“Then the Germans came.”
“First they annexed Austria, then they conquered Czechoslovakia. They took over the Sudetenland and marched into Prague. When Hitler marched his army into Poland, war was declared. We thought we’d beat them. We all believed it would be over in a few days. How could Hitler quash the might of France? It was unthinkable. The 1939 harvest was washed away by rain. The wine was thin, dilute, like dishwater. The peasants have a legend about wine and war: to announce the coming of war, the Lord sends a bad crop; while the war rages, He sends mediocre ones; to mark its end, He sends a rich, bountiful crop. The crop of 1939 was the worst in a hundred years!
“The Rosenfelds remained at the château. Since Hitler had come into power a steady stream of Jews had been pouring out of Germany into France and England and the eastern European countries. There were rumors of Jews being murdered, but no one believed them to be true. Then, in November 1938, nearly one hundred Jews were murdered in a single night.”
“Kristallnacht,” I said and he nodded grimly.
“In spite of this, the Rosenfelds felt safe in France. However, they were desperate to safeguard their wine. They had tens of thousands of bottles in the labyrinth of cellars that lie under the château. So Gustave Rosenfeld decided to wall up the best vintages, 1929 and ’38, in particular. The children found it very exciting. We supposed it to be nothing more than a precaution. None of us truly believed Hitler would get past the frontier. Gustave and I laid the bricks while Anouk, Françoise, and the others ran around with Pauline collecting spiders to place there, so that they would spin webs and make the walls look much older. You see, parts of the cave are four hundred years old.”
“Why weren’t you enlisted to fight?”
“I was thirty-seven and asthmatic. They allowed me to stay on to run the vineyard. The boys I worked with marched off to war with enthusiasm and arrogance. Not one of them returned.”
“What happened to the Rosenfelds when the Germans came?”
He shook his head, almost bald but for a thin layer of white hair like the webs those spiders had spun over the walls of the cave. “Gustave went off to war. The rest of the family were taken away, never to be heard of again. At the time we thought they would be freed at the end of the war. We worked on with that hope in mind. But they perished in the camps. I cannot bear to think of their suffering. I hope to God the end was quick and painless. The château was requisitioned by Colonel Dieter Schulz.”
“My father.”
“He was tall, handsome, upstanding. It is no surprise to me that your mother fell in love with him. He declared that he wouldn’t touch the wine and that he would treat everyone with respect. However, wine had to be sent to Germany by the crate and towards the end of the war, Goering himself descended on us to choose the works of art to be crated up and sent back to Berlin on his private train. It is now widely accepted that he looted some of the most valuable Jewish collections for himself.”
“Goering stole the Rosenfelds’ art collection?” I was confused. “Why did he not steal The Gypsy Madonna?”
“The Gypsy Madonna?”
“It’s a painting by Titian. It once hung at the château. My mother gave it to the Metropolitan just before she died.”
“I know nothing about that. As far as I know, Goering plundered everything. I remember him: a fat, self-important dandy with blond hair and any number of medals hanging from his uniform. I bet he spent much of his time looking in the mirror, gloating. He swaggered about with an entourage of officers in the most ludicrously extravagant uniforms, sipping champagne, wandering about the hall as if he owned it. He chose three or four paintings, a tapestry, and silver from the dining room. I don’t know exactly what he took, but Anouk said he pilfered the most valuable things in the château.”
“Did she hide anything?” I asked.
“Besides the wine? I’m not sure, but it wouldn’t have surprised me. Anouk was well educated and cultured. She knew a Michelangelo from a Raphael.”
“Did they have other paintings of such value in the house?”
“Goering believed so; otherwise they wouldn’t have been worth taking.”
“And my father?”
“Your mother fell in love, I think, the first moment she laid eyes on him. He had charisma. He was tall, like you, and broad-shouldered. Of course, he was an important officer of the German Reich: he radiated power, and that is very alluring for a young woman. I despised him for stealing my Anouk, but I concede that he was a gentleman and a kind man. He fell in love, too. I cannot blame him for that. Everyone fell in love with Anouk.”
“But you continued to work at the château?”
“That was my life and besides, to be without her was unthinkable.”
“I went to see Père Abel-Louis…”
“May the devil take his soul,” Jacques said venomously.
“I think that is imminent.”
“What could you want with him?” He stared at me almost accusingly, as if the mention of his name was in some way traitorous.
“Because I wanted to torment him. But he is already tortured by the things he did in his past. He told me that he married my parents in secret.”
“Yes, he collaborated too. He traded in human beings, Mischa. Did he tell you that?”
“I assumed…”
“It was because of him that the Rosenfelds were sent off to die in the gas chambers of Auschwitz. That those small, defenseless children were denied the right to grow up. Hannah, Françoise, Mathilde, André, and Marc.” He fired their names at me like bullets. I was startled. “He not only betrayed them but every Jew in Maurilliac. Why do you think he lived in such comfort when the whole of France was starving to death? I bet he didn’t tell you that!”
“He said he betrayed my mother so that she wouldn’t tell people what he had done.”
“And they branded her body like an animal.” I must have looked shocked, for he said, “I see he didn’t tell you that.” He snorted in defiance, then added in a very soft voice, “Your mother was taken into the Place de l’Eglise with three other women who had collaborated with the Germans. They were stripped naked. Their heads were shaved and they were branded on their buttocks with red-hot irons, like pigs. Did he tell you that? No? Do you know what they branded? The swastika. Your mother would have carried that around with her until the day she died. Monsieur le Curé stood by and watched it all happen. By doing so he condoned it. And you? Surely you remember?”
“I remember,” I muttered.
“They would have killed you. I threw myself against them but I was powerless in the midst of so many. The Americans saved you, Mischa, and they saved your mother. If it hadn’t been for them you would have both been murdered.”
“And you?”
“I defended you as well as I could. After that I was an outcast too, but I never once regretted my actions. I loved Anouk and I always have.”
“You said once that my father was a good man.”
“I meant it.”
“What happened to him?”
“I don’t know, Mischa. He left in the summer of 1944 and he never returned.”
“Didn’t my mother want to know what had happened to him?”
“Again, I don’t know. She never spoke of him. Once he had gone she had to struggle to survive on her own with a small son. I assume he was killed in action. He had wanted to take your mother to Germany. Had he lived, I believe he would have been true to his word.” He looked at me for a long moment, then put down his coffee cup. With a groan he pushed himself up from his chair. He suddenly appeared much older, as if opening the past had robbed him of some of the years he had left. “I have something to show you.”
He walked stiffly over to a chest and opened the small drawer at the top. He rummaged around until he pulled out the brown envelope he wanted. He ran his thumb over it for a moment before passing it to me. On the front was written “Jacques Reynard” in my mother’s script. My head spun with recognition. It
was the note she had left for him the night we departed for America. The last he had ever heard from her. With trembling fingers, I opened it and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper.
Dearest Jacques,
Tonight I leave to start another life in America. I cannot bear to say good-bye. I don’t think I could leave if I had to tell you to your face. You have loved me for almost as long as I can remember and I have loved you back, although not in the way that you have wished. My gratitude is so great that my simple words cannot adequately express it. Do you remember those days at the château when we laughed in the sun, had picnics on the beach, and drank fine wine? Do you remember when we built the wall in the cave and stole kisses behind it? I still visit the dark places in my heart, Jacques, for those are the memories I am most proud of. Do you remember when we hid the Jews in the cellar and smuggled them out of France? Do you remember when you stood by me, branded and bald like an animal on a farm? Do you remember loving my son as your own? Playing with him in the vines? Taking him out on your horse? Do you remember when, in spite of all the pain, the hopelessness, the terror, we had each other and still managed to laugh together? My darling Jacques, I will always remember. Don’t forget me and Mischa, because we will never forget you.
My love,
Anouk
I read the letter over and over until the words were blurred by my tears. I folded it and replaced it in the envelope. Jacques didn’t speak, but stared into the flames with sadness. I held the envelope and reflected on her words. The people of Maurilliac had punished her when all the time she had worked for the Resistance, risking her life to save others. She had never told me they had branded her. Perhaps she assumed that I would remember. She didn’t know that I remembered the horror of my own fate more than hers. If only we had talked about it instead of assuming a common understanding.
“You and my mother rescued Jews?” I asked finally.
“There was a Jewish family in Maurilliac that Abel-Louis hadn’t yet informed on. When the Rosenfelds were deported, Anouk feared they would be next. We hid them in the middle of the night and sustained them for a month before we managed to secure their safe escape into Switzerland.”
“You worked for the Resistance too?”
“In my own small way. It started with one family, but grew to be many more. Your mother’s code name was Papillon. She was a very brave butterfly.” Once again he looked at me steadily, his wrinkled old eyes weary but wise. “When I said your father was a good man, Mischa, I meant it. He knew we had Jews in the cave, but he turned a blind eye. You see, he loved Anouk. He would have done anything for her, even compromise his position and risk his life.”
“I remember the names carved on the wall. Léon, Marthe, Félix, Benjamin, Oriane.”
“You have a better memory than I,” he said.
“There is something else,” I added, remembering the young man who had appeared in my mother’s album. “Did my mother have a brother?”
“Yes. He was called Michel.”
“What happened to him? She never mentioned his name.”
“Your mother was a survivor. If she had to close down in order to survive, she closed down and moved on. So it was with your uncle. They were inseparable as children and extremely close as teenagers. When war came, Michel was enlisted and went off to war with the flower of French youth.”
“Was he killed?”
Jacques shook his head. “No. He discovered Anouk’s relationship with your father. He told his parents and they disowned her. They had once been a close family but this drove a wedge between them and the rift would never heal. Michel marched off to war and never returned. When you were born, she named you after him: Mischa.”
“What happened to my grandparents?”
“At the end of the war they moved away. Tarred with the same brush, they could no longer live in Maurilliac. They were devastated by Anouk’s public humiliation, and you, Mischa, were a constant reminder of her collaboration. They had relations in Italy. As far as I know your mother never regained contact. They must have died without ever having forgiven her. You see, her father fought in the first war. In their view, to love the enemy was a terrible betrayal, tantamount to treason. They couldn’t understand and they certainly couldn’t forgive.”
“Why didn’t my mother ever talk to me?” I exclaimed, exasperated.
“Because she wanted to forget the things that hurt her. Why allow them to hurt you too? She loved you more than anyone else in the world. You were all she had. She wanted you to grow up without all that baggage. Now you’re grown up, you’ve found out for yourself and you’re old enough to take it.”
“She knew she was dying. There were agonizing months of steady decline. Why didn’t she tell me then? After all, I wasn’t a boy any longer.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It was all in the past. Why dig it all up again?”
“Didn’t I have a right to know about my father?”
“What more could she have told you?”
“What about the saving of Jews? I could be proud of that.”
“Maybe if she’d started, you’d have asked more questions and she’d never be able to stop. Anouk didn’t like to dwell on things that made her sad. As I said, she shut down and moved on; that was her nature. You have to accept her the way she was.”
“And you?”
“I have had a good life and I have been happy. Just because I loved your mother doesn’t mean I denied myself pleasure with others. I compromised and made do.” He leaned forward and took my hand. His was small compared to mine, but I suddenly felt like a little boy again. “But you’re my consolation, Mischa. I never had children of my own, but I have you. Let’s not talk any more about the past. I want to be a part of your future.” He looked at his watch. “It’s never too early for a glass of wine. Let’s drink to your return and to the future; then I want you to tell me about your life. That way I can be part of it too.”
33
I remained with Jacques until midnight. We drank together, drowning our tears and our laughter in the wine that is the blood of Bordeaux. I wasn’t really fit to drive back to the hotel, but I knew I would meet Claudine in the morning and wanted to be there. We embraced for the last time. I think Jacques knew that he would probably never see me again. He was old and the sands of his life were running out. It would be years before I came back again, if I ever did, and by then he’d be gone. “Why not settle back here?” he asked in an attempt to keep me nearby.
“My life is in America,” I replied. But he knew the real reason.
“There’s been too much unhappiness here,” he said with a gentle nod of understanding. “Leave it all behind, Mischa. You must move on now, as your mother did. And so must I.” We embraced, savoring the strength of the bond that had enabled us to be close again. He looked old and fragile in the doorway, holding his beret in his hands, turning it around and around. I waved out of the window as I drove my car back past the barns and out into the lane. I caught him in the mirror one last time; then he was gone.
I drove back through the darkness, leaning forward to see past the fog in my head. I had to concentrate. My mind was whirling not only with wine but with all the things Jacques had told me. What had touched me most, though, was the fact that he had loved my mother all those years and held no bitterness. He had watched her fall in love with my father and bear his child. Yet, he had loved me as his own. I realized that true love is unselfish and unconditional. I didn’t think I could love like that. I wanted Claudine for myself, no matter what. Yes, I wanted to rescue her from her unhappiness, but I wanted to alleviate my own. I held Jacques in high esteem, for mine was a selfish love.
I managed to reach the château without losing my way or falling asleep. The night porter looked surprised to see me as I staggered in, doing my best to walk straight. I smiled at him and greeted him heartily, which was so out of character that he blanched. I made my way to my room and fell on the bed. I thought I’d rest a little before u
ndressing. When I next opened my eyes it was morning. I ordered coffee in my room, threw open the curtains and windows, and let in the crisp morning air. The sun blazed with enthusiasm, catching the small particles of ice that floated on the air and making them twinkle. I felt serene. Jacques had enlightened me about many of the mysteries of the past. I felt I understood my mother more and wished that she were alive so that I could discuss it all with her. I believed she had hidden The Gypsy Madonna for the Rosenfelds in good faith, expecting them to return at the end of the war. She could not have predicted their fate. I supposed that she had kept the painting all those years for fear of being accused of theft. It was understandable. How smug she must have felt when Goering preyed upon the house for valuable art. He didn’t take the best as he had presumed. I felt proud of Papillon.
I showered and shaved. My thoughts turned to Claudine. I waited for her to telephone. When she did, the sound of her voice ignited my longing and I was once again seized with jealousy. “When can we meet?” I asked with my usual impatience.
“This morning, on the bridge,” she replied. The idea of another walk filled me with frustration but I didn’t feel I could voice it over the telephone, so I agreed.
“I missed you,” I said instead. “I missed you all weekend.”
The Gypsy Madonna Page 29