her head. “No, you go. I will watch Richter.”

  “But—”

  “You have already risked enough for me, Inès. I—I don’t deserve it.”

  Inès hesitated before handing Richter’s pistol to Céline and heading for the stairs. Carefully, she emerged aboveground, and as her eyes adjusted to the moonlight, she recognized Michel’s car and exhaled in relief. He got out of the driver’s seat as Theo climbed from the passenger seat. “Michel!” Inès hissed.

  He spun around, searching the darkness. “Inès? What are you doing out here?”

  “Come quickly. There’s an emergency.”

  When Theo followed, Inès didn’t try to stop him, though she wondered if she should. He hadn’t been involved until now in anything illegal taking place in the cellars. But there was no way Céline would be able to explain away the giant wound on her cheek, nor could Inès come up with a reason why Michel was needed in the cellars so urgently. So she stood silently aside as Michel and Theo rushed belowground. She took a deep swallow of the crisp evening air before following.

  By the time Inès made her way back into the cave where Richter lay, Theo was squatting with his arm around Céline, who had finally crumpled to the ground, and Michel was gaping at them, Richter’s gun in his hand and an expression of anguish on his face. “What in God’s name happened?” he asked, turning to Inès.

  “I—I saw them from the window,” Inès said, and Michel’s eyes flashed to Céline, who was sobbing now, her head down, as Theo tried to stop the blood flowing from her face with his scarf. “He was dragging Céline.”

  “Was she . . . ?” Michel asked.

  “I came down the stairs behind them. He was—he was hurting her. You can see her face.” Inès couldn’t imagine how much pain Céline was in. “But I stopped him before he did what he had come here to do. And the baby is okay, too.”

  Michel’s tormented gaze flickered around the room and landed on the bloodstained champagne bottle. “You hit him with that?”

  “Yes,” Inès said.

  “And he was alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” Michel said. “My God, Inès, thank you for being so brave.”

  “Of course.” But something about his gratitude struck her as odd. She shook off her misgivings. “What do we do now? If he wakes up . . .”

  “Yes, I know,” Michel said.

  Theo looked up, finally paying attention. “But what do you suggest? We can’t just murder the man.”

  “Don’t fool yourself,” Michel said. “He would have killed Céline without a shred of remorse. And the baby—” He stopped and shook his head. “He has left us no choice.”

  “Michel,” Céline said, and then stopped, pressing her lips together.

  “Don’t worry,” Michel said gently. Then he turned to Inès. “Céline likely needs a doctor, but I think we cannot afford to call one, for there will be too many questions. Can you do your best to care for her?”

  “I will do what I can,” Inès said.

  “Michel—” Theo said.

  Michel turned to him. “And you, Theo? Are you with us or against us? I will not hold it against you if you choose not to help, but I do require your silence. It is your wife whose life has been saved.”

  Theo glanced at Céline and then back at Michel. He looked angry, frightened. “I will help,” Theo said, “but we will never speak of this again.”

  “Fine,” Michel said. “Inès, take Céline upstairs. Don’t make a sound.”

  Inès hesitated. The decisions they were making here would affect them forever.

  “Inès,” Michel said urgently, handing her Richter’s gun. “Go. Now. I don’t know how much time we’ll have before the Germans come looking.”

  His words snapped her out of it, and she pulled Céline into her arms and led her gently out of the cave, a trail of blood falling behind them as they went.

  • • •

  Inès cleaned Céline’s wound and helped slow the bleeding, and though she knew Céline needed medical attention, she agreed with Michel: it was too risky. If Richter had told anyone he was going to the Maison Chauveau that evening, their property would be crawling with Germans as soon as it became clear he was missing. Their best hope of appearing innocent was to involve as few people as possible.

  Céline’s bleeding eventually stopped, and she fell asleep atop the covers in Inès and Michel’s bed, her hands curled under her belly, as they waited for the men to return. Inès stroked her hair, thinking about the future. They were all in peril, and not just because of the events that had passed that night. Would any of them survive?

  Eventually, Inès dozed off beside Céline and was jarred awake sometime before dawn by the slam of the front door below. She sat up with a gasp and fumbled for Richter’s gun on the bedside table. She was clutching it when Michel entered the bedroom, his clothing stained with blood and dirt.

  “How is she?” he asked as Inès set the gun down, got out of bed, and put a hand on Céline’s forehead.

  “Okay for now, I think.” Inès crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, but his body was stiff, unresponsive, and when she withdrew, she realized he was still watching Céline.

  “We should bring her to her own house,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Michel changed his shirt quickly, leaving the bloodied one crumpled on the floor, and then he scooped the sleeping Céline gently into his arms. “I’ll return in a moment,” he said without looking at Inès.

  “Wait,” Inès said. “Theo. Is he—?”

  “He is bound by his complicity in
this,” Michel said stiffly.

  “And Richter?”

  “He’s dead, Inès. It is best you know no more than that.”

  “You got rid of his bicycle, too?”

  He nodded. “We left it two towns over, by the side of the road. That should throw the Germans off for a little while.”

  He left carrying Céline, and Inès sat rigid on the bed for a long time before forcing herself to get up and grab his shirt. It all felt surreal, terrifying. Was there any possibility they could get away with this, or had they all signed their own death warrants tonight? She boiled water, and she was just about to begin washing the garment, when Michel reentered through the back door, took one look at her, and snatched the shirt away.

  “The blood will never come out,” he said. “We must burn it. Your clothing, too.”

  “But we have so little . . .”

  His eyes flashed. “We will have nothing if the Germans come. Come on, Inès, you know better.”

  His tone stung, but she turned anyhow and stoked the fire smoldering in the hearth. She thrust his soiled shirt in, watching as the flames licked greedily at the cotton, reducing it to ashes.

  Michel returned a few minutes later. “Come. We must wipe the cellars clean of blood before the sun is up. You can burn your clothes when you’re done.”

  Inès nodded, and together they filled buckets and hurried out back and down the stairs to the cellars. They worked on their knees in silence, scrubbing as hard as they could with old rags until the blood on the floors, and the crimson streaks on the walls, faded into the forgiving stone. When they were done, Inès was so exhausted that she could barely stand, but Michel helped her to her feet, and supported her as they walked upstairs in silence.

  “Rest,” he said when they reached the back door of the house. “Just give me your clothes, and I will take care of things.”

  “But you must be very tired, too.”

  “Inès, you saved Céline. You saved the baby.”

  When Inès didn’t move, Michel whispered, “Go,” and she was surprised to see his eyes filled with tears. It was only later, after she had left her bloodied clothing in a pile at the door and fallen naked into bed, that she realized it hadn’t even occurred to her to comfort her husband, to ease his pain, to wrap him in her arms and promise everything would be okay.

  Was it because she knew that it wouldn’t be, that her words would be meaningless? Or was it because she herself was empty, drained of everything that made her who she was? The questions gnawed at her as she finally drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  • • •

  For three days and two nights, they waited, hardly acknowledging each other, jumping each time they heard the distant hum of vehicles passing by on the main road, flinching each time a flash of motion cut through the dusk. It seemed inconceivable that there wouldn’t be a price to pay for Richter’s life, but as the minutes ticked by, Inès let herself begin to believe that perhaps Richter hadn’t told a soul where he was going, that maybe no one would think to follow his trail to the Maison Chauveau. Maybe there were other women Richter had leered at, threatened, attempted to violate. There was a chance Richter’s colleagues didn’t even know about Céline and the way her curves and forbiddenness had become bait for a cruel animal.

  Céline’s wound began to heal, the ragged edges knitting themselves together into something dark and hard, but it didn’t appear infected. Inès knew the scar would always remind Céline of the terrible night, but within her, the baby continued to move. And though she walked around with a blank expression, dark circles swelling under her bloodshot eyes, Céline seemed to draw solace from the fact that her baby would be all right. Inès was proud of having preserved one innocent life, at least, but even that feeling couldn’t erase the growing sense that a storm was coming.

  And then, on the third night, Inès woke with a start from a deep, dreamless sleep to find Michel’s side of the bed empty and cold. She sat up, her heart thudding. It was nearly midnight.

  She slipped from the bed, lit a lamp, pulled on a coat and a pair of boots, and made her way outside. The moonlit property was still and silent, no sign of any German officers. But if Michel wasn’t dealing with questions from the occupying authorities, where was he? He had promised to hold back on his work with the underground until the Richter storm blew over, but had he lied? Inès scanned the vineyards, the drive, until finally her eyes came to rest on the entrance to the cellars. The slightest bit of light slipped out from underneath the closed doors, and Inès knew in an instant that her husband was belowground. Anger swept through her; how could he make the decision to put any of them at additional risk at a time like this? Especially Céline?

  She considered going back to bed, confronting him in the morning, but she knew she’d never be able to sleep. So she wrapped her sweater more tightly around herself, an armor of indignation, and hurried toward the entrance to the caves, ready to berate him for his disregard for their safety.

  Then again, what if it was just that he couldn’t sleep and had retreated under the earth to find some solace? She softened slightly as she made her way down the winding stairs. She had done the same more than once, and what would it prove other than the fact that her husband was human? Perhaps she shouldn’t bother him. But she was already belowground, and there was movement in one of the caves far ahead to the right. If nothing else, she could comfort Michel. If this was his hour of darkness, maybe she could be his light.

  She crept along quietly, not wanting to startle him, and as she turned the final corner into the cave with the hidden room where Céline had helped her hide Samuel and Rachel Cohn not that long ago, the words were in her throat. We will handle this together, she would tell him. I am by your side, my love.

  But Michel wasn’t in the cave thinking or weeping or even storing arms. He was on the floor, amid a mound of blankets, on top of someone he was kissing passionately.

  Inès screamed, the sound splitting the silence, and he whipped his head around, his expression a mask of horror as he saw her. He scrambled to his feet, a blanket clutched in front of him, his face crimson as he groped around for his trousers. “Inès, please, I can explain,” he began.

  But Inès was no longer looking at Michel. She was looking at the woman who had been beneath him. “Céline?” she whispered in disbelief.

  The other woman’s naked breasts hung huge and tender, her skin stretched pale and tight over her swollen belly as she groped around for blankets to cover herself. Inès could hardly believe what she was seeing. How could Michel betray her with someone she knew, someone who had pretended to be her friend? And all while Céline was carrying Theo’s child in her womb! It was unimaginable.

  But then, in a terrible flash of clarity, Inès understood the truth in front of her. How had she been so blind? “Your baby,” she whispered to Céline, who looked stricken but still hadn’t said a word. “It is Michel’s, isn’t it?”

  Michel was speaking now, as he fastened his trousers, but his voice sounded far away. Inès was alone in a tunnel of grief. She knew the answer in her bones before Céline said the words.

  “Yes,” Céline whispered, tears coursing down her ruined face. “I’m so, so sorry, Inès!”

  Inès couldn’t find the words to reply. Instead, she slowly backed out of the cave, and then she turned and ran. Their pleas for forgiveness echoed behind her and then faded into nothing.

  • • •

  It wasn’t until Inès was in the car, flying through Ville-Dommange in the moonlit darkness, that she began to cry. She had been in the house for ten minutes before climbing angrily into the Citroën with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder, and in that time—as she packed and threw clothing on—Michel hadn’t come after her. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t emerged from the cellars at all, and neither had Céline. Even when caught, even when cornered, they had chosen each other. And in a strange way, that hurt more than anything.

  As the shadows of Reims came into vi
ew—sooner than they should have, for Inès was driving far too quickly—her grief had begun to crystallize into something darker: fury. Cold, hard fury.

  She swerved to avoid a dead animal in the road and nearly careened into a ditch, but she managed to right the car at the last minute, the tires protesting on the dirt. By the time she rolled into the dark center of Reims, she was vibrating with the force of her anger.

  She parked a few blocks from the Brasserie Moulin and ran there, hugging the shadows, hoping beyond hope that the place was still open. It was; Edouard was tidying things behind the bar while Edith tended to the only customers in the place, a long table of laughing German officers, some of them so drunk they were flopped onto the table, half asleep. Edith was leaning in close, listening to something one of the Germans was saying, when the door banged closed behind Inès. Edith’s head jerked up, and several of the Germans spun to stare at her.

  Relief coursed through Inès—her best friend would know what to do—but the feeling was short-lived. Edith charged across the restaurant, her face frozen in anger, and grabbed Inès by the arm.

  “Edith, I—” Inès said.

  “What are you doing here?” Edith hissed, already dragging her toward the stairs in the back of the restaurant.

  “I needed to see you, Edith, because—”

  “Don’t you see that I’m in the middle of something important?” Edith said, glancing over her shoulder and flashing a fake, sunny smile in the direction of the Germans she’d just been talking to. One of them waved pleasantly and returned to his conversation.

  “Please, Edith.” Inès was crying now. “Michel has betrayed me, and—”

  “I want to talk with you, Inès, but I can’t right now. Those officers over there were just discussing battle plans. I need to hear what they’re saying. Go wait for me in the apartment.”

  “But—”

  “Now, Inès!” Edith hurried away, and Inès glanced at Edouard, who was glaring at her from behind the bar as he filled beers. A few of the Germans were looking in her direction, but they returned their attention to their drinks as soon as Edith hustled back over with a fresh tray. Inès continued to weep as she hurried up the stairs, letting herself into the apartment.