by Sharon Maas
‘Any Jews?’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Are there any Jews on the property?’
‘Of course not. I have already listed all my family members. None of us are Jews.’
‘I must inform you that it is a criminal offence to harbour Jews in an Alsace household, to hide them, to in any way support them. Contravention of this law and conviction will lead to imprisonment and in some cases even to execution. You are aware of this?’
‘I have heard of this. It does not apply to me.’
Grötzinger leaned forward and said in a voice that was both slimy and conspiratorial: ‘Frau Gauthier-Laroche, you must now tell me in confidence: do you know of any Jews living in the vicinity? Do you know of any Jewish businesses, or of any Alsatian citizens who harbour Jews in their household? You must inform me if you do. It is your duty.’
Margaux shrugged. ‘I do not.’
‘Nevertheless, I require of you that you be extremely vigilant and report back to the German authorities immediately if you become aware of any Jews hiding in the area. It is required by law. All Jewish residents of Alsace have been ordered to register and leave the province and they have all been sent to the south of France – but we have heard of some stragglers who resisted, and they must be caught and punished. I am making you aware of this. Now…’
He removed from the briefcase a small book.
‘It is required by law that all residents of Alsace change any French names they might bear to German names. As an exception, due to your valuable contribution to the German economy through your position as a winemaker, you and your family members will be allowed to choose your names, within reason. Christian names as well as surnames must be changed accordingly. This is a small book with approved German names. I will leave this book with you now, and I expect you to register your new names at the Ribeauvillé Rathaus within a week. Is that clear? Generally, it is advised to choose names that are the equivalent or similar to the existing French names, or at least to bear the same first letter. Unless the name is already taken, we will accept any combination of German Christian and surname. Is that understood?’
Margaux managed to suppress, under great tribulation, the retort that was dangling on her lips. She merely pressed them together and nodded.
Grötzinger’s tongue passed over his lips again as he regarded his notes. ‘Now, let us backtrack a little. I see that you have two sons, young men, in your household. Leon and Lucien. Where are they?’
Margaux shrugged. ‘I already told you. They are in Germany. Prisoners of war, captured by the German army when they fought for France during the invasion earlier this year.’
Grötzinger stroked his moustache and glanced at his notebook, nodded, scraped back his chair and stood up.
‘So,’ he said, ‘I now request to be shown around the premises – the house and outbuildings. In particular, I want to see your wine storeroom as we will be requisitioning most of your produce. All Alsace wine is now German wine and belongs to the German state. Is that understood?’
Margaux suppressed the urge to scream. She pulled in her lips, nodded and stood up. Grötzinger said, ‘Very well. Let’s go. My men will search every corner of the property, including any cellars.’
Six
Margaux had no words left; they had all drained away, evaporated. The fighting spirit with which she had flung open her front door and ushered Grötzinger into her house, the fire that tickled the tip of her tongue – all were gone, leaving her a ghost of herself. Silently, limply, she led the way back into the hall, into the kitchen, where Victoire had just covered the mound of dough with a damp cloth. Victoire looked up; their eyes met, and Victoire’s opened wide in alarm. It was not often her mother was defeated, but when it happened it was complete; when Margaux lost a fight, her eyes declared her downfall more eloquently than words ever could.
Victoire mouthed, ‘What’s the matter?’ Margaux merely shook her head and shrugged.
‘…and this door leads to the outbuildings and, I presume, your wine stores?’
Grötzinger was already drawing back the bolt, opening the door, leading the way into the cobbled back courtyard. Margaux made to follow after Mendes, but Victoire grabbed her elbow and whispered in her ear, ‘Maman, what’s going on? What happened? You look—’
Margaux wrestled her arm free, frowned and fiercely whispered back: ‘Taise-toi! I’ll tell you later. Are Leah and Estelle safe?’
‘Yes. But—’
‘Stay here. I’m going with them.’
The interlude with Victoire had given her back some of her spark. She strode ahead to catch up with Grötzinger, who was making a beeline for the long low buildings where last year’s wine was stored in ceiling-high wooden vats. She entered the building behind them. The air within was tinged with the scent of musty fermentation, pungent and somehow intoxicating. A door led into a storeroom where crates of older wine sat stacked and ready for delivery to Colmar, Strasbourg and further afield. In the past, Margaux’s wine had travelled mostly south and west into France; she had achieved good prices for her best wine. But since the German occupation of France, prices had fallen dramatically, for Germany set the prices for French wine, and the wine had now to be sold to Germany, not France.
Grötzinger asked questions. Margaux answered them, her replies curt, her voice bland; Margaux, who could speak with passion and devotion on the subject of wine, now gave dull explanations to this, that or the other query.
A staircase led down into the cellar. A black hole yawned before them. Grötzinger turned to her. ‘You first, gnädige Frau. I assume you know where the light switch is.’
She nodded and led the way down. At the bottom she flicked a switch and a grimy bulb hanging from a cord in the ceiling flickered light into the gloom. In the dimness, stacks of crates loomed into the cool dank space, reaching into the shadows. Margaux led the way forward and now, at last, she found her voice.
Reaching into one of the open crates, she removed a bottle. It was dusty with age; she swiped at the label with a cloth she pulled out of her overall packet, and said, ‘This is one of our very best wines; it’s a Riesling from the year 1910, perhaps the best year ever. You know about wines, mein Herr? If so, you must have heard of that vintage? Alsatian wines were particularly superb that year, and of course, mine were the best. You must have heard?’
Grötzinger nodded, but even in the darkness Margaux could read the doubt in his eyes. She knew the look of smug uncertainty. She’d seen it on the faces of people keen to be considered wine connoisseurs, though they had no inkling whatsoever. Encouraged by the revelation that he knew nothing at all, Margaux talked on. Walking around the cellar, she removed one bottle after the other from its crate, describing each in poetic terms. Grötzinger hung onto her every word; he asked no questions now, because Margaux left no space for questions; she was, in fact, selling this wine to Grötzinger.
But even as she talked, even above her own words, Margaux could hear her own heart pounding away and her ears were poised for sounds, sounds that didn’t belong in that dank dark cellar. A stifled cough, a muffled sneeze. A careless whisper. A silent breath. Because, just beyond a door concealed by a moveable pallet on castors, a door built into a false wall she and her family had built as a precaution many years previously, was the equally dark and dank room where Leah and her daughter were hiding. Behind Margaux’s seemingly enthusiastic accolades was this: the lurking fear of discovery. And her breath was short; as were, finally, her homilies to her very best wine.
Because it was not her very best wine. Even as she waxed lyrical, Margaux’s spirit gradually returned; anyone who knew her would have noticed the devilish glint that now lit her eyes, even in the cellar’s gloom; would have known she was up to something.
That false wall built so many years ago had been constructed not to hide Jews but for another, far more mundane purpose. To hide wine. To hide the really very best wine. The aged and aging wines that were the true fortu
ne of the chateau, its treasure. These wines on display had been deliberately sorted from the cheapest stock. The labels had been removed and replaced with labels that showed an older and more noble vintage; and the bottles had been covered in carpet dust – dust recovered from the bag of Margaux’s vacuum cleaner, in which each new shiny bottle had been rolled, one at a time, until it truly looked old and worthy and venerable. The Germans would never know the difference, Margaux had said, and, having met Ortsgruppenleiter Grötzinger, she knew it now. His palate was unschooled. He could not tell good wine from bad, and he was welcome to claim the entire bounty of this cellar for himself and his army colleagues. None of them would know.
And she, Margaux, and her family would relish a very private victory. As she did now.
‘Well, Frau Gauthier-Laroche,’ said Grötzinger as they made their way back up the cellar stairs, ‘that was all very interesting. But, unfortunately – as I informed you previously – all Alsatian wine products now belong to the German government. We shall allow you to keep the cheaper quality in your storeroom; I realise that you need an income and far be it from me to deprive you of your maintenance. But the wine in our cellars – we Germans do appreciate a good wine and it has been most agreeable to find such a good source so close to hand. I shall send some recruits over tomorrow to make a full inventory of your cellar, and in a day or two it shall be collected and delivered to Colmar.’
Grötzinger was not finished. He insisted on a short tour of the farm; he made a note of the number of goats that Margaux kept behind the house, the two cows, the chickens, the rabbits.
‘We do not need these animals immediately,’ he told her, ‘but please know that they, too, all belong to the German government, and will be requisitioned as required.’
* * *
They returned to the house; Grötzinger insisted on returning to the salon so that he could make his notes. The other officer was sent out to wait in the vehicle. Margaux returned to the kitchen, where Victoire had in the meantime cleaned up and was waiting anxiously for her mother.
‘Pour me a glass!’ she exclaimed. ‘I need a drink. And to sit down. Those bullies!’
She pulled out a chair at the central table and plopped herself into it. Victoire poured a glass of Pinot Noir and placed it in front of her mother. Margaux kept shaking her head, still overwhelmed by the invasion of her property, an accurate reflection of what was happening all over France. She gave Victoire a summary of all that had been spoken.
A sharp rap on the kitchen door interrupted the conversation. The door opened; Grötzinger filled the doorway.
‘I have finished making my notes, gnädige Frau, and I will now take my leave. Tomorrow, German officers will come to assess and remove the wine slated for requisitioning, and the animals; the German army has to be fed. Don’t worry, we will leave you enough for your own use. Auf Wiedersehen, gnädige Frau, gnädiges Fräulein.’
He bowed slightly towards Margaux, towards Victoire, then turned away. Margaux rose to her feet, almost toppling the wine bottle on the table as she did so. Victoire caught it in time, set it upright on the table. Grötzinger marched down the hall, Margaux hard on his heels. He opened the front door.
‘Oh!’ he yelped, and tumbled backwards, catching himself at the last moment.
Seven
Marie-Claire
Marie-Claire stood on the porch, fumbling for her keys in her precious Coco Chanel handbag, sent by her father from Paris two years ago and much treasured. Startled by the sudden opening of the door, she looked up.
Marie-Claire did justice to her reputation as the beauty of the family. She possessed that natural je ne sais quoi that drew male glances; with her wavy blond hair, now elegantly coiffed into a chignon, perfect skin, symmetrical features and svelte figure, she could easily be mistaken for a Parisian young lady stepping down the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Marie-Claire’s image was carefully managed and enhanced. While her mother and sister cared not one whit for fashion and chose to spend their days in men’s trousers and old jackets and boots, Marie-Claire’s hankering for Paris haute couture meant that she was always dressed to the nines. It was a predilection endorsed and supported by her father. He, using some of his connections in the world of Paris businesspeople, and gratefully accepting his wealthy mistress’s cast-offs of fashion, make-up and perfume, took great pleasure in supplying his older daughter with whatever the chic young ladies of the capital deemed en vogue. Of course, that supply had diminished drastically since the invasion last June, but nevertheless, Marie-Claire could well boast of being the best-dressed young lady in the region; possibly better-dressed than anyone in Colmar, and – who could tell – perhaps even more well-dressed than anyone in Strasbourg.
It was not only her clothes: Marie-Claire’s blond hair was at all times beautifully styled, never a single strand out of place. Her cornflower-blue eyes were framed and made even more seductive by a subtle but expert application of shadows and liners, her lashes long and fluttery with the aid of mascara, her lips reddened, not with beetroot juice like the hoi polloi of Colmar, but with real lipstick, sometimes just left-over stubs gleaned from Papa but gratefully accepted by his daughter; Marie-Claire was not a snob when it came to hand-me-downs from Paris. The porcelain skin of her face was enhanced by fine powders. Other women might use the ubiquitous beetroot juice to attain a winning blush for their cheeks, not so Marie-Claire. Her cheeks – already well-accented by nature – were enhanced by real rouge. And her shoes. Never the wooden clogs French women of wartime reluctantly shoved their feet into; Marie-Claire’s shoes were of real leather, and they came from the best couture houses. She even had a pair of silk stockings, which she hoarded for special occasions; for everyday wear, she stained her legs to imitate stockings and drew a black line up the backs of her legs. Not for nothing had Papa been moving among the rich and famous of fashion’s world capital. Wine went with fashion, commercially speaking, as well as it did with cheese, gastronomically speaking.
Sadly, Marie-Claire had little opportunity to actually put all these very special gifts on display. There were no balls, no parties, even, in the wine country of Alsace. Back in the good old days, before the war, there had been the occasional concert or formal function in Colmar – but then she had been too young to go unescorted, and her mother refused to take her. What was a well-dressed girl to do? So Marie-Claire wore some of her best clothes to work. She might have only a lowly secretary’s position at the Mairie, but at least it got her out of the house, and at least she could strive to be the best-dressed woman in the building, in the town. It was an accolade she treasured.
Now she had lost that job, apparently, and so, day after day, put on her best attire to go job-hunting in Colmar. Sadly, today’s hunt had been once again unsuccessful.
Now, standing on the porch of her once-stately, now neglected chateau home, the golden November sunlight falling around her almost like a spotlight, she was a vision, an apparition.
‘Oh!’ she gasped, almost in unison with Grötzinger. They gaped at each other. And then Marie-Claire looked beyond him, to her mother, and said, ‘Maman, what’s going on? What’s that German jeep doing in the driveway? Who is this?’
She gave an offhand flick of her wrist towards Grötzinger. He, caught off-balance for the first time that day, soon recovered his usual aplomb. Giving a slight forward bow, clicking his heels, touching his cap, and an obsequious smile on his lips, he said: ‘May I introduce myself, gnädiges Fräulein, if I may be so forward. I am SS-Ortsgruppenleiter Otto Grötzinger, of the Haut-Rhin region of Alsace. And you, I believe—’
Margaux barged forward between the two, grasping Marie-Claire by the elbow and pushing her past Grötzinger into the chateau.
‘My older daughter, Marie-Claire. And now, if you’d please excuse us…’
Still pushing Marie-Claire gently forward, she edged past Grötzinger. Marie-Claire glanced up at him as she walked past. ‘What’s going on?’ she said again. Grötzinger called after
her: ‘Ah! The daughter who works at the Rathaus in Colmar, am I right? Well, I’m sure you’ve heard that all the former staff have been invited to attend a meeting tomorrow at the Rathaus. Attendance is compulsory. And—’
‘Auf Wiedersehen.’ Margaux slammed the door shut.
* * *
And then they were gone, the German intruders. Margaux wiped the sweat from her brow.
‘Maman, what’s going on?’ said Marie-Claire for the third time, impatience lending a peeved undertone to her words. She threw her hat over a hook on the hat stand, her handbag onto the sideboard, and bent over to tear her shoes from her feet. ‘These things are killing me!’ She set the shoes together carefully on the shoe-stand and straightened up, smoothing her skirt along her thighs and patting her hair into place.
‘Nobody forces you to wear them,’ Margaux retorted, ‘and no, they won’t kill you. And if I were you, I’d be less flippant about using that word when your country is at war.’
‘But you’re not me, are you, and I haven’t seen much of any war. It’s getting quite boring out here in the sticks. But again, who was that officer? Why was he here?’
‘He came to find you and lock you up,’ said Margaux, ‘so you don’t get too bored.’
‘Now who’s being flippant about war? Where’s Victoire? She’ll give me some proper answers.’
She strode past her mother towards the kitchen door. Margaux gave herself an internal slap. She’d done it again: succumbed to her own cynicism, let her tongue run loose needlessly. The bickering between mother and daughter had become so habitual that it now seemed almost impossible to hold a normal conversation, ask or answer a normal question; and Marie-Claire’s question had been normal, and deserved an answer. Margaux was self-aware enough to note that she let her basic irritation at Marie-Claire’s vanity distort every little everyday exchange. She had to put a stop to it. She had to overlook Marie-Claire’s casual snobbishness and simply try to love her daughter. She did love her; Marie-Claire was her firstborn, how could she not love her? She just did not like her very much, and she let that dislike show.