The Lost Vintage

by Ann Mah

  They forced us to our feet, prodding us downstairs with their pistols. We shuffled past the downstairs waiting room—crowded, but eerily silent—and through the front door to the street, where cars stood waiting for us. Beside the first vehicle, a tall figure slumped, head bowed, shackled wrists preventing him from raising a shoulder to wipe his bloody face. My heart plummeted—it was Stéphane.

  Our eyes met and flew apart. From now on, we would have to pretend we had never met—denial and feigned ignorance are our only hope of protecting our contacts. My other comrades, too, kept their gazes fixed on the ground as they were marched outside. Emilienne was in front, I came next—trailed by a Boche who held one end of the leather strap encircling my wrists—and Danielle was somewhere behind. The Ox and his minions began forcing everyone into the cars, Stéphane, Bernard and The Kid into the first vehicle, and then Emilienne was being led to the second. Before I could follow her, I sensed, rather than saw, Danielle bend over, and then I heard her gag, and a flood of sick hit the pavement.

  “Scheisse!” roared the Boche behind me, leaping away from the vomit pooling at our feet.

  I twisted to look behind me—and that’s when I saw that he had dropped the end of the leather cord. Danielle lifted her head, our eyes met, and she gave me the faintest ghost of a wink. Quickly—before I could reconsider—I shoved the Boche so that he went sprawling into the stinking puddle and I ran, wriggling my hands from the loosened leather strap as I fled.

  The cobblestones were rough beneath my feet, but I managed not to stumble as I sprinted down the street. Glancing behind, I saw two Boches hard on my heels. If I could just make it to the park, I could find a place to hide. A shot exploded behind me, but I kept running, running . . . I was almost at the corner, if I could turn, I’d lose them . . . only half a block away . . . and then searing pain tore through my shoulder, forcing me to falter. In an instant, one of the Boches had tackled me. The last thing I remember is the weight of his meaty palm shoving my face into the cobblestones.

  I woke in a hospital bed, my bandaged shoulder throbbing and hot. The left side of my face felt tender, and I couldn’t take a deep breath without gasping. A nurse bustled past carrying a stack of folded sheets. “I can’t breathe,” I told her.

  “Your ribs are broken,” she said, and kept walking.

  I closed my eyes against the pain, drifting into a twilight sleep. Minutes—or was it hours?—later, a hand touched my face, tenderly brushing the bruises. I opened my eyes to find a man looming above me, gazing at me with penetrating blue eyes set amid sharp features. “Such a pretty girl,” he murmured, stroking a thumb across my chin. “It’s a shame about the black eye.”

  I flinched and drew away, and his thin lips curved upward.

  “Mademoiselle Hélène Charpin?” he said, straightening slightly. Behind his slight form stood the Ox, all fleshy features and thick limbs.

  “Yes.” I managed to look at him without cowering.

  “We would like to ask you a few questions. It will not take very long.”

  Cher journal, what could I do but agree? He pulled up a chair and the interrogation began, questions about the house on the rue Paradis, demands that I identify my comrades, threats of physical harm: Who are they? How do you know each other? Why were you meeting? And, finally—asked with deceptive carelessness—who is Stéphane?

  We are a wine appreciation society, I replied, reciting the details of the cover we had invented so long ago. In the beginning we hosted wine tastings, but now, given the current ration restrictions, we gather to simply talk about wine. I rattled off some nonsense about the Clos du Vougeot, and Maréchal Pétain’s favorite vintages. Stéphane? I’ve never set eyes on him before yesterday, I lied, gazing at the picture held in front of me, an old school photo of a sullen and unsmiling lycéen.

  My interrogator took notes with a knowing smile, as if he had no need to even ask any questions but was merely waiting for me to stumble over my own answers. On and on went the examination, one hour creeping into the next, until I grew limp with pain and exhaustion, even as my inquisitor’s piercing blue eyes twinkled each time I shifted in discomfort.

  I had just begun to describe the wine appreciation society for the fifth time when, as suddenly as he had arrived, my little Gestapo departed. Perhaps he was late for another appointment, perhaps someone had beckoned to him from across the ward—whatever the case, he sprang from his chair and vanished around the corner. I tensed, waiting for him to return, a flood of questions coursing through my brain: How had they found us? Who had ratted us out? Eventually fatigue overwhelmed me. I sank into my thin pillow, and slept.

  The next day was the same—and the next day, and the next—on and on until one week bled into two. He always appeared without warning, always greeted me with a caress that made the bile rise to my throat, and always interrogated me for hours, the questions growing increasingly intimate—asking about my childhood and education, my parents, my friends—before he suddenly disappeared. I dreaded these meetings, even though they were the only human interaction of my day—even though they offered the only break from my silent, solitary purgatory of fear and worry. The effort to appear calm and composed before him taxed my energy more than the pain of my injuries.

  And so, we arrive at this morning. As I gazed through the window at the leafing trees, I wondered if the nurse had been telling the truth. Was I truly to be discharged? And, if so, where was I going? A moldy prison cell? A grim Polish work camp? Would I be allowed to see Benoît and Albert before I was sent away? I wanted my brothers to understand that I had resisted because I believed it was the right thing to do.

  Eventually a doctor came to check my injuries, pronouncing me fit and scribbling his name across the bottom of a discharge form. After more waiting, a nurse tossed a rough grey tunic on the bed and told me to get dressed. As I scrambled into the clothing, she reappeared to drop my old, battered shoes on the ground. “Let’s go,” she said, with a scowl.

  I followed her meekly out of the ward, along the hall, down the staircase, all the while bracing myself for what surely lay ahead. A glance behind confirmed that a Vichy policewoman had trailed us to the ground floor of the hospital. The nurse opened a door and I stepped into a waiting room, steeling myself for the sight of the Gestapo’s drab grey-green uniforms, the iron of their grip on my arms. Instead, a slender, tawny-haired woman came forward with a frown. “Oh, there you are, Hélène,” she said. “Took your time, didn’t you? I’ve been waiting for hours.” It was Madame.

  6 MAI 1944

  It’s two days since I returned to the domaine. At least Albert was happy to see me; he hurled himself at me, heedless of my injuries, giving me a squeeze that sent pain knifing through my body. Benoît was more reticent, offering a mumbled “Ça va?” and ducking out from my embrace. Madame watched us with a needle-sharp gaze.

  At the first opportunity I came upstairs to my room. My belongings had been ransacked—which did not surprise me—the contents of my drawers upended on the floor, my books and clothes rifled and cast askew. I dropped to my knees on the threadbare carpet, groping beneath the uneven floorboard, closing my eyes in relief as I touched this journal, still safely tucked away.

  “Happy to be home, Hélène?” Madame said from the doorway.

  I kept my eyes screwed shut. “I was saying a prayer of thanks,” I replied after a long minute, struggling to my feet.

  “I do hope you included me. After all,” she said, her voice dripping with vile sanctimony, “you’d be rotting in a Polish work camp if not for me.” I’m afraid I could not hide my surprise, and she continued, “Don’t look so shocked, Hélène. I’m not a monster. Yes, we’ve had our differences of opinion, but I still feel responsible for you, especially since I gave—” She broke off, her pale cheeks flooding with color. “I owe that much to your father, at least—to save you.”

  She was staring at me with an expression that looked strangely like guilt. “To save me?” I repeated. “To save me?
” My brain churned, clawing through her words, trying to untangle their meaning. Suddenly, I put it all together. “You were spying on me!” Her eyes shifted from my face, and I knew I was right. “You’ve been snooping through my things. And when you finally found something . . . you took it straight to the Boches!” I was shouting now, almost certainly frightening the boys, but I didn’t care. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you know what happens to résistants who get caught? Their blood is on your hands, Virginie. Just like the Reinachs. Just like Papa’s!”

  Her eyes had turned to twin lumps of burning coal in her pale face, her arms crossed against her chest so tightly the tendons stood in high relief along her neck. For a fleeting moment I thought I had broken her defiance. Instead, she took a single swift step toward me, and hissed: “Whatever you think, you’ll never be able to prove it!”

  12 MAI 1944

  Another sleepless night. When I close my eyes, I see them in the final moments before the Boches took them away. Danielle’s flushed cheeks, a line of sweat beading her upper lip. The Kid, jiggling his left foot up and down, up and down, up and down. Emilienne, her lovely eyes dreamy and wistful. Bernard’s exhausted pallor. Stéphane, lifting his shoulders with futile effort as he tried to wipe away the blood trickling down his face. Was that the last time I’ll ever see them?

  Every day I hope for news; every day my hopes are dashed. My injuries preclude a trip to Beaune and, anyway, my bicycle has disappeared. And so I remain here at the domaine, trapped in this fog of grief and guilt, my mind running over the details of that day, wondering what I could have done to prevent the outcome. I am afraid to sleep for when I do, I wake to the same ugly reality: The circuit has been destroyed, my friends are in trouble—and I am responsible.

  5 JUIN 1944

  For four days, the BBC has been impossible to receive, the signal jammed no matter how carefully I twist the radio dial. But tonight my patience was rewarded. Cher journal, I heard it. Forgive my shaking hand, the haste of these words. A few minutes ago, I heard it.

  The program started out the usual way: Içi Londres. Les français parlent aux français. London here. The French are speaking to the French—followed by the usual announcement of a few personal messages—and then suddenly the announcer was reading words that I have whispered to myself a hundred times: two mournful stanzas of “Chanson d’Automne,” the Paul Verlaine poem Stéphane instructed us to memorize all those months ago. He recited each line twice, with crystal clarity.

  Could I hope—dare I hope—that the Allies are finally here?

  6 JUIN 1944

  All day I waited for news, so nervous and distracted that Madame grew quite impatient with me. After I accidentally fed the chickens some scraps she’d been saving for dinner, she snapped: “What’s wrong with you?” Frankly, it amazed me that she could not sense the strange energy humming through the air, making the blood vibrate within my veins.

  When, this evening, I was finally able to pick up the BBC’s signal, it took me several seconds before I could concentrate on the announcer’s words. But when I did, cher journal, I thought I might faint, for there was Général de Gaulle addressing us, the people of France, in clarion tones: “The supreme battle has begun!” Listening to his brief speech, the tears began streaming down my cheeks, so that I was wiping my face with a handkerchief as he concluded: “In the French nation, in our Empire, in our Armies there is one will, one hope. Behind the clouds laden with our blood and our tears, we see again the sunrise of our national greatness.”

  The Allies are coming.

  The Allies are coming.

  The Allies are coming.

  Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  21 JUIN 1944

  Finally, I was able to go to Beaune today. In a rare (and strange) conciliatory gesture, Madame lent me her bicycle. I forced myself to ride there very slowly, to protect my shoulder, even though I was bursting to see Madame Maurieux at the café. I couldn’t wait to finally discuss the recent events with someone who truly shared my joy.

  Turning onto the rue des Tonneliers, I smelled an acrid stench. A few seconds later, I was staring in stunned silence at the burnt shell of the café. Flagging down a stooped woman creeping by on a cane, I gasped: “What happened?”

  “You knew them?”

  “I know them,” I corrected her. “Where are they?”

  “Missing. But . . .” She gave a regretful shake of her head, and I struggled to contain a wave of panic. Her beady eyes peered at my face and finally she said: “The Boches are taking matters into their own hands—punishing anyone they suspect of sabotage. A word of advice, ma puce”—she took a shaky step forward and lowered her voice—“if you were a regular there, you’d better hurry home. Beaune is not safe for you.”

  Cher journal, I fled.

  21 AOÛT 1944

  I feel like I have spent the past several weeks in a fog, lost in a nightmare of terrible violence—disappearing neighbors, impromptu executions, looting, arson. At first Madame found excuses for these acts of German vengeance, but then something unexpected happened: the Haricot Vert vanished. Yes, the horrible old Boche String Bean up and left, without even a word of farewell. If I expected Madame to be upset—if I thought she had formed some sort of emotional attachment—I was mistaken. She acts as if he never existed.

  7 SEPTEMBRE 1944

  After weeks of heavy shelling, we woke this morning to silence. Madame was too afraid to venture forth, so it was I who crept up the cellar stairs to investigate. Given the explosions that have shaken the past days, I was braced for the worst—but far from scorched earth, I found our precious vines sprawling across the slopes in verdant innocence, cool and untouched.

  I’m not sure how long I stood there mesmerized by the rippling leaves, but eventually a distant rumble made me stiffen. After four years of Occupation, I knew the sound well—it was a convoy traveling the main road. Were the Germans returning? The engines grew louder and louder and I grew more and more fearful. Finally, desperate to learn more, I began to climb the cherry tree, ignoring the pain throbbing in my side and shoulder. From high in the branches, I glimpsed a line of vehicles heading toward us, drawing nearer, nearer. I lifted a hand against the sun dazzling my eyes. Did I spy a flag? I squinted, trying to make out the colors: red, white, and blue. I opened my mouth, but found myself unable to utter a sound. They were Americans.

  8 SEPTEMBRE 1944

  Oh, what a scene today in Beaune! For as long as I live, I shall never forget the mad joy in the streets—the crowds of revelers, the flags streaming from every window, the bottles of wine passed from hand to hand, the cheers so loud they made my ears ring. My brothers and I danced until we gasped, paused briefly to catch our breaths, and danced some more. I embraced all our neighbors, including the old woman from the boulangerie who had handed me secret messages for a year, yet whose name I have never dared to ask. To my surprise, I even saw Monsieur Fresnes roll a barrel to the street and begin pouring wine for American soldiers as if he and his wife had never invited Germans to drink of the same vintage! When I greeted him (I couldn’t resist), he handed me a cup of wine with a cold bow. “Where is your stepmother?” he asked.

  “She’s not feeling well,” I told him. In fact, Benoît and Albert had begged her to join us, but she had irritably shaken off their pleas. “She has a migraine—oh!” Someone had shoved me from behind so that the wine in my cup sloshed across my dress. I placed a hand against my sore ribs.

  “Whoops, sorry, didn’t see you there.” Madame Fresnes stepped into my line of vision. “Bonjour.” She offered me a hard little smile.

  “Bonjour,” I faltered.

  “Chéri,” she turned to her husband. “Didn’t you want to speak with Monsieur le Maire? I just saw him there with Jean Parent.”

  “S’il vous plaît,” I murmured, though they didn’t acknowledge my politesse. Go, I thought as they moved away. Go and attempt to fawn over the mayor while you still can. T
he Fresnes are opportunistic old toadies—but judging from the hard looks being thrown their way, it seemed everyone else in town recognizes it, too. They revealed their true selves long ago. I feel certain fortune will not smile upon them for much longer.

  19 SEPTEMBRE 1944

  There are things four years of Occupation have taught me to fear. The flash of a grey-green uniform caught from the corner of my eye. Checkpoints. An unexpected knock on the door. It was the latter that roused us at dawn, a loud banging that echoed through the house. Benoît started crying, and Albert ran to me as I stumbled blearily into the hall. Madame appeared in her nightgown, whispering: “Who is it?” My first thought, foggy-headed, was of Papa, and the second it entered my mind, I flew down the stairs. “Wait!” hissed Madame. But it was too late—I was already opening the door.

  “Madame Virginie Charpin?” said a voice. Suddenly three men were pushing past me and entering the house. I squinted at their faces: Monsieur Parent, the mayor, and Monsieur Fresnes? They wore hats and tweeds, with tricolor armbands wrapped around their sleeves—blue, white, red—the colors of France. The colors of the Resistance.

  “Why are you here?” Madame cried. “What do you want?”

  “Virginie Charpin,” Monsieur Parent said again. “You are being arrested for crimes of collaboration.” Monsieur Fresnes reached forward and grabbed Madame’s arms.

  “Please,” pleaded my stepmother. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Have you not, Madame, received all manner of material benefits in exchange for the—ahem—attentions of a German officer? Your children have been well fed. Your house has been warm. Even your hair has been coiffed!”

  Madame’s mouth fell open, as did my own. To hear these accusations issuing from the lips of Monsieur Fresnes, a man so close to the Vichy that he had gifted Maréchal Pétain with a parcel of Clos du Vougeot vines . . . well, I could have drowned myself in the irony.