When the steam train finally hauled into Lausanne, women threw flowers on the tracks and scattered them on the platform in welcome. A choir of children sang and the men, standing back, had casually assembled a guard of honour to applaud and guide the prisoners as they made their way off the train. One kind soul gave Jerome a patch to cover his left eye, which stared into the distance, milky and blind. Miraculously, a French tunic was given to him and the sleeve on the side of his missing arm, from the elbow down, was pinned neatly back, as another kind Swiss helped him to shrug into it. His limp was pronounced but not troublesome and he politely declined the use of a crutch.
Jerome paused on the platform, feeling to all intents as a returning hero, and yet these were not his compatriots. There were thousands of them; their joyful noise felt solid, as though he could be lifted up on it and carried triumphant through the streets. Some of his fellow soldiers were openly weeping; other had expressions of awe. One fellow stumbled against him as if swooning.
‘We’ve left ’ell and found ’eaven,’ the man exclaimed as Jerome struggled to steady him, nearly losing his own footing.
Jerome could only nod, too choked up to speak.
Guided by more smiling Swiss, who were obviously part of the official humanitarian team, and escorted by military personnel, the soldiers headed for a new life in Lausanne were finally ticked off and transported to their separate accommodations. Jerome found himself staying in a swish hotel not far from Lake Geneva. His room was tiny, up in the gods of the building. It was his, no one sharing with him, which was the final surprise. It had been so long since he’d had space to himself that he had forgotten what it was like to have privacy.
‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant,’ his escort said in flawless French. ‘There are no notes that tell us of your injured leg, or we would have made better arrangements for your accommodation. I will certainly make sure a walking stick is made available.’
He looked at the man who had helped him make it this far with an expression of surprise. ‘Thank you for the stick but please, no apology. I don’t think you can imagine what this feels like. And I am fine – I expect the stairs are good for me. I can’t thank you all enough for this generosity.’
‘We are glad to help in any way we can.’
‘But you have food shortages too, surely?’
The man nodded. ‘Even so, it is the only way we can make a contribution. We were shocked four years ago when neutral Belgium was invaded and we have been offering humanitarian aid since 1916. I wish we could have received you sooner.’
Jerome wanted to shake his head at the graciousness of this man, who was obviously emblematic of his people. A coughing fit caught both of them unawares and the man watched with sympathy as Jerome doubled up and struggled through the attack, gasping for air as the spasm wracked his body. He wheezed to stillness and gave a wan but apologetic smile. ‘And all of this is truly for me? I have to admit, I’m not used to having my own space.’
The man shrugged kindly. ‘There is no tourism in Switzerland, Lieutenant. No one takes holidays here any more – the hotels in the Alps are only too happy to fill their rooms with internees. And this hotel has been used to having German and British travellers in particular, so you can imagine it is more than glad to have people staying again.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Er, a few formalities to get through, Lieutenant. Um, you understand that while you are a guest here, you are also considered by the Germans to be their prisoner and so we have agreed to keep a certain level of discipline.’
Jerome nodded. This room alone felt like freedom. ‘I have no problem with that. What about moving around the town?’
‘Roam freely, Lieutenant Bouchon, but do not go beyond its outskirts. You understand our relationship is based on trust, and while we do not need to be made aware of your every movement, we are relying on the internees to observe the rules so that we can continue to offer internment to the sick and injured prisoners without complaint or interference from Germany.’
‘I have no intention of breaking any rules.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant. If you would read and sign that understanding right here,’ he said, pointing to a dotted line on a form, and Jerome saw his alter ego’s name.
‘I have something important to ask.’
‘Yes? How can I help?’
He pointed. ‘It’s just that . . . I am not this man.’
His companion looked bewildered. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know. It is complicated. But I am not Lieutenant Jacques Bouchon.’
The man blinked. ‘But you’ve been answering to that name?’
‘I have. As I say, it’s complicated.’
The man snapped his file closed. ‘Oh, this is most unusual and troubling. Who are you, sir?’
‘I am Lieutenant Jerome Méa.’ He reeled off his company and division but knew the man was no longer paying attention. ‘Perhaps we need to take this to someone in command?’
‘Yes, yes . . . we most certainly do. Oh dear, this is perplexing. This, I suspect, will take some time, Lieutenant. I have no idea of the protocol. How has this come about?’ Before Jerome could answer he held up a warding hand. ‘Actually, it is best you don’t explain to me for I will surely confuse others, and it is right that they should hear it from you. Can you leave this with me for now?’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset —’
‘No, please. It’s just that we can usually count on German record-taking and we pride ourselves on keeping strict, accurate files.’
‘This is no one’s fault. It is a misunderstanding that dates back several years. I will explain it all when you can find the right person for me to speak to.’ Implicit in his words was the recommendation that neither of them allow a chain of different people to carry this story forward, as information had a way of being changed with each telling. ‘I am patient, sir,’ Jerome assured. ‘And I am very grateful for everyone’s help and patience with me.’
‘I was going to mention that we can try to contact family for all our internees, but in this case it would not be prudent for me to be contacting family members of a surname that does not match your records. I’m afraid we would not permit telephone calls either, not that the telephone exchanges are particularly reliable in France right now. But I hope you understand our predicament?’
‘I’ve waited this long, what’s a few more days?’ Jerome offered as graciously as he could manage. He didn’t want to let on how his heart felt like it was trying to break free of the cage it had been in. He needed to reach Sophie.
His companion still looked mortified. ‘My apologies.’
‘Please, don’t apologise. You’ve all been so kind . . . none of us are used to soft living, soft voices, soft care.’
‘You are welcome. I’ll leave you settle in. Sir, for now we will have to refer to you as Lieutenant, er, Bouchon, until we receive formal confirmation.’
Jerome felt like crying but he gave a crooked smile. ‘I do understand.’
‘Thank you, sir. The evening meal is served from six, breakfast from six in the morning.’ He tried a smile and looked relieved that he could. ‘You’ll get used to the routine. There is a small folder on your bed with all the details relating to your confinement and the rules we must adhere to.’ Jerome nodded. ‘I’ll let you rest, sir. There is always someone at reception should you need anything.’
‘I don’t know how to show my thanks.’
The man smiled. ‘No need. You will likely begin doctors’ appointments and treatment the day after tomorrow. We are giving everyone more than twenty-four hours just to settle in.’
His escort departed, closing the door with a gentle click. No more clanging doors or studded boots of jailers. Dinner served at six? He wondered if there was a formal suit awaiting him in the tiny wardrobe. He would laugh if the situation weren’t so moving. He wished all the men he’d become close to at the prison could share in his good fortune. It seemed unfair that one had to be desperately
ill or injured to win this reprieve, but he couldn’t be more grateful. Maybe his last few months of life would be pleasant enough and allow his mind to fill with memories of Sophie and the life stolen from them both.
‘So come on then, Death,’ he murmured. ‘You’ve let me glimpse heaven. Don’t find me before I can find Sophie again.’
22
ÉPERNAY
July 1918
Charlie was back in his sling, using the brace at night to keep his arm and wrist in the right position for healing. It had been weeks since the confrontation with Louis Méa and Sophie had been absent for all of it; the news of the discovery of her husband’s uniform was surely the cause. He had become resigned to their separation, giving her time to sort out her thoughts and loyalties.
Being without close contact, without watching her moving, hearing the voice he loved and catching a glimpse of the smile that could undo him, had given him valuable thinking time. That he loved Sophie was not in question. It was whether she had fallen entirely in love with him . . . and could ever love him enough to let go of Jerome. Jerome was like a wraith that threaded his way around them and now he was back, larger than life even, with the finding of that tunic. Charlie’s instincts told him that Sophie was no closer to finding Jerome than she had been before the tunic was found, but he suspected that Jerome’s ghost was now less invisible, more solid. He felt a keen sympathy for her – it must seem like that ghost had watched them kiss, watched every glance between them, each time their fingers had curled and uncurled around each other’s hands. Jerome was there: in her thoughts, in her heart . . . in her bed, which is where he wanted to be. He wanted Jerome to be dead as much as Louis clearly did but he would accept Jerome alive and her happiness if it meant getting rid of the odious Louis from her life.
Already after three weeks of hard work in the vineyards, doing the best he could with the one arm that obeyed his commands, he was feeling stronger and indeed brighter about rejoining the army and following whatever protocol it required of him. To all intents the war was over but the Germans weren’t fully convinced, and until they were, Europe remained locked in battle and constant vigilance.
When not working he used the quiet time to get to know the property better, walking the vineyards and chatting to the workers who didn’t seem suspicious of his questions. He’d peeped into all the sheds and tiptoed through the tunnels, beginning to gently test his strength by clasping a lemon. He didn’t have the strength to squeeze it yet but just being able to cup it in his palm meant that all the right bits were working. He enjoyed helping the women with the riddling – something he’d learned how to do quickly one-handed – and teaching his two little friends how to play jacks with pebbles. And then there had been that morning of excitement when Clemence picked up the stones and placed them in his hand and he felt the tips of her fingers against his skin. For a man who believed his hand to be dead to sensation, it had the effect of someone emerging from the shade of a forest into warm direct sunlight.
He had closed his eyes momentarily to savour it, to be sure he wasn’t imagining it. It was fleeting, replaced now with a vague tingling in his palm. His fingers still felt numb but there was definitely a strange stirring as though nerves were beginning to reawaken. Could it be happening?
There was hope, suddenly.
There was a future . . . as a whole man. It was a start. Something to build on. A life to believe in.
He left his small friends playing their new game and wandered down into the tunnels to be alone with these thoughts of an actual future, albeit without Sophie, but a future nonetheless. He wanted to think about what his next move might be. Down here in the cellars it felt like a different world to the trenches they had been forced to live in on the front line and yet it was still cave-dwelling. Down here in the darkness it felt like a womb, where life was safe and it never changed.
He strolled past a lit cavern where men were pouring water over barrels and moved closer to watch, his expression inquisitive. The men were used to seeing him around the property; many had begun to raise their hands in a wave to him. He enjoyed the pleasure of doing the same, as though acknowledging friends.
One removed the cigarette hanging from the corner of his lip. ‘A precaution, Captain,’ he answered the unasked question, then shrugged as if to say, Who is to say if it might work?
‘Against what?’
‘Madame is a savant in her sensitivity to temperature change. She feels it is slightly warmer than we want.’
‘Fermentation is going faster than you prefer?’
‘Than Madame prefers,’ Étienne qualified with a grin from an unshaven, deeply lined face. Charlie figured the older man preferred just as much as Madame. He surely had many years of experience. ‘We want the fermentation to go slow and steady so the champagne can develop its flavours. I fear we didn’t put these barrels deep enough.’
Charlie nodded, pleased to learn yet another new fact about the making of champagne. He had begun to believe it was nothing to do with chemistry, although chemistry was its foundation. No, this was an art like any other; just like painting, storytelling, writing poetry, it required emotion. Chemistry removed all emotion.
‘Have you always worked here?’ he asked.
‘I worked with Madame’s father. As a four-year-old I used to run messages for her grandfather.’ The older man nodded, reminiscing. ‘My father worked for House Delancré.’
Charlie gave a low whistle. ‘The history of people alone in this firm is incredible.’
Étienne chuckled. ‘Just us old-timers now. All our sons are fighting or . . .’
Charlie watched him struggle. He stepped closer. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Both sons dead. No one to continue the family name in this business. One died before he could marry, the other before he could make his wife pregnant. They were both Delancré men too.’
‘Any other grandchildren?’ he dared to ask.
The man nodded. ‘My daughter has given me two. My granddaughter is a joy. I hope this war ends before it can claim my grandson to its armies. He too is Étienne.’
Charlie gave him a crooked smile. ‘Ask your daughter to let him keep your family name as part of his.’
The older man stared at him, his large, gnarled hands clutching the edge of the oak barrel, and considered this. He looked away and stroked the curve of the wood, darkened over years of use. ‘I am in here,’ he murmured. ‘There’s a part of all of us in this wine. A little bit of each of our souls flavours the new year’s champagne.’
Charlie loved what the old man was saying; it spoke to his heart about everything he had begun to think was important in life. Suddenly material needs were irrelevant; he’d lived four years without anything more precious than a weapon with which to kill others. He didn’t want one ever again in his possession, but it had taught him how few elements of his earlier life mattered any more. Promotion, status, reputation, earning capacity, the dream of owning a car, buying some bricks and mortar he could call his own: it all seemed worthless in the face of what he’d experienced. None of it could have helped him on the battlefield. War, certainly in the trenches, made all men equal – reduced each one to a finger on a trigger.
Emotion mattered, though, in the trenches. It was what drove them, kept them strong. Love mattered too: for each other, for those back home, for the country they defended.
But this . . . this spiritual connection that Étienne spoke of and he suspected Sophie shared – that too was something worth fighting for it. It spoke of the way of life of a region and its people, of ancestry over generations, of the future; it attested to achievement in striving to be better than previous years – not for payment or status but simply for satisfaction. In these barrels lived all of Sophie’s workers down the decades, as the barrels never fully gave up their past . . . always holding back a little to be absorbed by and scent the next vintage.
Charlie wanted to leave the old fellow with some of the optimism he was feeling. ‘Your sons
are alive in these cellars – within these barrels and within the wine they hold.’
Étienne smiled with pleasure. ‘Madame retained her family name. Her husband never seemed to mind that she did.’
That hadn’t occurred to Charlie until now. ‘A modern woman.’
Jerome tapped his large nose. ‘A modern man. I gather he encouraged this. He wanted her to be proud of her family name, to keep it going. And if only they’d had a son, the boy, well . . .’ He sighed.
Charlie nodded. ‘She is young. There is time.’
‘Yes, yes, she is young enough, Captain, but they were the most popular couple of the whole region. Everyone loved this pair. They were well matched in every way, from here,’ he said, pointing to his face to suggest they were a handsome couple, ‘to here,’ he added, now pointing to his temple. ‘Madame Delancré is as wise as she is beautiful; she is the perfect mix of her parents, bless their souls. And she finally found the right man, who respected her intelligence, encouraged her use of it. It is very hard on all of us that he is no longer with us.’ The old man gave a shake of his head. ‘That is a barrel that would be very hard to fill.’
Charlie felt guilt gnawing at him. Who was he to try to muscle in on what sounded like the perfect relationship? The perfect man had already found Sophie. Charlie forgave himself for falling in love with her – what man could resist? – but these simple words from old Étienne were telling as much as they were illuminating: he really did need to step back and not put her in an awkward position. Maybe he should leave immediately. Facing her again would only make it hard for both of them.
‘Will young Étienne work here?’
The Champagne War Page 26