The Winemaker's Wife

by Kristin Harmel

  No one wanted Inès. She was a fool in everyone’s eyes, an unwelcome nuisance. She hated Michel right now, but she hated herself more. How had she been so blind? The minutes ticked by, and a hot ball of anger roiled in her stomach. Where was Edith? Hadn’t she seen how distraught Inès was? Surely she had collected whatever information she needed by now. Was Inès really so insignificant to her? The longer she sat on the tufted sofa in the center of Edith’s apartment, the more her frustration mounted until she was filled with it, inflated like a balloon ready to burst.

  A half hour crawled by, and then another. From below, Inès could hear voices, laughter. The Germans were still drinking, still carousing, still spilling their secrets. It was becoming clear that Edith wouldn’t be upstairs anytime soon, and the loneliness was closing in. Inès stood up, a snap decision made. Without giving herself time to reconsider, she let herself out the back entrance and hurried down the stairs. She couldn’t go home, but if not to Edith, where else was she to turn?

  There was just one person in the world who had actually wanted to be around her. And though he wasn’t a good man, he was a man who had seen her, even coveted her. Despite her misgivings, she needed to be seen now, by someone, or she would go mad. She would go to Antoine, just for tonight, and worry about the consequences in the morning.

  She hugged the shadows as she traced the familiar route to the rue Jeanne d’Arc, just two blocks away. She hadn’t seen Antoine since January, two months ago, and she hoped he hadn’t replaced her with a new maîtresse.

  But his apartment was dark and silent, and when she knocked again and again, no one came to the door. He wasn’t there. She sagged into herself and began to turn away when she realized something. She still had his key! Was it still tucked into the lining of her handbag, where she’d kept it hidden from Michel?

  She fished around, tearing the fabric aside, until her fingers settled on something small and cold. She closed her eyes and exhaled in relief. She withdrew the key and turned it in the lock, letting herself into the apartment. Though she had hoped for some comfort from Antoine, she realized as soon as she closed the door behind her that she was grateful to instead find herself alone. In the dark loneliness, there would be no one to judge her, no one to ignore her, no one to reject her.

  She lit a lamp she found near the door, and immediately the light glinted off the small collection of bottles Antoine kept in the corner for entertaining. She wondered with a surprising surge of jealousy whether he’d had other women drinking with him since she had departed. Pushing the voices in her head away, she headed for the bottles and poured herself a large snifter of cognac. She swallowed it down in one large gulp, the brown liquid burning her throat, searing warmth into her belly. A few minutes later, the magic had reached her brain, and all of a sudden, the things that had seemed so terrible a little while ago were more manageable. She poured herself another drink and, taking the bottle with her, went to sit on the sofa in the parlor. The more she drank, the more it felt like things might just be all right.

  • • •

  Inès awoke sometime later to the scratching sound of a key in the lock, laughter and voices outside the apartment, a creaking door, and then silence. “Who’s there?” Antoine’s voice cut through the darkness, and beneath it, the murmurs of a woman.

  Inès struggled upright. Her head throbbed. She’d lost count of how many snifters of cognac she’d had, how long she’d been sitting in the dark. Now the room came slowly into focus, and Inès could see Antoine glaring at her from the doorway while the rail-thin, heavily made-up blond woman behind him—clad in towering heels and a silk dress—gaped at her.

  “Inès?” Antoine said, breaking the heavy silence. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry,” Inès said. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  He cursed under his breath and stared at her for another minute. “Wait here,” he barked, then slammed the door, shutting her in and taking the blonde with him. When he returned ten minutes later, he was alone, his expression furious.

  “Who was that?” Inès asked in a small voice.

  His face purpled with rage. “You can’t possibly be serious. You have no right to ask that. You ended things between us two months ago, Inès. And now you stand here in my apartment, questioning me? How did you even get in?”

  “I still had your key. I—I thought you’d be alone.”

  “What, you thought I was sitting around pining for you?” He sneered at her. “I forgot you the moment you left, Inès. What are you doing here? What is the meaning of this?”

  She opened her mouth, ready to unload on him, but what came out instead was a single, exhausted sob. “I need you,” she whispered, trying—and failing—to pull herself to her feet. “I didn’t intend . . . I mean, I . . .”

  “Are you drunk?” Antoine asked, recoiling in disgust. “What is wrong with you?”

  “My husband,” she mumbled. “He was sleeping with the wife of the winemaker, who’s pregnant, but it turns out that the baby isn’t her husband’s, and that my husband got her pregnant, and I think he’s actually in love with her, and . . .” She trailed off, no longer sure of where she was going with this.

  Antoine stared at her, and she couldn’t tell whether the look in his eyes was one of revulsion or pity. “Christ. Come to bed, Inès. You’re a wreck. You can tell me in the morning.”

  “But in the morning, nobody will love me,” Inès moaned, the words running together. A yawn swallowed the rest of what she wanted to say, and Antoine all at once looked very tired.

  “You need to sleep,” he said, but she was already drifting off into the blackness as he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

  • • •

  When she finally opened her eyes again, it was too bright. She squinted at the clock in the corner of the bedroom. Noon? She sat up abruptly, which made her head spin. How had she slept half the day? Michel must be worried sick. But then, in an instant, it all came rushing back—Céline, the baby, her midnight flight to Reims—and she sank back into the pillows, horrified. Had she really let herself into Antoine’s apartment last night, poured cognac down her throat until she could hardly see, sobbed to him about Michel? Her head throbbed, reminding her that the answer was yes.

  A key turned in the lock, and Inès heard footsteps in the apartment. The door to the bedroom cracked open, and Antoine stood there. He was dressed in a suit, and he looked dashing, victorious, his silver hair slicked back and his eyes gleaming. “Ah, she’s finally awake,” he singsonged. He strode into the bedroom and opened the drapes all the way, sending far too much sunshine pouring into the room. Inès put her hands over her eyes, but Antoine just laughed. “You had quite a lot to drink last night, my dear.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Inès groaned, thrown by his cheerfulness. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I think I interrupted you on a date.”

  “Oh well, I would have been furious if not for two things,” he said brightly. “First, the young lady I’ve been seeing is a nitwit, very easily convinced. I was able to explain to her that you were just a Nazi whore, come to deliver a message from the officer you were fucking.”

  The vile language made Inès recoil. “Antoine, I—”

  He held up a hand, stopping her. “Second, you were very forthcoming last night about the events that have gone on at the Maison Chauveau as of late. And since my German friends have been quite concerned about the whereabouts of a certain Hauptmann Richter, I was very happy to be able to deliver them this morning the answers that they sought.”

  “Wh-what?” The room had gone very still.

  “The news that such a prominent champagne house owner was involved in his disappearance?” Antoine chuckled. “I thought that Hauptmann Bouhler’s head was going to explode when I gave him the news.”

  “Oh my God,” Inès choked out. “Antoine, what have you done?”

  “What have I done?” Antoine gave her an amused smile. “I have only done my duty. Can
you say the same?”

  Inès’s mind crawled back to the previous evening, but her memories were sluggish, covered in sludge, and she couldn’t undredge them. “Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it! Please, take it back. You have to tell the Germans that I was wrong!”

  “Oh, but we both know you weren’t.” He took a few steps forward and reached out to stroke her face. She pulled back as if she’d been burned. “Don’t be so dramatic, Inès. Your husband and his mistress will get what they deserve.”

  “Oh God, no!” Inès tried to rise from the bed, but Antoine pushed her back down.

  “Dear Inès, you had far too much to drink last night,” he purred. “Stay, sleep it off for a little while.”

  She tried to shove past him, but he pinned her to the bed. “I have to go,” she whimpered. “I have to warn them. I have to—”

  “When I’m done with you,” he said. “Didn’t you come here for comfort?” He was already unzipping his trousers, keeping one hand firmly on Inès as she struggled to pull away.

  Inès screamed, but Antoine covered her mouth, his cocky smile replaced instantly by a sneer.

  “Think of it this way, Inès,” he said, climbing atop her. “The sooner this is over, the sooner you can run back home to Ville-Dommange.”

  As he pulled up her skirt and thrust himself inside her, Inès bit her tongue, so hard that it drew blood. What had she done? Were Germans storming the Maison Chauveau? Were they hauling away Céline, Michel, Theo? Or were they executing them on sight?

  When Antoine finally finished and shoved Inès out of bed, she staggered toward the door, clutching her torn clothes around her. As she slipped her shoes back on and ran out into the street, sobbing, she knew with a terrible certainty that she was already too late.

  twenty-eight

  MARCH 1943

  CÉLINE

  After Inès had stumbled upon them in the cellars, Céline had tried to run after her, to apologize, to explain. But Michel pulled her back, holding her gently by the arms. “What would you say?” he asked miserably.

  “But, Michel, how can I just let her go without trying to make her see that this isn’t just a fling? That I love you?”

  “My darling, that would only make matters worse.”

  And so she had hidden her face in his shoulder and waited in the darkness, feeling the baby swim within her, until they heard an engine start up overhead, growling in the drive before fading into the distance.

  Inès was gone, and with her, any chance Céline had of undoing the damage she had done.

  They made their way back upstairs in silence, and in the shadows, Michel kissed her gently before they parted ways. “It will be all right,” he promised. But she knew he was lying, for how could he know? How could he see anything but doom in the future?

  In her bed, Theo slept soundly, with no clue that their lives had changed forever. Now it was only a matter of time before he knew the truth, too.

  Céline tried to sleep, but she couldn’t. Instead she listened to the sound of Theo’s snores, wondering if this would be the last night she would lie beside her husband. Where was Inès right now? Céline imagined she had probably gone into Reims to seek comfort from Edith. But what if Inès’s flight from Ville-Dommange had been fueled more by anger than pain? What if she did something rash? Céline shook the thought away and chided herself. How could she think such a thing? She was the one who had committed the unforgivable sins here, not Inès.

  She closed her eyes and touched her right cheek. The wound was dry, jagged, peeling at the edges, an indelible reminder of what had happened only a few days ago. But it wasn’t just Richter’s face Céline saw imprinted on her eyelids when she flashed back to the horror that had passed in the cellars. It was the face of Inès, too. Inès, who had come to her rescue. Inès, who had risked everything to save Céline’s life, the life of Céline’s baby. Inès, whom Céline had so coldly betrayed. How had she managed to justify it to herself? She could hardly remember anymore, but she knew it was inexcusable.

  In the morning, just as dawn began to leech over the horizon to the east, there was a knock on their front door. Céline’s whole body tensed. Had the Germans come after all? Theo yawned and stretched, oblivious to her terror. “Who could it be at this hour?” he asked, getting out of bed and heading for the door without waiting for an answer.

  Céline opened and closed her mouth, but no sound came out. She heaved herself out of bed, cradling her heavy belly. Was this it? She slipped her feet into boots, a sweater over her shoulders, and tried to brace herself for the worst. But as she made her way out of the bedroom, it was only Michel’s voice she heard, unnatural, strained. His eyes flicked to hers as she appeared behind Theo in the doorway.

  “Céline, good morning,” he said, nodding formally as if he hadn’t just held her naked last night, as if he hadn’t created the baby swimming in her womb, as if he didn’t know her as well as any man had known any woman. “I was just telling Theo that Inès took the car.”

  Céline swallowed hard, but she found she couldn’t speak.

  “Any idea why?” Theo asked.

  Michel hesitated. “No.”

  “She’s going to get herself killed one of these days,” Theo grumbled, and Céline and Michel exchanged a quick look of guilt.

  “Well, yes, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Michel said. “So I’m going to go over to Monsieur Letellier’s domaine and see if he will let me borrow his car so that I can try to find her.”

  “I’m sure she went into Reims,” Theo said, “to see that friend of hers. You’ll find her at their brasserie, surely.”

  “Yes, probably,” Michel agreed. He shot another glance at Céline. “In any case, I just wanted to let you know where I was going.”

  “Good luck,” Theo said, but Céline still couldn’t speak past the hard lump of guilt lodged in her throat.

  Later, with Theo gone down into the cellars to rearrange some of the newly filled bottles, Céline was moving around the house like a ghost, waiting for news from Michel, when there was a sharp twist in her belly, and then suddenly, liquid was gushing down the inside of her thighs, soaking her dress and shoes. She gripped the back of a chair for support and stared in horror at the puddle forming beneath her. It was too soon, wasn’t it? The baby shouldn’t be here for another month and a half. This couldn’t be happening.

  But it was. Her water had broken, and she needed to get help. Her hands under her belly, her heart thudding, she made her way to the entrance to the cellars as quickly as she could.

  “Theo!” she called into the open door.

  What if God was punishing her?

  “Theo!” she cried.

  What if her baby was in danger?

  There was no answer from her husband, so Céline gripped the rail and made her way carefully into the caves. “Theo! I need you!”

  What if Theo knew, just from looking at Céline, that she’d been lying all along?

  “Theo!” she screamed, and then suddenly, there he was, emerging from a cave and wiping his hands on a small rag.

  “Céline? What is it?”

  “The baby!” she managed. “The baby is coming.”

  “Now? But it’s too early!”

  Her body was wracked by a sudden contraction, forcing her to double over in pain. “Please, Theo, help me.”

  His face was white with fear as he scooped her into his arms and began to carry her toward the stairs. “I’ll have to go get help.”

  “Madame Foucault from the vineyard down the hill is a midwife,” she said.

  “But we don’t have the car. Damn it!”

  This, too, was Céline’s fault. What if her baby died because she’d driven Inès away? “Can you go on foot to fetch her?”

  “I can’t leave you,” Theo said as he carried her toward the house.

  “You must, Theo. We need help. I’ll be all right.” Céline wasn’t sure of this, but the baby would have a better chance if a midwife was here.

 
; He nodded reluctantly. Inside the house, he gently placed her atop the bed and brought her another blanket, a glass of water. She tried to focus on inhaling and exhaling evenly as she rode out another contraction.

  “I’ll take Michel’s bicycle. I’ll be back as soon as I can, Céline. I promise.”

  Céline forced a smile at him through tears. This was all wrong. Michel was gone. Theo still believed the baby was his. Céline was a monster, and this was the beginning of her penance.

  “I love you, Céline,” Theo said before he left.

  “Go, Theo,” Céline replied, because she couldn’t lie anymore, not now. She needed all the help she could get from God.

  • • •

  The baby arrived, tiny and purple, just past three o’clock that afternoon with Theo looking on as Madame Foucault, a gossipy woman with severe white hair and an enormous waistline, coached a screaming Céline through breathing and pushing. It was a boy, hardly longer than Céline’s forearm, weighing around two kilos, less than a small bag of sugar. But Madame Foucault massaged his chest and pumped his lungs, and after a terrifying minute of silence, he finally cried out, the tiny sound like the mewl of a cat, and Céline wept with relief.

  As the sun crept toward the horizon, Michel still hadn’t reappeared, and the baby was shivering incessantly, even when wrapped in blankets, even when cradled in Céline’s arms. She heard Madame Foucault whisper to Theo, “I’m not sure he’ll survive.”

  But he had to. He had to live, or what did any of this matter? So Céline stroked his tiny head, which was covered in a dusting of black fuzz, and kissed his small cheeks, which were still too blue. “My baby, my baby,” she whispered to him again and again. “You are a fighter, like your father. Please, my darling son, fight. Fight for me.”

  By the time the old woman’s husband arrived to take her home, darkness had fallen, and the baby was finally breathing regularly. His tiny eyes—blue and clear—had opened as he gazed up at his mother in wonder, and his lips had even managed to find Céline’s breast. He nursed for a little while, his swallows greedy.