by Pam Jenoff
“Yes. That’s why I will always choose Israel. If forced to choose,” he adds.
My anger grows. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t be an American citizen.”
“Since when does citizenship mean blind loyalty? Don’t you ever question the government?”
“I do. And I’m not saying that I don’t support Israel. I understand why we need a Jewish state. But we use the Holocaust as an excuse to set ourselves apart and claim that the rules don’t apply to us.”
“It was genocide!” he explodes. “Six million killed.”
“And what about Rwanda, Yugoslavia, Cambodia?” I demand. “Is Darfur any less horrific? Or does the world just care less because the victims aren’t white and it isn’t happening in Europe?” I pause but he does not respond. “Ari, I’m not saying that the Holocaust didn’t give the Jews a mandate for Israel. But we’ve turned that into some kind of entitlement for aggression. We’ve taken our suffering and made it a sword instead of a shield, using it to tread on others, the same way that our rights were trampled.”
He slams his hand on the dashboard. “You haven’t lived as we do, surrounded by enemies. I mean, imagine it, the very people who want you dead just a few miles away. The entire trip to the border was a shorter distance from our home than the average commute in Washington.”
I stare at him, surprised how heated our discussion has grown in such a short time. Then I swallow, take a step back. “I’m not saying Israel shouldn’t defend itself. But some sense of proportionality, a responsibility toward the innocent civilians . . . ”
“You haven’t been there,” he protests again. “It’s almost impossible to fight an enemy that wages guerrilla warfare, uses civilians as shields, without some casualties. We do what we have to do to survive.”
Frustration rises in me. Ari is a smart man—why is he so blind to the foibles of his government? “One could say the same about the United States,” he adds, before I can say anything further. “You go into Iraq and overthrow the government with little justification. Yet you ignore conflicts where the suffering is far more egregious, like the Congo and Sudan.”
I bite my lip. I’ve encountered such opinions about the United States many times in recent years and, now as then, a knee-jerk reaction not unlike Ari’s rises up in me to defend my government. But he’s right. We’re guilty of the same kind of aggression as Israel, maybe worse, and we don’t even have the geographic proximity of our enemies as an imminent threat to justify our actions. “I don’t disagree,” I concede at last. “I think both countries have taken some actions that are hard, if not impossible, to justify.”
He shakes his head slightly. “And I think that in Israel’s case, the ends justify the means.”
My shoulders slump. Ari is in a place I was not long ago, still unable to acknowledge the weaknesses of his government without allowing his whole framework to fall apart. I push down my instinct to press my point, my insistence upon prevailing. I am not going to convince him now. “Maybe we should just lay off the politics, agree to disagree.”
He does not answer but stares straight ahead at the road, rebuking my peace offering. A minute later we turn off onto a narrower, winding road. In the pale, predawn light I can see that the hills on either side are covered in fields, broken only by the occasional farmhouse. Workers disembark from trucks, beginning their day.
Soon we turn again, this time onto an unmarked gravel driveway. It ends at a stone farmhouse, indiscernible from a dozen others we have passed.
Ari slows the car and just then the sun begins to break over the horizon. Beyond the house the land drops off sharply, revealing a valley, plants bathed in golden yellow light, rows of trellises stretching endlessly below us.
“This is the Conti vineyard,” Ari explains as we get out of the car. “The Contis are one of the foremost winemaking families in the region. Signor Conti is also world renowned for his palate and an expert on authentication. With his connections in the industry, I thought he might be able to help us find Nicole.”
Might, I repeat silently. Have we traveled all night for a possible lead? I want to ask whether he really thinks this man will be able to help, why we could not have ascertained that by phone without leaving the place we had last seen Nicole. But Ari is striding down the path toward the house. I follow, still gazing out across the vineyard at an eagle sweeping low above the plants.
As we near the porch, I study the farmhouse, wondering whether we will be waking them. But drawing closer, I notice a light burning brightly in the front window. A pane of glass in the door is broken, its jagged edges seemingly out of place in the otherwise well-tended exterior.
The door opens a crack and an older woman peers out nervously. Then, recognizing Ari, her face breaks into a smile and she flings the door wide.
“Aaron!” she cries, coming out of the house and kissing him on both cheeks.
“Buongiorno, Signora.”
Signora Conti has to be close to eighty, I guess, with an ample figure and multiple chins. But beneath the padding she has the sculpted bone structure of a once stunning woman. She speaks to Ari in a rapid Italian, pausing to shoot me an appraising glance before saying something to him in a chiding tone. I watch, amazed, as he begins answering smoothly. How many languages does he know?
She ushers us inside. The farmhouse is simple, wide planked wood floors, a fireplace hewn from the stone walls. Behind the large oak dining table that takes up most of the room, there is a kitchen with a window overlooking the valley.
Ari nods toward a small washroom off the rear of the kitchen and I duck into it gratefully. When I return, the older woman leads us to a cellar door at the rear of the room, then steps aside. “The Contis have a fascinating history,” Ari says to me in a low voice as I follow him down the stairs. “Ella Conti is actually a French Jew and comes from a well-known winemaking family. During the war, her family’s vineyards were expropriated by the Nazis and she was sent to a concentration camp not far from here. Franco Conti isn’t Jewish, but he was arrested as a teenager for working with the Resistance. They met in the camp. After the war, they settled here and picked up the winemaking tradition.”
I follow Ari into the dim light below. The cellar is surprisingly large, running twice the length of the house above. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling racks filled with bottles of wine.
From a crude wood desk at the far end of the room, an older man lifts his head. He has wild, untamed hair that is equal parts black and gray, an olive complexion beneath his bushy beard. He is large like his wife, I notice as he rises. But as we near I can see that he is solidly built, thick arms flanking a broad, barreled chest. He waits for us to approach, kissing Ari on both cheeks as his wife had done. Then he extends his hand to me. I reach out to shake it, but he sweeps my hand upward to his lips, whiskers grazing my fingers.
He gestures for us to sit, turning to the wall of wine behind him, scanning it like a librarian among the stacks. Without speaking, he ducks and disappears through a low door behind him.
Ari pulls out one of the chairs in front of the desk for me before dropping into the other. A minute later Signor Conti returns, cradling a dusty bottle like an infant. He produces three glasses from under the desk and fills them, then pushes two toward us and raises the third, as though there is nothing unusual about drinking before breakfast. My stomach, still weak from yesterday’s bender, rolls. But Ari raises his glass, and I can tell from his expression that I need to do the same.
“Mmm,” I say after taking a sip. Though I have never had a discerning palate, I can tell the wine is exceedingly good, with subtle hints of olive, raisins, and fig.
“Signor Conti’s latest vintage,” Ari says to me.
“It’s excellent.”
But the older man wrinkles his nose, setting down his glass. “We had, how do you say, a very dry season.” His English is slow and stilted, but intelligible. He waves his hand dismissively, clucking his tongue. “No, this vintage will be good only f
or the cheap weekend tourists in Málaga.” I look away, embarrassed to have been wrong about the quality. He turns to Ari. “But you didn’t come here to discuss my wine production. How can I help you?”
Before Ari can respond there is a clattering at the top of the cellar stairs. An alarmed look crosses Signor Conti’s face. Then, seeing his wife appear, he relaxes again. “Sí, bella?”
Signora Conti gestures for us to join her. Upstairs, the wood dining table has been covered with a white cloth and set with bright blue stoneware. Plates of cured meats and cheese and baskets overflowing with fresh bread and fruit fill the center, as though company had been expected.
Ari drops into a chair, pushing down his impatience to find out what we need to know and chase after Nicole. Accepting the Contis’ hospitality is a requisite social grace, the price to be paid in exchange for the information we need. Not that it is such a hardship, I muse, as I bite into a still-warm croissant from the basket Signora Conti offers and wash it down with a sip of cappuccino.
Signor Conti reaches to the mantel behind him and uncorks a bottle. “This, I think, you will find more to your liking,” he promises as he pours. More wine for breakfast. Haven’t they heard of orange juice?
Ari takes a sip of the wine, rolls it around in his mouth. “Fabulous,” he says, sounding as though he means it. He tilts his head. “1992?”
“Ninety-three,” Signor Conti replies, and I can tell from the glint in his eye that it is a game the men have played many times before. He turns to me. “Signora?”
Everyone is watching me expectantly now, so I taste the wine, smile, and nod. In truth I cannot tell the difference between this wine and the one we sampled in the cellar, but I do not want to appear foolish by remarking incorrectly upon it once more.
Signor Conti, apparently satisfied, turns to Ari. “Now why don’t you tell me why you are here?”
Ari pauses, chewing on a piece of prosciutto, and I can see him trying to figure out the best way to explain our dilemma, how much to tell Signor Conti. “We’re looking for a woman who works in the wine trade, called Nicole Martine, or Nicole Short.”
The older man purses his lips, as though the bite of cheese he took has soured. “I know of her.”
“Does this have to do with the Chateau Cerfberre 43?” Signora Conti asks. It is the first time I have heard her speak in English and her diction is noticeably more stilted than her husband’s.
“Ella . . . ” her husband cautions. An uneasy expression crosses her face, as though she has said too much.
“In a sense, yes,” Ari replies.
“What’s that?” I cannot help but ask.
“We shouldn’t . . . ” Signor Conti begins. A faint tremor comes into his hand, causing a drop of the wine he is pouring to spill onto the tablecloth.
“No, darling,” Signora Conti says, reaching over and patting her husband’s shoulder. “It is a wonderful story.” She turns to Ari. “But it will go much quicker if I do not try to tell it in English. Perhaps you will translate for me?”
“There is a legend that says a bad grape crop heralds a year of war, and a good crop the coming of peace,” Ari says as Signora Conti begins speaking rapidly in Italian. “The winemakers in France had an awful time in the years just before the war, due to weather and disease. And, having seen it before in 1914, they were terrified about what would happen to their vineyards when the Germans invaded. So they rushed to harvest their grapes and hide thousands of bottles of their best stock wherever they could, behind fake walls, in cellars and caves.
“Their fears proved to be well founded: after the invasion, the Germans installed wine barons, or Weinführers, in each region to deal with the local winemakers and procure wine for the Reich, pillaging in an organized fashion. They set draconian terms, demanding quotas of wine that were impossible to meet with the labor and equipment shortages brought on by the war.”
“I remember it from my own family,” Signora Conti says, speaking for herself in broken English. “We had nothing to treat the wine, no glass to do the bottles. We had to use the fields to plant food instead of growing grapes, so as not to starve.”
“When enough wine could not be produced, the Germans demanded bottles from the merchants’ private reserves,” Ari continues translating as Signora Conti resumes speaking in Italian. “The winemakers responded by fooling the Germans, substituting inferior wines and relabeling them, or even watering them down.”
“The larger community helped, too,” Signor Conti interjects. “They would siphon wine from barrels intended for Germany, even divert entire train cars of wine.”
Signora Conti shoots him a look of annoyance, as though the story is hers alone to tell, then continues speaking. “So the winemakers had a terrible time of it during the war. But there was one house in the Bordeaux, the Cerfberre house, which seemed to be . . . ” Ari falters, searching for the right translation. “Immune, is the word I think, from it all. Their crops flourished and they produced a vintage that was said to be the best the region had seen in a generation. Of course all of the other winemakers were jealous that this house should do so well while they struggled. And it didn’t help that the Cerfberres were Jewish.”
Ari clears his throat, struggling to keep up as Signora Conti picks up speed. “The Cerfberres tried to hide the existence of the 1943 vintage from the Germans. But Herr Baumgarten, the Weinführer for the region, learned of the vintage and demanded that it be produced for him exclusively, so he could make a present of it to the SS leadership.
“Monsieur Cerfberre knew he could not refuse, but he saw an opportunity and was brave enough to negotiate a price: in exchange for the wine, he wanted his family and a dozen of his Jewish workers, including his plant foreman, to be let go from occupied France. Of course, he didn’t dare to negotiate directly with the Nazis; the mayor of the town and his longtime friend, François Mercier, acted as intermediary.
“Baumgarten agreed and the deal was set. But at the last minute someone swapped the bottles for wine from inferior vineyards and stole the real wine . . . ” Ari stops translating and exchanges uneasy looks with Signora Conti.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies quickly. “Just a phrase I couldn’t quite translate.” I glance over at Signora Conti, who purses her lips. “Baumgarten had an educated palate and knew right away he had been duped. He had the fleeing workers stopped at the border and sent to a concentration camp.”
“Did any survive?” I ask.
“Only one,” Signor Conti replies in English, placing his hand over his wife’s.
“You mean . . . ?”
Signora Conti nods. “Javier Cerfberre was my uncle.”
“My wife worked in his vineyards as a girl, learning the craft,” Signor Conti explains, taking in my surprised expression. “There was nothing to return to after the war, so we decided to renew the tradition by starting fresh here.”
“And the others?” I ask, dreading the answer.
She speaks softly, her eyes growing distant as Ari translates. “They disappeared like so many others into the Nazi death machine. The irony is that Baumgarten didn’t hate the Jews. He himself had Jewish relatives. But it was the deception with respect to the wine that he couldn’t abide and my family, as well as those who worked for us, paid with their lives.”
“And perhaps even more ironically, Baumgarten never got the wine,” Ari adds, commenting for himself now. “It disappeared. Some thought it had been taken by the Nazis, others by the Resistance.”
“Until now,” Signora Conti interjects. “Now everyone seems to think this Nicole woman has found it.”
Ari and I exchange puzzled looks. “The wine?” I ask.
“Yes, the Cerfberre 43.” She pauses, turning to her husband for guidance. But he shrugs and looks away, resigned that the story has already gone too far to be retracted.
“We thought that the sale was a fraud,” Ari says.
“It was,” Signor Conti replies. �
��Some say there’s more to it, though, and that the real wine is . . . ” He stops midsentence. “Why are you asking about this?”
“Like I said . . . ” Ari begins. “We’re trying to find Nicole Martine.”
Signor Conti fumbles with the cork, staring hard at the table. “I should not be talking to you about this. But there is the debt . . . ” He looks across the table at his wife, communicating with her silently, debating how much to say. Signora Conti nods slightly, acquiescing. “Some men came by yesterday, well-connected men. They wanted to know if I had heard anything about the wine. I suppose they thought that I might, given my wife’s connection to the house that produced it. They were quite ugly about it.” So that explains the broken glass I saw by the front door of the cottage, the Contis’ nervousness when we first arrived.
“Do you believe the wine has been found?” Ari asks gently.
“So many years, so much has happened. It could just as easily be on the bottom of the sea. I don’t know where it is and I don’t want to. But these men did, which makes it a very dangerous situation. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“I do.” Ari nods. “Signor Conti, do you have any idea where we can find Nicole?”
He pauses. “I don’t know . . . Cyprus perhaps.” Then he presses his lips together.
Ari and I exchange silent glances, agreeing that there is nothing more to be learned here. “Thank you for your hospitality,” Ari says, and I can tell from his tone that he is wrapping things up, laying the groundwork for our exit. “The food was delicious, as always.” Looking over, I am surprised to see that he has finished his entire breakfast during the conversation. I take a few mouthfuls of fruit from my own plate hurriedly, as much to sate my hunger as not to appear rude and wasteful. “I hope you’ll forgive our leaving so soon after such a lovely meal, but we should be getting on the road.”
“But you’ve only just . . . ” Signora Conti begins, and for a moment I expect her to try to cajole us to stay longer. I am suddenly reminded of the hospitality when I was stationed in Warsaw. “A guest in the house is like God in the house,” was the proverbial Polish saying and every visit, no matter the occasion, was liable to stretch into interminable hours of food and drink.