by Sharon Maas
‘Juliette – I have not yet met her.’
‘But you have surely seen her. She is that very pretty girl, always laughing. Today she wore a red dress and a yellow headscarf. I saw her playing with your girls, dancing with them.’
‘Oh, that is Juliette! But – so you and Max just decided to love each other from a distance and pine for each other? And you say the French are not romantic!’
‘Everyone has a bit of romance in their souls. But one cannot let romance rule one’s life. One must be practical. Everything else is just sentimental, and sentiment is what ruins a good life. We should not take our sentiments and our dreams and secret desires too seriously, otherwise we are a little ridiculous, and weak. We must be stronger than our feelings. That is what Max and I have decided. It would be too complicated otherwise.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘I am right, no supposing about it. And now I am going to open a bottle of our muscat. You will love it. It will round off a most wonderful day and a most wonderful conversation. You are the only person in whom I have ever confided about Max.’
‘But Margaux, you must learn to hide it better.’
‘Then I will have to dig out my eyes. The eyes cannot hide the truth; they cannot hide love. And when I am with him, my eyes cannot help but speak. They speak to him; but you have read their language and discovered my secret. So we must drink to that.’
She filled the two glasses.
‘It’s so sad, though! People who love each other should be together!’
‘Not at all. It’s being apart that lends true depth to love. For if you cannot be together in body you are forced to dig deep inside to be together in the soul. All great love stories are built upon that premise. So you see, you need not feel sorry for Max and me. We are having a wonderful love story, the kind that would have you weeping in a motion picture. No, that is not a call for you to cry and go all sentimental. Drink up your wine.’
Chapter 9
1935
That was the first of five harvests the Lakes lived through in the Alsace. Wonderful years followed. Years in which Elena and Sibyl learned that grief can be managed; that it must not debilitate. That their father would live on deep within their souls, never forgotten, but that their lives would continue and their souls would flourish and this place, this Alsace, this château, would provide the nourishing soil out of which they would thrive and grow and blossom. It was the best of lives.
The girls attended the local school and made friends with the local boys and girls; with the Laroche children as their adopted brothers and sisters acceptance was immediate, and as for the language – well, what had seemed gibberish in those early days soon opened its secrets and, young minds being fresh and open and absorbent, in a matter of weeks both girls were chattering away in Alsatian as fluently as their friends.
Inevitably, there was a pairing off. Elena and Marie-Claire, being of similar age, became the best of friends. Leon and Lucien, of course, stuck together, as boys of that age do. And Sibyl: well, Jacques might be three years older than her, and a boy; but ever since he had thrust that puppy into her hands she adored him. And, indeed, he was adorable.
Yes, Jacques had a rough exterior. Having grown up without a mother, he was somewhat lacking in table manners – but then again, his favourite food was baguette and cheese, Munster cheese from further south in the Alsace, which he ate by tearing off great chunks of both, and never while sitting at a table. Jacques liked to eat on the go; and he was always on the go. He disdained schoolwork, preferring to help his father in the vineyards, and had an innate knowledge of all growing things, of all things that came from the soil. It was as if he had roots himself; that his feet, so often barefoot in the summer, absorbed all the wisdom earth could give, a wisdom far beyond the knowledge found in books. Jacques simply knew; but he could never explain how he knew.
When he was not needed in the vines Jacques would disappear into the cool shadowy forests of the Vosges foothills. Often he took Sibyl with him. It was like being under a protective wing.
Sibi, he called her; or ma petite soeur. For although he had a sister, only a year younger that Sibyl, Juliette was a daddy’s girl, who clung to her father and did not need the closeness or the guidance of a big brother. That year’s age difference also made Juliette just a little too young for the adventures Jacques could offer, or to tune into his depths. Sibyl was open to both. Her mother, trusting Jacques, allowed her to follow him into the woods, and to learn. She learned to fish and to hunt; he taught her the use of a slingshot, though she would never, as he did, catch a rabbit with one, and skin it, and roast it over an open fire. But she could watch him do these things; and she learnt which berries and mushrooms were edible and which not, and where to catch the best fish, and how.
It was possible to be silent with Jacques and never feel that the silence had to be broken with words, because the silence was complete; a heart-filling silence in which she felt such communion with him it was as if they shared a soul; and from year to year as she matured she began to understand that silence was Jacques’ method of communication, the way he learnt what the earth had to teach him. The trees, the birds, the insects, the plants, the vines and grapes, all these manifestations of nature had a common root, a common source, a common wisdom, something that could be known only by going there oneself; and going there meant learning a secret silent language. And slowly Sibyl learnt that language.
They were glorious years. All the more devastating when they came to an abrupt end. Sibyl was twelve, Jacques fifteen, when she was torn from him.
* * *
By 1934, Elena and Sibyl had become fully fledged Alsaciennes; Sibyl especially, could remember no other home, loved no other homeland; it was as if the previous years, the years as a happy English family with dear Papa at its head, were entirely wiped from her memory by their tragic climax and she could not remember England.
But sinister rumblings came from beyond the Rhine, as Oncle Jean-Pierre never ceased to remind them. Germany was a threat that loomed over them, cautioning them not to relax too deeply into their cradle of bucolic confidence. The now-complete fortifications along the Rhine, the Maginot Line, seemed to underscore, rather than relieve, the fear of every Alsacien that Germany lurked just over the river, eyeing their homeland with avarice and injured pride.
‘Losing the war was bad enough,’ said Jean-Pierre – the same litany he had sung at that first dinner, five years ago – ‘but losing the Alsace, well, that was the final thorn in Germany’s side. They want us back.’
‘But we are French. How…?’
‘French, German, French, German: mere labels. What the Germans want is our wine, our wealth. The Germans may be known for their expertise in building machines. But do not be deceived. The German soul is essentially more subtle than this skill in engineering might indicate. Remember, this is the land of poets and philosophers: the land of Dichter und Denker, as every German will remind you. It’s the country of Bach and Beethoven and Goethe and Rilke, minds capable of soaring to the heights. But such a mind can also descend to the depths; if such a mind is not tended, it can convert to its opposite, can become wild and murderous. The German mind longs for Truth and Beauty, and when it is denied those things, anything can happen. That is why the Germans are so admiring and so envious of the French: because we are so much more refined. But it is above all our wine that seduces them. And ours is the best. Mark my words, Margaux, Kathleen. The Germans will be back. They do not take defeat lightly.’
‘Oh, you with your scare stories! Jean-Pierre, it is too much. I do not want to hear this nonsense and neither does Kathleen. Anyone would think you want the Germans to come, just to prove yourself right. Me, I do not believe in poisoning the present with fear of the future.’
‘We must be realistic. Our government would not be going to the expense and trouble of creating fortifications from Switzerland to Luxembourg if there were not a present and real danger. Do not hide your he
ad in the sand, Margaux. It is serious. It’s not just about fear; it’s about preparing ourselves just as France is preparing itself. The Maginot line is real and we too must do something real.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Margaux took a sip of her riesling and caught Kathleen’s glance across the table. She rolled her eyes (Jean-Pierre is such a scare-monger!); but Kathleen could not grin back nor raise her glass. Once again, Margaux was dismissing Jean-Pierre on principle, not listening to his actual words. This had to do more with the state of their marriage than with logic, with the undercurrent of contention between the two that festered constantly in the atmosphere, a disturbance in the air that could not be precisely identified as it simply hung there, nebulous, a vibration that could only be picked up by an inner mental sensor; and only by a person who had such a sensor; and Kathleen did. And, unlike Margaux, Jean-Pierre’s words sent a cold shiver down her spine. On this question of Germany she could only wonder: what if it is true?
‘I am telling you not to hide your head in the sand.’ Irritation trembled in Jean-Pierre’s voice. Yet another fully fledged quarrel hovered on the periphery, ready to burst.
Once again, Kathleen found herself in the role of peacemaker. Could these two not see that sometimes it was just their choice of words, the tone in which they were relayed, that was the problem? That provoked? Why could one not have a sensible conversation, especially about a matter so serious? Why could Jean-Pierre not see that ‘telling’ Margaux not to ‘hide her head in the sand’ was guaranteed to ensure that she stuck that very same head still deeper in the metaphorical sand, precluding a sensible discussion? Why did marriage have to be so hard? Between her and Mervyn it had never been like this. They had listened to each other, even if there was disagreement, and chosen words that were respectful to the other. Now, it was her role to appease, as ever. The matter was too serious to allow it to descend into bickering.
‘Jean-Pierre, if you are right, is there anything we could do? I mean, it’s frightening to think of Germans at the gate but we are now in peace so surely we should…’
‘Thank you, Kathleen. Margaux, your friend is again much more astute than you.’
Kathleen cringed. There it was again. An accusation that would only raise Margaux’s hackles, an unwarranted belligerence which furthermore placed her, Kathleen, in the middle of a potential squabble. And suddenly, she was angry. For a woman who was basically mild-mannered, who never rose to any bait, who represented the best of English courtesy and equanimity in all circumstances, that was a sign, an indication that it was time to speak up, to let that anger out.
‘Would you just stop it, you two!’ she cried, and hammered her fist on the table.
Margaux and Jean-Pierre, shocked into silence, stared at her. She continued.
‘Just stop it! This is not the time to fight or to live out whatever grievances the two of you have! This is serious! Margaux, I’m sorry but in this Jean-Pierre is right. Do you not read the newspapers? Listen to the radio? Are you not aware that there’s a new leader in Germany, a chancellor who is full of rhetoric and aggression? Have you not heard the name Adolf Hitler?’
Margaux’s jaw wobbled like that of a goldfish. Sounds came out of it, but none intelligible.
‘Thank you, Kathleen! As I was saying…’
‘You stop it too, you smug prig! This isn’t the time to show how clever you are. You might be right but it’s not enough. The question is, what will happen? And is there anything we can do? Any way we can prepare?’
Margaux sniffed. She wore an expression of boredom, but at least she seemed to be listening.
‘If Germany attacks…’ Jean-Pierre began.
‘Germany is not going to attack,’ said Margaux. ‘If they do come they will just steal our wine. All I care about is the wine. We must hide it.’
And so it was Margaux, she who had adamantly and over years denied that there was any danger from across the Rhine, who not only won the argument but instigated the work that would occupy them over the following year.
Château Gauthier was built upon a huge cellar, one that extended far beyond the footprint of the house. It was Margaux who decided that part of the cellar should be sealed away, and their best and most valuable wines should be hidden behind a secret wall; Margaux who organised the building of that wall, and, in fact, built most of it herself, with the help of Kathleen, the children, Max and Jacques Dolch. And Jean-Pierre.
Somehow, Margaux’s concession that the Germans were, after all, a present danger, and her decision to prepare for a possible invasion, was all that was needed to bring appeasement into her marriage. Jean-Pierre, he who never once had dirtied his hands with physical work before this marital ceasefire, and never would be seen in anything but an immaculate suit, astounded them all by rolling up his sleeves, changing into an old pair of dungarees that had belonged to Margaux’s father, and plunging right in, carting bottles and crates back and forth across the cellar, mixing the mortar for the brickwork, and even driving the rickety old van to fetch bricks from the brickwork in Colmar.
But Kathleen was still not satisfied. ‘It’s one thing to hide the wine,’ she said to Margaux one night while the cellar reconstruction was underway, ‘but what about people? What about us? If Germany attacks…’
‘Germany is not going to attack.’
‘Then why all the work downstairs? Why hide your best wine, if you are so sure?’
Margaux only shrugged. ‘Just in case.’
‘So you concede there is a possibility of attack?’
‘I do not concede anything!’ Margaux raised her voice and emptied her riesling. ‘But if – and it is a very remote if – Germany invades, and proves to be a threat, well, humans are more flexible than wine. Also, humans can adapt to circumstances, fight, or flee, as the situation demands. Wine – well, it would be totally exposed. We could not hide it overnight. Thus we must take precautions, where our precious wine is concerned.’
‘But, Margaux, the Germans are said to be a brutal people. You have children. Are you not afraid for your children? If they attack…’
‘I am saying they will not attack. The worst they will do is invade and reclaim the Alsace, just as they have done in the past. If – well, if they come, the worst that will happen is that we will all change nationality, become German instead of French, and life will go on. Grandpère changed nationality four times! That is why I am more concerned with them plundering our cellars than with actual danger to our lives. They will want the winegrowers to continue producing the best wine in the world, but for the German market, not the French. It is a politician’s game. Why would they harm us? And anyway, remember, we have the Maginot line and we are safe behind it.’
‘But, Margaux, Jean-Pierre said…’
‘Oh, Jean-Pierre! He is such a big pussy with his fear of the Germans and he has infected you. This is because he is Parisian, and you are English, une femme anglaise. You hear the word German and immediately you are in panic, because the Great War is still haunting you. The past has you hobbled with fear of Germans. We Alsatians, we do not fear the Germans. They are just across the river; they are people like you and me, they grow wine too; we have that much in common. It is the politicians playing games that create such fears. I do not fear even Adolf Hitler himself – let him come! They say he does not drink wine; he is a teetotaller, and so he does not scare me, such people are rabbits. Me, I only fear soldiers coming here to my house waving their weapons about and raiding out cellar. But if you are really in fear you are free to go, back to England, with your children.’
Kathleen said nothing, because she was indeed fearful of the Germans, the great bogeyman of the last war. She wanted her children to be safe, and Jean-Pierre’s warnings of war, substantiated by newspaper and radio reports, chilled her to the quick. The very voice of this Hitler person – well, if a voice alone could freeze blood, his was that voice. For all the love she held for Margaux and this idyllic place, she had to put the girls first. One
could not be sentimental at a time like this.
But, the girls! They had made a home here. It was basically the only home they knew, England having receded far into the past. Could she take them away? Could she desert Margaux, who seemed to have her head stuck deeply in the sand? Could she truly return to England? After all, she was no longer the forsaken and devastated wreck she had been at first arrival. And a situation was developing… and six months later, a decision had got to be made.
* * *
Kathleen had put her time in the Alsace to good use. Once her initial desolation had receded –a process that had taken a little more than six months – she had taken a course in shorthand and typing in Colmar. Soon after that, she had, through Jean-Pierre’s contacts, secured a job as a bilingual secretary with a wine merchant in Strasbourg. She worked three days a week, rented a room in a boarding-house for working women two nights a week, and came home to Château Gauthier for long weekends. It was an ideal situation.
It was there that she met the Englishman Edward Clark. He was in his mid-forties, half-French, not particularly handsome but certainly not ugly, an accountant at the same company, practically her boss, but anything but bossy. He was courteous, engaging and slightly boring, which did not bother Kathleen, for boring seemed to her to preclude the dangerous venture that had destroyed her first marriage. She sought not new adventures but stability, solidity, calm, characteristics that practically defined Edward. She found she was developing feelings for him. Not exactly the romantic passion that had first drawn her to Mervyn but something quieter, perhaps deeper. Edward certainly had feelings for her, as he revealed on one of their after-work rendezvous in Colmar.
He came to Château Laroche one weekend, as a test. The girls liked him: test successful. A year later Edward was offered a job as the company’s agent in London; a well-paid promotion, which it would be ridiculous to decline. Edward asked Kathleen to marry him, and to move back to England with him. She accepted his proposal. Secretly, and full of guilt, for fear of impending war was not the least of her motives.