The Lost Vintage

by Ann Mah

  Madame must have misinterpreted my silence, for she plunged ahead: “I was in the cellar yesterday and I couldn’t find any of the 1929 Gouttes d’Or—not a single bottle!”

  “Papa would sooner pour wine down the drain than let the Boches have it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Hélène, whether you like it or not, now that your father is gone, I am the head of this household. You can choose to cooperate with me or not. But you need to remember that I am making the decisions, and I don’t care what your father would have done. Collaboration is shielding us from the worst horrors of the Occupation.”

  Was that how she justified her actions? I swallowed hard, and attempted to appeal to her more avaricious sensibility. “Papa says that wine is part of the domaine’s legacy.”

  “Legacy?” she spat the word. “I’m more concerned with our current survival. And as for your high-minded father—well, you can stop talking about him as if he’s coming back. It’s time you faced facts.” She lifted her chin. “He is dead.”

  The blood rushed to my face as if she’d slapped me. Dead? How did she know? Had the Haricot Vert told her?

  “Be sensible,” she continued. “All these months, and we haven’t heard a thing? It’s the only possible explanation.”

  Slowly, so that she couldn’t see, I exhaled. She doesn’t know for certain. This is just the excuse she has invented to justify her own actions.

  “He’s still alive,” I insisted. “He’s in a prison camp and they won’t allow him to write to us.”

  “Believe what you want.”

  We stared at each other with naked displeasure. But we had reached a stalemate—there was nothing left to say—and so I awkwardly grabbed for my shopping basket and left the house.

  Later, as I was bicycling to Beaune with a vicious wind biting at my face, I analyzed our conversation, hearing again Madame’s cool, clear tones discussing the Führer, her plans for the hidden wine, her dispassionate pronouncement about Papa.

  I have always disliked her. That has never been a secret. Much of my dislike was fueled by my own childish jealousy—I see that now—and our rivalry for Papa’s affection and attentions. I have known her to be petty, manipulative, duplicitous, but I never believed she would actually harm any of us. Until now.

  Ever since Benoît’s birthday—no, it started before that. Ever since that night in December, when Benoît was so terribly ill and the Haricot Vert brought that Boche doctor to our house—she has carried herself with a new confidence. She is indebted to them, yes, especially the Haricot Vert—but she also basks in their power, taking genuine pleasure in flaunting the privilege bestowed upon her.

  How could I have been so blind? I am embarrassed it has taken me so long to admit it. Madame isn’t merely collaborating with the enemy. She has become the enemy.

  8 FÉVRIER 1944

  Our first meeting since the New Year this afternoon. ’Twas very, very subdued. We have strong reason to believe that the extensive “Prosper” circuit to the west has been broken up, and all of us are devastated. We talked obsessively of tapped telephones, Gestapo tails, paid informers, anonymous tip-offs. “I hesitate to say this,” said Stéphane, “but I feel almost envious of them. Now that they’ve been taken, they no longer have to fear it.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

  In an effort to change our conversation to a more cheerful topic, I asked about the messages personnels we hear every night on the BBC. “Who is Yvette and why does she like big carrots?”

  Yvette, Emilienne told me, might signify a successful parachute drop of weapons. “The tall blond man called Bill” could indicate the safe arrival of a plane in England.

  Stéphane had been concentrating on an underground newssheet, but now he glanced up. “Did you all memorize the Verlaine poem I sent you?” he asked.

  Everyone nodded. “Bit depressing, isn’t it?” said Danielle. She’s our radio operator, a round-faced girl with a thick fringe of dark hair. “The long sobs of the autumn violin . . . wound my heart . . . with the languor of monotony,” she intoned dramatically.

  He smiled faintly. “Just listen for it. Every day, keep listening.”

  “Why?” I pressed. “What does it mean?”

  “D-Day,” he said in English.

  I frowned—Stéphane knows my English is poor. “What’s that?”

  “Le Jour J,” he explained. “It means we will be saved.” But when I asked for details, he wouldn’t say anything more.

  10 MARS 1944

  Cher journal,

  It dawned dark this morning and looking at the sky I knew it would be one of those grey, grizzly spring days, the kind where the sun never reaches full strength. The air felt heavy, electric, and I briefly considered abandoning my plan to bicycle to the Côte de Nuits. But there were two messages hidden in the lining of my satchel, and so I donned Papa’s waxed raincoat and trilby, hooked a basket over my handlebars, and set out just as a few drops began splashing from the sky.

  I’d been cycling for about ten minutes when the downpour began in earnest, a gentle tapping that turned quickly to a roar, and then became hail, icy bullets pelting my head, face, and hands. I should have given up and headed home, but I continued for another kilometer, my visibility worsening as the hail returned to thick rain. I had just made the decision to turn around when I saw a police checkpoint looming straight ahead on the Route de Savigny—a new one, a surprise one that hadn’t been there a day earlier. Every instinct screamed at me to turn tail and flee, but I forced myself to pedal straight toward it, the murmur of Stéphane’s instructions an undercurrent beneath the thunder of my heart: Always go directly toward a police barrier, never double back. Always walk against oncoming traffic so that a car cannot approach you unnoticed from behind. Always tear messages into tiny pieces and scatter them over very long distances.

  Well, it was too late to tear the illicit messages into tiny pieces, never mind scattering them over a long distance. I struggled to appear calm as I approached the checkpoint. The blood was roaring so loudly in my ears, I thought I might faint.

  “Halt! Stopp!” commanded one of the Germans as I drew near. He was tall and thick-limbed, his fleshy cheeks shadowed by the peak of a cap. I dismounted from my bike and walked toward him, gripping the handlebars to hide my shaking hands.

  “Guten tag,” he said.

  “Guten tag,” I responded dutifully.

  “Papers,” he ordered, switching to French. Silently, I handed him my identity documents. “What is the nature of your business?”

  “I’m out gathering food for my rabbits.” The lie slipped from my lips, before I remembered that the dismal weather would betray me. “I’ve been out for hours. I had no idea it was going to storm,” I added.

  His eyes darted across my face to my clothes, my bicycle, my bag, the basket hanging from my handlebars. “Why is it empty?” he said, nodding at the basket.

  I flushed. Usually I remembered to stuff a few stray weeds inside but today the rain had distracted me. Before I could respond, he said: “Show me your bag.”

  I stared at the ground as he opened the flap and pawed through the contents, breathing very slowly to keep myself from being sick. My belongings came flying into the mud: A pair of worn gloves. A tube of India ink. Our ration books. Then there was a pause. I snuck a glance from under my eyelashes and icy dread dripped down my spine. In the German’s hands was a copy of La Voix, our mimeographed Resistance newspaper, which I’d slipped into my bag last week and completely forgotten. How could I have been so stupid? Next he would rip open the bag’s lining and discover the hidden messages sewn within. What information was in those letters? Whose names? How much of the circuit would be implicated? I gritted my teeth to keep from crying.

  The Boche raised a hand at one of the military vehicles. “Herr Leutnant!” he shouted. I kept my face straight ahead, but out of the corner of my eye I saw a tall figure swing down from the truck and walk toward us. The two men conferred in German, a long, ursine growl that s
eemed to go on forever, of which I understood only: “La Voix.”

  The two Boches separated, and the lieutenant moved closer. I lowered my eyes to the ground, steadfast in my refusal to show the fear brimming there. “Mademoiselle Charpin!” he sang. At this, I raised my chin to look at him—and stifled a gasp. It was the Haricot Vert.

  “Mademoiselle.” He nodded at me. “How delightful it is to see you here—and how enlightening.” His ice-grey eyes lingered shrewdly on the empty basket perched upon the handlebars of my bicycle.

  “Is it?” I managed to croak.

  “Very.” He folded the newspaper into thirds and slipped it into his pocket.

  I could barely hear him above the blood rushing in my ears. He stared at me for a long moment, appraising me with those glacial eyes. The rain fell steadily in a continuous patter—Papa would call it a “vigneron’s rain”—running in rivulets down the back of my neck. The Haricot Vert, too, was getting drenched, but he seemed hardly to notice. Finally, he took a step closer—too close—and spoke quietly, so quietly only I could hear him above the rain: “You and I both know that I should bring you in for questioning.” He gazed down at me, so that his eyelashes fell upon his cheeks, a fringe of pale white against flushed skin. “But”—he leaned even closer—“as we have friends in common, I am going to let you go.”

  I felt myself go limp with relief, though I tried to hide it behind a shrug. “As you wish.” I forced myself to lift my chin. “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Young girls with nothing to hide shouldn’t be so careless as to get caught in a tempest, fräulein.” He tapped a finger against his nose. “I suggest that you return home and leave the, ahem, foraging for more clement weather.” He handed me my satchel and I clutched it to my chest before swinging a shaky leg over my bicycle seat. The Haricot Vert moved to let me pass, but as he stepped aside, he did something truly terrifying: He looked at me, and he smiled.

  11 MARS 1944

  I am restless, sleepless. Indeed, I haven’t been able to sleep since the Haricot Vert stopped me yesterday at the surprise checkpoint. I still can’t believe I was so stupid, so careless. How could I have forgotten to remove the copy of La Voix from my bag? That newspaper is full of Resistance information—coded, yes, but now it’s in the enemy’s hands. I keep analyzing my encounter with the Haricot Vert, examining it from every angle. What does he know? What does he suspect? What has he told Madame? Has she been more quiet of late—more pensive—or is that my imagination? Around and around I go, in an endless loop until I droop with exhaustion, and still my thoughts whirr, whirr, whirr.

  The moon is like a beacon tonight, so bright it casts shadows. Gazing out at the rows of silvery grapevines, I am reminded of the night Papa and the Reinachs left—that terrible, luminous night. It has been eighteen months since I last saw them, but I feel like I’ve aged a thousand years.

  I have been thinking a lot about something Rose said all those months ago, when we were making the copper sulfate at the cabotte. It was like alchemy, she said; we were turning metal into gold. She was being fanciful. Joking. But now, I think often about this word—“alchemy”—for what is it but a process of mysterious transformation? And I wonder if this war could actually be a form of alchemy—changing us, testing us, until each of us has revealed the truest part of our souls.

  16 MARS 1944

  Entering my room tonight, something feels strange. Off. I can’t quite put my finger on it. My first fear was that someone had discovered this journal, but no, the rug was pulled smoothly over the uneven floorboard, the whole appearing entirely untouched. The rest of my room is as I remember leaving it this morning—the books stacked on my desk, my mustard-yellow sweater hanging on the back of the chair, the framed photo of Papa and Maman square on my dresser. But something is causing the back of my neck to prickle. It’s ridiculous, but I feel as if the very molecules of the air have shifted.

  Is it Madame? Has she been here? Do I smell her perfume? Like a mad dog, I just went around the corners of the room, hunting for her scent. Nothing.

  Is this how paranoia begins? Yesterday I thought someone followed me to the mail drop in Beaune, but when I turned around, there was no one to be seen for meters. I’ve been sleeping poorly, eating poorly. It’s no wonder my nerves are worn threadbare. These past few months have made me too brittle, too suspicious. Add to this the severe malnourishment we all face—it’s enough to drive anyone to the brink of madness.

  I must steel my nerves—there is too much at stake to falter now. C’est rien, c’est rien, c’est rien. If I repeat it enough times, perhaps I will start to believe it.

  4 MAI 1944

  Cher journal,

  Sunlight woke me this morning, a shining ray of warmth caressing my cheek. For a moment I thought I was on holiday near the sea (which I’ve never seen). Albert was squatting nearby at the water’s edge, digging in the wet sand with a shiny new shovel. “Regarde, Léna,” he called, popping up and running toward a cresting wave. “I can swim!”

  “Wait, Albert! Be careful!” I cried, grabbing for his hand. Pain shot through my arm so that I gasped, opening my eyes to find myself in the same grubby hospital bed that I’ve been in for the past two weeks. In the corner, two French policemen conferred with a nurse. A few seconds later, she approached my bed.

  “Charpin, you’re being discharged today.” Her hair was pulled into a tight bun that emphasized her slightly bulbous eyes.

  “Released?” I croaked. “Or transferred to prison?”

  She pressed her lips together and ignored me, moving down the ward.

  Was she telling the truth? Or was this another trick? My heart pounded, but I could do nothing but wait, my thoughts turning for the thousandth time to the events of the day that had brought me here.

  It was a warm day, especially for mid-April. I had received word of a meeting in Beaune, two o’clock at the home of Docteur Beaumont on the rue Paradis. This was a new address, but that wasn’t unusual; we had to change our meeting place often and Stéphane had recently mentioned the elderly dentist, describing him as “not one of us, but sympathetic to us.”

  I set out in late morning, hours in advance. The fine weather allowed me to take a circuitous route so that I could make sure no one was following me, and I zigzagged through the vines, enjoying the mild breeze on my face. At a quarter to two, I approached the doctor’s street—a narrow, cobblestoned lane lined with attached town houses—very correct, very bourgeois—noting a shining brass doorplate that indicated he kept his consulting rooms on the ground floor of his home. I rang the bell, and a stout, grey-haired woman opened the door—the housekeeper, I assumed, from her apron—and directed me to an empty sitting room upstairs.

  The room was dim and airless, the windows closed, shutters fastened tight. I sat on a stiff antique chair, and hoped fervently the others would soon arrive. The doorbell was ringing constantly—the waiting room downstairs filling with the doctor’s post-lunch patients—and something about its sharp trill set my nerves on edge. At least, I reasoned, the crowd of patients would provide cover for our group. After what seemed like an eternity but was probably about ten minutes, I heard light footsteps on the stairs, and Emilienne appeared.

  “Is this an odd place for a meeting?” she asked after we had exchanged cheek kisses.

  I shrugged. “Stéphane’s mentioned it before.”

  “The house has no back door,” she observed. “It’s an easy trap.” She moved to the windows. “I suppose it’s too high to jump?”

  Before I could respond, Danielle arrived, her round face flushed and sweaty. Then Bernard, still limping from his escape from a Lyon prison, and close on his heels, our newest recruit—we call him The Kid—barely sixteen years old, his cheeks rough with acne. It was two o’clock. Then a quarter past. Two thirty.

  “Where’s Stéphane?” Emilienne asked. “Should we leave?”

  We had abandoned a meeting in conditions far less dubious, disbanding and regrouping a day or tw
o later. I glanced at Bernard, trying to gauge his opinion. He was leaning back in a chair, legs stretched before him, his face grey with exhaustion. Voices filtered up the stairs—the howl of a child and his mother’s scolding—the murmur of the housekeeper dispensing pleasantries at the door. They were such normal sounds—sounds of domesticity, sounds of peace—that for a second I forgot where we were, and why we had gathered there. My eyes drifted to the mantelpiece clock, ornate gleaming gilt and anchored by a fat cherub, and that is how I know that it was three minutes to three o’clock when the pounding on the front door began. My eyes met Emilienne’s—her face drained white—but we had no time to hide before boots stormed up the stairs and the sitting room door flew open.

  “Down on the floor! Get down! Get down!” a massive ox of a Boche shouted in a guttural accent. Two other Germans loomed behind him, dressed in plain clothes, all of them brandishing pistols.

  I threw myself to the ground. My face was pointed to the carpet, but I could see their feet moving around us, grinding heels into stray fingers. Fear rose to my throat, choking me, so that I had to bite my lip to keep from retching. Where is Stéphane? I thought desperately. Did he escape? Please, God, please, God, please. The great, stocky bull of a man—the leader, I presumed—kicked over a delicate side table, splintered off a leg, and began to beat Bernard.

  “I recognize you, you little bastard!” he screamed. “You’re not getting away this time.”

  With a merry jingle of chains, the other two Boches moved about the room, clapping on handcuffs, pausing to aim a few kicks at Bernard before wrestling the restraints onto his wrists, growling information at each other. One of them kneeled beside me and began to bind my wrists with a leather strap.

  “They’re saying there’s no more handcuffs,” mumbled Bernard, who after several months in prison had learned some German. “They’re surprised we’re so many.”

  “Shut up!” The Ox struck Bernard in the back with the table leg. “Move.”