The Winemaker's Wife

by Kristin Harmel

  “I will try to find a doctor in the morning,” Madame Foucault promised. “Just keep him warm. It’s a good sign that he’s eating.”

  “How can I ever thank you enough?” Céline asked, never taking her eyes off her son.

  Later she dozed while Theo kept watch over the baby breathing on her chest, and when she awoke, Theo kissed her gently and stroked the baby’s forehead.

  “He is a miracle,” Theo whispered. “To arrive so early and to live . . .” He wiped his eyes. “A miracle.”

  Céline searched his face, but she saw no sign of suspicion, and she relaxed slightly. “A miracle.”

  “What should we name him?”

  “I—I don’t know yet.” The truth was, she wanted Michel to have a say in the decision.

  She had just fallen asleep again, cradling the baby, when there was a pounding on the front door. Theo tensed and gave Céline a worried look. “Who could it be at this hour?”

  Céline could only shake her head. Her mind spun. How would she protect the baby if the Nazis had arrived? “I’ll come with you,” she whispered, and Theo helped her out of bed and handed the baby to her before they made their way across the parlor.

  Theo swung open the door, and there stood Inès, her hair wild, her eyes glassy and red. “Oh, thank God. I’ve come to warn you that—” Inès began, but then her eyes slipped past Theo and landed on Céline and the sleeping bundle in her arms. She stopped abruptly. “You had the baby?”

  “What is it, Inès?” Theo asked. “What’s wrong? What did you come to tell us?”

  But Inès didn’t answer. She was frozen, and as the baby stirred slightly and turned his head toward Inès, she gasped. “The baby looks just like him,” she whispered, and Céline’s eyes filled with tears, for Inès was right. How had Theo not noticed it yet, the slope of the baby’s nose, the point of his chin? He was the spitting image of Michel.

  “Inès, I—” Céline said, her voice hollow, but Inès was shaking now, her hand over her mouth, and before Céline could say another word, Inès turned and ran, stumbling across the dark garden to her own empty house. Michel still hadn’t returned.

  “What was that all about?” Theo asked as he shut the door.

  “Perhaps she was just worried that the baby is so early,” Céline said without meeting Theo’s gaze.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “She’s very strange these days, isn’t she?”

  • • •

  Despite her sheer exhaustion, Céline couldn’t sleep. As the hours ticked by, her worry over Michel’s absence slowly morphed into terror. Something had to be terribly wrong. And what had Inès been trying to warn them about? Céline’s stomach swam with fear.

  Just before midnight, she heard the sound of an engine approaching. She leapt up, still cradling her sleeping son, and pressed her face to the window. An unfamiliar car drew to a slow halt outside, and then, as she held her breath, Michel emerged from the driver’s seat, shutting the door softly behind him. The car must have been the one he’d borrowed from the neighbor. As he glanced at Céline’s cottage, he didn’t seem to see her in the window. He turned and hurried into his own house, and Céline closed her eyes and backed away, thanking God that he was safe and wondering what came next. She knew Inès would tell him about the baby.

  As if sensing Céline’s tension, her son stirred and began to root around. She helped him find her nipple and sat down with a sigh as he suckled weakly, his tiny hands resting on either side of her breast. “Dodo, l’enfant do,” Céline sang in a whisper, the lullaby her own mother had used to soothe her to sleep two decades earlier. “L’enfant dormira bien vite. Dodo, l’enfant do. L’enfant dormira bientôt.”

  When the baby was done eating and had fallen asleep again, Céline dozed a bit on the couch in the parlor, slipping in and out of consciousness. She dreamed that her father and grandparents were somewhere in the darkness, crying, but their sobs sounded just like her own new baby’s tiny mewling: helpless, sad, hungry. She awoke with tears streaming down her face and realized that there was a faint knocking on her front door. She glanced at the clock. An hour had passed since Michel had returned home. Surely it was he.

  When she opened the door, the baby still cradled against her, Michel looked exhausted, but the instant his eyes landed on his son, something changed in his face. Where there had been worry, there was now only joy. Where there had been fear, only hope. “He’s beautiful,” he said softly. His eyes traveled up to Céline’s. “My God, are you all right? You must have been so frightened.”

  Tears welled in Céline’s eyes. “He’s too early, Michel, but he’s strong. I think he will survive.”

  “God willing,” Michel whispered. “May I . . . may I hold him?”

  Céline glanced over her shoulder. “If Theo wakes up . . .”

  “Can we go down to the cellars? I will help you on the stairs.”

  Céline hesitated, then half smiled. “I suppose it is never too early to show our son his future.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, though, she wanted to take them back. Had she sounded greedy? Had she assumed something he hadn’t offered? She had imagined a life stretching before them, after the war, in which she and Michel made a home here, taught their child to make bubbles, grew old together, found happiness. But what if that wasn’t his dream, too?

  But then Michel smiled. “One day, he will know the caves like the back of his hand.” He reached out and touched his son’s tiny fingers, and Céline’s heart swelled.

  “I will get him an extra blanket.”

  Michel helped her to wrap the baby tightly against the cold, and then they shut the door quietly behind them and made their way into the night. Michel guided her through the darkness by the light of his lamp, and then he supported her as they made their way slowly and carefully down the stairs to the cellars.

  In the cave with the hidden room, they found the blankets just as they’d left them the night before, when Inès had discovered them and the world had tilted on its axis. Had it only been a day ago? As Michel helped ease her down gently into the pile of softness, Céline could almost pretend that it had all been a bad dream, that Inès didn’t know the truth, that danger wasn’t swirling around them like a cyclone.

  Michel asked to hold the baby, and as Céline gently handed the sleeping bundle over and watched Michel stroke his son’s face tenderly, joy filled her, buoying her, and she imagined all of them floating away on the strength of their happiness.

  But then she remembered Inès, the wildness in her eyes, the pain that Céline had inflicted, and her bubble burst. “Michel, I’m worried,” she said. “When Inès got home earlier, it seemed like there was something important she wanted to say, but then she saw the baby . . .”

  Michel nodded, never taking his eyes off the infant. He touched his son’s tiny face once again. “I was concerned, too, but I spoke with her. Everything is fine. She was just upset about yesterday, understandably so. She’s resting now.”

  “She was coming to warn us about something, though.” Céline couldn’t rid herself of the uneasy feeling. “What if something is wrong, Michel? What if she told someone about what we did to Richter?”

  “She wouldn’t do that,” he said firmly. “Remember, she was involved, too. And she’s a better person than that. She wouldn’t betray us.”

  Céline hung her head, well aware of her own betrayal. “I know.”

  “Besides, who would she have told but Edith? And certainly we can trust Edith.”

  This, at least, made Céline feel a bit better. “I suppose you’re right.” Céline was still uncertain, but she settled back beside Michel, and he handed her the baby, whose blue eyes had opened. He blinked up at Céline and cooed, and all thoughts of Inès were suddenly gone, because all that mattered was this, right here, right now. “What should we name him?” Céline asked.

  “What does Theo say?”

  “He is not Theo’s child.” When Michel didn’t say anything, Céline added, “I was thinking per
haps David.”

  “He who stood up to Goliath,” Michel whispered, “and came out alive. Céline, it’s perfect. David. Our son, David.”

  “Our son, David,” Céline echoed. And finally, as their tiny son fell back asleep, Céline did, too, exhaustion overtaking her at last. She knew that as long as Michel was by her side, she was safe.

  • • •

  Céline awoke some time later to the sound of doors banging open, heavy footsteps on stone stairs, distant screams overhead. “Michel!” she cried, scrambling to her feet as she pulled David closer. “Wake up!”

  Michel had dozed off beside her, and now he woke abruptly, panic flashing across his face as he scrambled to his feet and moved in front of Céline, backing her into the cave, as if he could hide her with his body from whatever was coming. “What is it? What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know!” Jarred awake by his parents’ hasty movements, or perhaps by their fear, David stirred and began to cry. Céline hastily offered a breast, but he couldn’t latch on, and his screeches grew louder.

  “He has to be quiet,” Michel said urgently. “They’ll hear him. They’ll find us!”

  “I know,” Céline said. She was crying now, her tears falling on David’s tiny face. “Hush, sweet baby,” she murmured, but her voice shook, and the tremor in it only made him cry harder.

  There were shouts in German, heavy approaching footsteps, screams growing closer. It was Inès shrieking, calling out Céline’s name. Céline pressed herself into Michel, the baby wailing between them, and he held her tightly and whispered in her ear, “I will love you forever. Never forget that. I don’t regret a moment of this.”

  And then the Germans were there in the entrance to the cave, four of them, their guns drawn and pointed at Céline, Michel, and the baby between them. “Runter, runter!” one of the men barked in German. “Bas, bas! Down on the ground!”

  “Please, don’t hurt the baby!” Céline cried, but the men ignored her as they rushed in and pulled a screaming David from her arms. One of them disappeared with him, and another shoved Céline to the ground, his knee driving into her back as she screamed and sobbed.

  “Halt die Klappe!” the soldier yelled in German. “Shut up!”

  But Céline couldn’t stop, because she couldn’t see David, and his screams were fading, and all that mattered was protecting him, and if she couldn’t do that, she had failed, and her life was worthless. Michel was on the ground beside her, his head being smashed repeatedly into the ground until he stopped yelling.

  “Michel!” Céline cried, and he turned, his eyes blurry and unfocused, but he was alive.

  “We are here to arrest Michel Chauveau for the murder of Hauptmann Karl Richter,” barked one of the men, hauling Céline to her feet and shoving her into the hall. She looked around wildly for her son. One of the soldiers held him, tucked under his arm like a loaf of bread, but David was alive, his tiny legs windmilling loose from his blankets as he screeched.

  Céline choked on her sobs. “Please, please, whatever you do, don’t hurt the baby.”

  “Shut up, Jew. Were you involved, too?”

  And then, in the chaos, somehow Inès was there, her face red, her eyes wild. She grabbed the baby from the German, who looked like he was about to protest, but Inès began to scream again, an almost inhuman, animal-like sound, low and keening, and the German backed away from her, holding his hands up.

  “No, no, there’s been a mistake!” Michel’s voice, thick and muffled, came from beside Céline. “Céline had nothing to do with Richter. It was only me, me alone.”

  “No,” Céline moaned. “No, no, no!”

  “Genug!” one of the Germans, the one with the mustache, barked. “Enough of your lies! How could you think you would get away with it?”

  “No, it wasn’t them at all!” Inès wailed. “It was me! It was my fault! I killed him! I killed Richter!”

  Céline looked at her in shock, this unfamiliar cyclone of wild hair and tears. In Inès’s arms, David continued to cry, and Céline instinctively reached for him, which earned her a blow across the face with the butt of a German pistol. The world swam around her, and David’s shrieking faded, swallowed by the high pitch of Inès’s screams.

  “Enough!” the mustached German roared. “You are Inès Chauveau? We know you weren’t even here when Hauptmann Richter was murdered. Why would you tell such a lie?”

  “But, I—”

  “Get out!” the German bellowed. “Antoine Picard has vouched for you. You were with him. Now go, before we arrest you, too!”

  Céline choked on a hysterical sob as her mind reeled. Who was this Picard who was protecting Inès? And why was Inès trying to take the fall? It was only then that she understood, with a sort of confused finality, that this arrest was happening because of something Inès had set in motion when she fled to Reims the night before, something that could never be undone.

  “I’m so, so, so sorry!” Inès sobbed, backing away. Her eyes were on Céline. “I never meant—”

  The mustached German officer interrupted. “Enough! Hand the baby back and go! Now, before I change my mind and arrest you, too!”

  “No!” Céline whimpered, reaching out again for David, earning her another blow to the face. The caves spun as she blinked and tried to stay conscious.

  “What could you possibly want with an innocent baby?” Inès demanded, her expression vicious as she stared down the officer.

  He sneered at Inès. “What could you want with him? He’s a Jew, isn’t he?”

  “Not by your Nazi definitions, and you Nazis love to play by your rules, don’t you?” Inès shot back, her eyes blazing. “He has only one Jewish grandparent, and anyhow, he was born right here in France. Besides, do you want the murder of an innocent baby on your conscience? What kind of a monster are you?”

  The German stared at her before grunting and waving his hand dismissively. “What do I care, anyhow? You want a mischling bastard, you take it. Now go! You’re nothing but a worthless whore anyhow.”

  Inès flinched and turned to Céline. “I’m so, so sorry, Céline. I never meant—”

  “Just protect David,” Céline said. The soldier holding her jabbed his gun hard into her spine, sending pain shooting through her. She winced and managed to add, “Protect him, Inès. I’m begging you.”

  “But—”

  “Go, Inès, before they change their minds! Please!”

  Inès hesitated for only a second more before turning and running, the baby clutched in her arms. Céline watched them disappear, David’s cries fading into the chalk walls like they had never been there at all, like he had been merely a dream. And in the silence that he left behind, Céline knew she would never see him again. She also knew, with equal certainty, that her own sins had brought them to this moment, a moment somehow inevitable from the first time she had kissed Michel, the first time she had pushed away her doubts and let herself fall in love with someone who was never meant to be hers.

  As the Nazis led her out of the cave, up the stairs, and out of the cellars, shoving Michel along behind her, she caught a glimpse of Theo in their doorway, staring at her in the early morning light, anger carved into his features. He didn’t move, didn’t try to help her, and she realized that he knew.

  Inès and David had vanished, and she could only pray that Inès would understand, would know that the price for her betrayal was that she would be forever responsible for keeping David safe. As the Nazis shoved her into one car, and Michel into another, Céline looked out the window one last time at the rolling vineyards, the land that had held all her dreams.

  twenty-nine

  JUNE 2019

  LIV

  Grandma Edith didn’t speak again until the driver had deposited them in front of their hotel and she and Liv had made their way upstairs. In the suite, she sank into the tufted red couch. “Well,” she said at last, “I see that you made up with Julien.”

  “Um, yes.” Liv sat beside her uncer
tainly. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Back there, at the Maison Chauveau, you seemed very emotional.”

  “What is it with young people today needing to constantly state the obvious?” She sighed. “Besides, I could ask you the same question. One second you’re moping, the next you’re practically fornicating with young Julien. Do I need to be concerned about you?”

  Liv could feel her cheeks flaming. “No.”

  “So you’ll be all right, then?” Grandma Edith asked, and there was something softer about her tone now. “Because I won’t be around forever to help you pick up the pieces, you realize.”

  “Is that what you call showing up at my door in New York and insisting that I accompany you on a harebrained trip to France?”

  Grandma Edith shrugged. “Is it so terrible that I worry about you? I love you, Olivia, and I want to know that you’re strong and happy. I want to know that Eric didn’t break you.”

  “Are you just trying to change the subject so that I won’t ask you about the Maison Chauveau?”

  “Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want an answer.”

  Liv stared at her grandmother before finally looking down at her lap. “Look, I think I needed to get away from Eric, miles away, to realize that I don’t really miss him at all. I miss being me. Somehow along the way, I let myself be erased, and I don’t ever want to do that again. I don’t know what my life is going to bring now. But I like to think I’m finally headed in the right direction.” She smiled as she recalled Julien’s words of advice. “Let’s just say I’m open to seeing where the tide takes me.”

  “But don’t just let the tide carry you.” Grandma Edith leaned forward and grasped Liv’s hands, squeezing with surprising ferocity. “In life, my dear, you must actually go after what you want. You can’t rewrite the past, but you can choose to live with your whole heart in the here and now.”