The Lost Vintage

by Ann Mah

  The clock has just chimed quarter to four. I must go and fetch the boys from school. And then we will return home, and I will cobble together something for their supper, chivy them through an evening of minimum noise and squabbling before all of us collapse in our beds, exhausted from the hunger that can never be satisfied.

  7 NOVEMBRE 1942

  Terrible circuit meeting today in which we learned that one of our messengers, Agnès, disappeared two days ago. Stéphane said she was stopped outside the pharmacie with the lining of her satchel stuffed with Resistance tracts. Her position looks very, very bad, but Stéphane assured us that Agnès is bold and fearless, that we can count on her not to talk, and that she will emerge more or less unscathed. I pray he is right, but when I think of her a cold, hard stone settles in the bottom of my stomach.

  Aside from the horrible danger of Agnès’s circumstances, her loss also leaves a great hole in our organization. In the past six months, our numbers have dangerously dwindled, and we have only one messenger to do the work of three. I’ve been laying low ever since Papa’s arrest, but now it makes sense for me to take over a portion of the route, delivering orders and information around the countryside on my trusty bicycle. “If you get stopped, say you are out collecting food for your rabbits,” Stéphane instructed me. I left the meeting with a stack of messages slipped into the lining of my coat, and instructions to collect as much paper and ink from my contacts as I deliver.

  1 JANVIER 1943

  New Year’s Day today, though there is nothing to celebrate. Another day without Papa. Another year of this eternal war. The ration has been cut again, only 1,160 calories a day, a laughable amount. There are no potatoes, no milk—not even for children. Not a lump of coal to be found, and we’ve taken to washing with cold water to conserve our woodpile. At home, Madame screams at the boys for shouting too loudly while they play. Benoît has had a cough since Toussaint; Albert’s legs have turned to spindles. Even the news from the circuit is bleak—we haven’t had a meeting for three weeks, and Stéphane left word in one of the circuit’s secret mailboxes that I should start collecting messages at the boulangerie.

  More and more often I have found myself asking: How much longer can we endure? Where are the Allies? When will they come? (Or, more horribly, what if they never come?) These thoughts chase each other, nipping and snarling like a pack of rabid dogs until—having worked myself into a panic—I try to reassure myself, closing my eyes and reciting the litany of our faith: The Germans are weakening. The Eastern Front will destroy them. The Americans are coming. We just need to survive this winter.

  Only one more winter.

  Only one more winter.

  Only one more winter.

  Dear God, please, only one more winter.

  10 MARS 1943

  Two days ago, I received word to meet at one of our usual spots, the barrel maker’s atelier, but when I rang the bell, no one answered. Mindful of our precautions, I returned today at the same time, and rang again. Across the street, a slender girl hurried down the sidewalk, her heels tapping. Was it Emilienne? I thought I recognized the wispy curls of my fellow circuit member, but she didn’t turn to acknowledge me. I rang the bell again, waited and waited, until finally I left. Fear makes me sleepless tonight.

  23 MARS 1943

  In line at the boulangerie this morning, I saw a tall figure slipping into the courtyard of the hôtel particulier across the street. The tattered coat and hat were unfamiliar but there was something about the set of the shoulders that made my heart skip a beat. After I had collected my bread (a quarter loaf today!), I wheeled my bicycle past the building’s heavy set of doors—the once-glossy blue paint now dull and flaking—and a rough voice whispered: “Café des Tonneliers. Fifteen minutes.”

  My legs were shaking so that I couldn’t mount my bicycle. I walked it over to the café and went straight to the back room, catching the eye of the proprietress, Madame Maurieux, who is well known to our crowd. She brought me a tisane, and I sat stirring the steaming liquid with an empty spoon (there is nothing sweet to add these days). Eventually, a tall figure bounded up the cellar steps and slid into the chair across from me. His face was covered by a black beard—dyed, he later told me—but I recognized the dark blue eyes as soon as I saw them, for haven’t I been looking for them everywhere? It was Stéphane.

  “Marie.” He nodded and crossed his arms as if to warm himself even though, surprisingly, the stove was dispelling a faint suggestion of heat from the expired coals.

  “How are you?” I asked, staring at the shadows under his eyes. He had lost weight, his cheekbones angular beneath the beard.

  “I wanted to see you before—” A peculiar grimace seized his face and he started to cough, a rough, dry hack that went on for at least a minute.

  I pushed my untouched cup toward him and he took a long sip. “What? Before what?” I asked, when he had recovered.

  “I am joining the Maquis,” he said. “Underground.”

  A hollow feeling engulfed me. Ever since last month, when the law was passed, the newspapers have been full of the Service du Travail Obligatoire, which deports French men to work in Germany. Many have refused, choosing instead to disappear and join the underground Resistance—and it doesn’t surprise me that Stéphane plans to do the same. But until I heard the words from his lips, I hadn’t known how much I depended on him—even just imagining him in that drafty old print shop gives me so much comfort. The hope of glimpsing him on the street, or receiving word to meet—these are the small sparks of joy in my dreary existence. A horrible sob of self-pity rose to my throat but I managed to catch and swallow it.

  Stéphane had been watching me across the table, and now he touched my arm. “Look for my messages,” he said. “I will write to you.”

  9 AVRIL 1943

  Strange events afoot. This morning Madame Fresnes came to the domaine to see my stepmother. I think she must have been driven in a car and dropped off just before the driveway, for she looked impeccable as she clipped across the gravel, not a hair out of place, her face pale and smooth with fresh powder.

  “Bonjour, please tell Madame Charpin that I am here,” she announced at the door, addressing me as if I was a servant girl.

  “Is she, er, expecting you?” I stammered, conscious of Albert hovering behind me.

  “I am certain she will see me” was the reply.

  Sure enough, when I went upstairs to inform my belle-mère of her visitor, she said she’d be down shortly. “Show her into the salon,” she instructed me.

  “A cup of tea with lemon. Merci,” said Madame Fresnes, as I opened the windows of the salon and tried to air the room.

  I choked on a speck of dust. Tea? Lemon? What war was Madame Fresnes living through? “Désolée, Madame,” I said. “It’s been many years since we’ve had such luxuries.”

  “Ah, well.” She looked a little discomfited, but soon recovered. “Bring me a glass of water. You do still have water, I suppose?” An eyebrow twitched.

  Before I could reply, my belle-mère appeared wearing a housedress, the only one without patches, her hair hastily combed. “Joséphine! What a surprise!” The pair embraced, and I went to fetch the water—if only so I could eavesdrop as I delivered it.

  In the kitchen, I filled a pitcher from the tap and placed it on a tray with two clean glasses, whisking the ensemble to the doorway of the salon as quietly as I could. Only a few words were intelligible from the low murmur of voices. “Choquée . . . navrée . . . no news . . . completely alone . . . completely alone !” And then the familiar sound of Madame’s sobs. I waited a few seconds for her to stop before knocking and entering.

  “You must be strong for your sons,” Madame Fresnes was murmuring. “It’ll do you good to start seeing people again.” She glanced up, saw me, and frowned.

  “Water!” I announced, sliding the tray onto the low table before them.

  “Thank you, you may go,” instructed Madame Fresnes. “Close the door as you leave.
”

  Reluctantly, I left the room, and they resumed their conversation. Half an hour later, Madame Fresnes swept out of the house, and my belle-mère spent the rest of the day humming and pinning up her hair. What is she up to?

  10 AVRIL 1943

  Madame just left for the afternoon. “I shall be with the Fresnes,” she announced. A few minutes later, they came to collect her in a car. A car. Only the most craven collaborators have access to a car these days. Papa will be livid when he hears of this betrayal. A noxious cloud of Chanel No. 5 fills the front hallway; I can still hear the click of her heels as she flounced out the door. How can she do this? Never mind the ignominy her betrayal will cause us in the village. How can she stand to be in their company for even one second? My disgust for this woman engulfs me, choking me, choking me.

  8 JUIN 1943

  Cher journal,

  Life has formed into a strange pattern. Madame still spends her days in bed—but that is because she stays out all night. Past sunset, past curfew, sometimes past even the first light of dawn. In the mornings, when I go downstairs to start the fire, I find her evening wrap heaped on a kitchen chair, reeking of forgotten luxuries: cigarettes, scent, brandy. This morning I found two tins of sardines on the table, and that was not all. A packet of ham, its paper wrappings transparent with fat. A loaf of fine, white bread. An entire Époisses cheese releasing a mouthwatering perfume. At first, these items aroused a violent rage within me. I wanted to smash them, burn them, grind them into the dirt with my heel. But when the boys saw the food, their faces grew luminous. Benoît fell upon the cheese, cutting an enormous wedge and cramming it into his mouth. Albert, bless his heart, looked at me, waiting for my permission before he snatched up the ham and ripped open the paper, gobbling half the slices in one bite. Even as I vowed not to let a crumb pass my lips, I knew I could not deny my brothers.

  “Oh, good, you found the treats I left for you.” Madame floated into the kitchen in her dressing gown, beaming at her sons. She was up early—or maybe she hadn’t gone to bed. “C’est bon? Mangez bien, mes puces. Eat well.” She reached out and caressed Benoît’s limp curls.

  The boys were so absorbed by the food, they scarcely acknowledged her. Madame watched them with an indulgent smile before her gaze fell on me. “You’re not eating, Hélène,” she said, her voice as sharp as vinegar.

  “I’m not hungry,” I lied, even as my stomach rumbled a low, disloyal growl.

  “Now, now, I can hear that’s not true. One meal won’t kill you, will it? I won’t tell anyone you ate the enemy’s cheese.” Her lips twitched.

  “Non, merci.” I turned toward the sink, away from the table of food, and began to fill the kettle.

  Madame moved close to me, her words a low hiss in my ear. “You’re as pathetic as your father,” she said. “The two of you would cut the noses off your faces just to spite me.”

  I didn’t respond, for what could I have said but to agree?

  26 JUILLET 1943

  I found it wrapped around the quarter loaf of rough bread I brought home from the boulangerie: a note from Stéphane. It is unsigned, but I’d know his handwriting anywhere.

  Ma chère professeur,

  A word of greeting from the brush. My friends tell me you have been looking peaky. Courage, chérie, and a word of caution: the hen is laying rotten eggs.

  Bisous.

  I spent a long time puzzling over this note. “Ma chère professeur”—that is me, a reference to my nom de guerre, Marie (Curie). “The brush” surely refers to the Maquis, both a rough, wild scrub plant and the Résistance group. But “the hen is laying rotten eggs”—who is that? I’ve considered and discarded a thousand possibilities, but in the end I keep returning to one: Could it possibly be Madame?

  What does he mean? What are the rotten eggs? Is she doing something worse than socializing with our Occupiers and bringing home their largesse? Oh, dear God, what could she be up to?

  4 AOÛT 1943

  I know it’s silly, but lately I’ve taken to carrying Stéphane’s note in my pocket. Whenever I’m feeling low, I pull it out and touch the last word with my finger. Bisous. Kisses.

  10 SEPTEMBRE 1943

  This morning, I found the following on the kitchen table:

  2 TINS OF PTÉ

  1/2 CONE OF SUGAR

  1 ENORMOUS LUMP OF BUTTER

  1 PACKET OF RICE

  4 BARS OF CHOCOLATE

  The boys are beside themselves.

  22 SEPTEMBRE 1943

  When I stopped at the Café des Tonneliers today, Madame Maurieux told me she had no tisane to serve me. “A cup of barley coffee then,” I said, smiling and heaving a mock sigh.

  “We’re out of that, too,” she snapped, and turned her back on me to polish wineglasses.

  I stood stock-still at the counter, trying to grasp the situation. Madame Maurieux has always been so friendly with me, exchanging a good gripe about the idiotic ration regulations or a juicy bit of gossip—what happened? “Have I done something to upset you, Madame?” I finally asked.

  She took her time arranging glasses on the shelf before turning back to me. “I do hope,” she said in a low, tense tone, “that you and your brothers have been enjoying all that delicious food. While the rest of the nation starves.” The last word escaped in a snarl.

  I tried to swallow, but my mouth was so dry, I choked. “What do you mean?” I asked, disingenuously.

  “You think we haven’t noticed your belle-mère in the car of that German lieutenant? Creeping from his quarters at the Hôtel de la Poste? Laden down with a basket of provisions—ham, sugar, jam, things we haven’t seen in years? We see everything, mademoiselle. Even the walls have eyes.”

  “Lieutenant?” I stammered. All of a sudden, the food made perfect sense—forbidden food, luxurious food, the food of an officer.

  Madame Maurieux tapped the side of her nose. “She picked the one in charge of the local supply office, didn’t she? No fool, your stepmother.”

  A cold-fingered dread tightened around my neck, until my head grew light and spots danced before my eyes.

  “If you’re going to faint, at least have the courtesy to go outside,” Madame Maurieux said without a shred of sympathy.

  I clutched at the zinc counter. “Madame, please, you have to believe me when I say that not a crumb of that food has passed my lips. Je vous jure. I swear to you. I would rather starve to death . . . S’il vous plaît,” I begged her. “You know who I am—what I believe—my father . . .” I drew a ragged breath. “Please.”

  She crossed her arms, but her face had softened. “You need to stop her, mademoiselle. People are beginning to talk. She’s making enemies. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, but kept silent. What could I say? I am the last person she would listen to.

  Later

  I’ve spent the entire afternoon fretting over my conversation with Madame Maurieux. A German lieutenant? A romantic attachment? It’s absurdly dangerous. Surely Madame is not that stupid. Is she?

  19 OCTOBRE 1943

  The days are growing shorter. The light and warmth of summer made my work for the circuit so much easier, and I dread the frigid months ahead. If only I could fatten myself like a bear, curl up in a cave, and hibernate through the winter.

  News from the circuit is mixed. Our numbers continue to shrink, even as the group of farmers hiding stockpiled weapons grows. As a result, my bicycle journeys have grown longer and riskier. The Boches have taken to setting up surprise checkpoints—this morning Madame Maurieux told me of one outside Beaune, so I had to push my bicycle through the vines in order to avoid them. I am wary about bringing any Resistance material into the house, which means I must make regular detours to the cabotte instead of cycling straight home. I have a constant, nagging undertone of paranoia, like the unrelenting throb of a toothache that I am constantly testing with my tongue.

  2 DÉCEMBRE 1943

  Sick with worry. Three days ago Benoît began complaining of a s
ore throat. Of course Madame flew into a panic, insisting he stay in bed, and even suggesting that we slaughter a chicken (!) to make him a nourishing broth. I thought she was overreacting like she usually does, coddling Benny through one of his phantom ailments. Just because he was a frail baby, she treats him like fragile glass. In fact, given his new diet of cheese and meat, my stepbrother has recently seemed more hale than half the kids in the village. I wasn’t concerned.

  But things took a turn this morning. When I went in to wake the boys for school, I found Benny curled in a corner of his bed, teeth chattering. I touched his forehead and it was dry and hot—shockingly hot. Worse, when I brought the lamp close, I saw a rash creeping from his torso to his neck, bright red, rough as sandpaper. I gasped aloud and Albert heard me and started to wail.

  “What? What is it?” Madame came dashing into the boys’ bedroom, her threadbare nightdress floating as she ran. When she saw Benny, her eyes grew enormous.

  “Maman,” Benny croaked and she sat on his bed and put her arms around him. “J’ai froid . . .” He shivered uncontrollably.

  “Don’t worry, mon coeur, Maman est là . . . J’suis là . . .” she crooned before turning to me and hissing: “Hélène, for God’s sake, go put the kettle on.”

  Somehow I managed to get Albert dressed, fed, and off to school, and to steep a tisane of thyme leaves for Benny, which he scarcely touched. “It hurts!” he moaned, and indeed his jaw and throat were swollen. Madame piled more blankets over him and eventually he drifted into a restless sleep.

  3 DÉCEMBRE 1943

  Benoît’s condition is unchanged, or—if anything—worse. His eyes are glassy, and he shakes with chills. The rash has swept across his upper body, red and blistering like sunburn. We force him to drink liquids, of which he takes only tiny little sips. Madame holds the cup to his lips, trying to hide her hysteria when she sees the effort it takes him to swallow.