by Sharon Maas
‘—unlike you!’
Marie-Claire shrugged and continued, now in a calmer voice: ‘You don’t have to collaborate, but you don’t have to demonstrate your hatred. Denying me the job – a job I want to take! – would be an act of rebellion and you’ll only make a personal enemy of them. Do you really want that? You really want to make a fuss? You really want to set yourself up as an enemy?’
The truth of Marie-Claire’s words left Margaux without an argument. She glared at her daughter now, searching for more words, words that would hurt, words that would cut.
‘Well, let me tell you this, girl: not in my house. I won’t have a collaboratrice living under my roof, eating from my table. Find somewhere else to live.’
Marie-Claire gasped. Was her mother, her own mother, actually throwing her out? Was what she’d done that bad? She straightened her shoulders and glared back.
‘So you’re throwing me out. I don’t care. In fact, I was told I have to move to Colmar anyway, so as not to be dependent on buses. How convenient. I’ll move in with Tante Sophie. I’ll pay her rent – I’m sure she’ll be happy to have me.’
‘She’s welcome to you. Little traitor!’
Marie-Claire threw her spoon down into her half-finished soup and scraped back her chair.
‘Maman, you’re really a bitch! And you know, if I really wanted to be a traitor there’s a lot more I could do! I know a lot of things the Nazis would be happy to know but guess what, I do have some honour and I won’t tell them a thing, but I know, don’t I, and you’ll always wonder, won’t you! You and your precious wine!’
She fled to the door, and a moment later it slammed behind her, and her footsteps pounded up the stairs.
Margaux sat at the head of the table, deflated. Those last words were a knife twisting in her back; she knew exactly what Marie-Claire was alluding to. Because of course Marie-Claire knew her big secret. Marie-Claire had helped construct that wall in the wine cellar, behind which the most valuable bottles were stored. If Marie-Claire chose to hit back at her mother, that knowledge was ammunition enough.
Victoire said, soothingly, again touching her mother’s arm, ‘Don’t worry, Maman; she won’t tell them about the wine. I know Marie-Claire. She’s a bit flighty but she’s honourable, deep inside. I know it. She won’t betray us. The wine’s safe.’
Margaux slumped in her chair. ‘Why oh why do I let myself get so riled up by that girl? I guess my nerves are all on edge. I don’t really think she’ll betray us; but, you know, it’s not so much the wine I’m worried about. Victoire, did you ever tell her, or even hint, about hiding Leah and Estelle?’
Victoire’s eyes widened. ‘No, Maman, I didn’t tell her. Nobody knows except Jacques. She just thinks Leah’s gone.’
‘Good. Because hiding Jews is enough to get us both executed. You know that.’
Victoire gulped and swallowed.
‘I know it, Maman. And I promise you I’ve told no one else. I never would. But, Maman – you really need to make up with Marie-Claire. Maybe she really didn’t have a choice about taking the job, and you’ve just made things a lot worse. You can’t throw her out just like that.’
Margaux nodded. ‘You’re right – I let my anger run away with me. I’ll go and talk to her. As soon as I finish my soup. And I’ll warm up the rest of hers and take it up to her. That girl is too thin – she can’t afford to miss meals. Pass the bottle, will you.’
Victoire refilled her mother’s glass. Margaux took a sip, and immediately felt better. Bad enough having the Germans as an enemy on her doorstep, she couldn’t afford to be at war with her own daughter as well. But it was true: her nerves had been rubbed raw by all that had come to pass since the Nazis had marched into Colmar, and she was constantly on edge. Marie-Claire’s behaviour didn’t help, but it wasn’t enough to make an enemy of her, too. Marie-Claire knew too much. Not that Margaux thought that her own daughter would betray her… but one could never be too careful.
‘Damn!’ she said and emptied the glass. She stood up, walked to the stove, warmed up the remains of Marie-Claire’s soup, added some more to it from the pot and carried it upstairs as a peace offering.
Twelve
A month later
Victoire pulled on her boots – a size too big; they were actually Margaux’s cast-offs – slipped her arms into the sheepskin jacket hanging near the back door and stepped out into the dawn. She picked up the bucket of kitchen scraps from yesterday and walked across the cobbled courtyard to the chicken pen. The two hens heard her, and waddled across the yard in a medley of excited squawking and flapping of wings, making far more noise than you’d expect from only two. Once, they’d had over twenty hens, and it had been mayhem just walking into the centre of the pen to distribute the scraps. A mayhem she’d enjoyed. But most of the hens had been taken by the Nazis, leaving just these two. At least that gave her the chance to name them: Millie and Chloe were their names, and she’d grown very fond of them.
‘Good morning, girls!’ she said as she emptied the bucket in a wide circle around the pen, and the hens returned her greeting with yet more squawking and scraping of the ground and fluttering. She watched them fondly for a minute, walked over to the coop to check for eggs – there weren’t any; there were seldom eggs in winter – then let herself out of the pen with the empty bucket. There were still the goats to feed and milk and the rabbits to look after, after which it would be back to the kitchen, breakfast to prepare for everyone, and then out again and across the yard to the winery, with fresh water and yesterday’s bread for Leah and Estelle. The poor things, they hadn’t seen daylight for weeks now – what must it be like, hiding in an underground cellar, knowing that simply emerging for a few moments of fresh air and autumn sun, a few rounds of the courtyard to stretch their legs, would be risking their lives? She had pleaded with Margaux to allow them out just for a while each day but Margaux had shaken her head.
‘No. I understand how tough it is but remember how it was when Grötzinger came that first time? How they returned without warning to steal our wine and our produce, how they keep coming back without warning to make sure we haven’t stocked up again? They don’t trust us, we don’t trust them. Grandpa isn’t always capable of warning us. We have to be absolutely vigilant, and that means never letting our guards down, ever. Sorry, Victoire, but that means Leah and Estelle have to remain as virtual prisoners for the time being.’
Now, she pulled away a wheeled pallet loaded with several cases of wine. Behind it was a door, quite indistinct against the stone cellar wall as it, too, was cladded in stone. Victoire reached for a large key on a ledge above the door, turned it in the lock and entered the doorway, bowing down to pass under the low lintel.
‘Bonjour! Le petit déjeuner est arrivé!’ she called. The cellar was dark, but not black, for a dim dusty light bulb glowed in the arched stone ceiling – Leah and her daughter did not have to live in total darkness. Leah had a clock, so as to keep pace with the rhythm of life outside, and now, from the back corner that they had all outfitted in a semblance of homeliness, Estelle rushed forth.
‘Victoire! Bonjour!’ she cried, as she leapt into her visitor’s arms. Victoire laughed, holding the basket with breakfast up higher and clasping the little girl around the waist. ‘Careful!’ she said, ‘we don’t want your food to fall on the dirty ground, do we!’ She set Estelle back on the ground, and hand in hand, they walked over to Leah, who was sitting on the cot she shared with her daughter.
‘…and look, Estelle – I’ve brought a new book for you!’
‘A storybook, or a schoolbook?’ Estelle’s tone was sceptical; she loved the picture books Victoire brought from time to time, gleaned here and there from families she and her mother sometimes visited in Ribeauvillé and Colmar, exchanging them for farm produce. But Leah was also giving her daughter school lessons, and Estelle wasn’t so keen on such books.
‘It’s a storybook. Look – it’s about penguins. Do you know what penguins are?’
‘Of course I know! I’m not stupid! They live in the snow and look like men in black suits and white shirts going to a ball!’
‘That’s right. Well, here you are. Your maman can read it to you.’
‘No! I can read by myself now!’
‘Can you now! Clever girl! See, those schoolbooks are useful after all!’
‘But I learned to read with storybooks, not with stupid schoolbooks!’
They talked for a little while longer, and then Victoire said her goodbyes and left them. She’d be back in the afternoon with more food. As she left, she picked up the bucket that served as a toilet and checked the water level in the wooden vat that served as a water reservoir; Margaux had created an ingenious piping system through the wall that allowed those on the outside to turn on a tap to feed the basin so that Leah and Estelle could wash themselves. Now and then, Victoire removed their soiled laundry for washing, and returned a clean little pile. They had to be careful never to dry the child’s clothes on the line – questions might be asked.
Back in the kitchen, preparing breakfast now for herself and her mother, Victoire thought about the situation of their guests. It couldn’t go on like this. What if the war was to last a year longer? Several years – two, three, ten years – longer? They had to find a solution. Jacques had once mentioned a route over the mountains and down to the south of France, but had been too busy in Strasbourg to actually work something out. The next time she saw him, she’d raise the subject.
It was frustrating, being only fifteen years of age, too old for the insouciance of childhood, too young for the responsibilities of adulthood. It was the latter she hankered for, yet here she was, relegated to the role of her mother’s domestic helpmate and farmhand. She had no particular function, nothing to fight for, no conflict to resolve, no risks to face or dangers to overcome. Even Marie-Claire was better off. Marie-Claire, now, was of an age where she could do anything at all she wanted: almost an adult. But Marie-Claire, far from joining the Resistance and putting up a fight, was practically working for the enemy. Had she no pride at all? No sense of loyalty? What a waste of an opportunity.
Marie-Claire claimed openly to be as neutral as Switzerland and, now fully ensconced in the Mairie, didn’t at all appreciate her unique position at the hub of Nazi power in Colmar. If she, Victoire, had had that chance, she would have done something. There must be something one could do if the Kreisleiter was one’s immediate boss; even a lowly secretary, surely? She, Victoire, would have found some way to work against her chef. She’d have been a spy. But Marie-Claire, it seemed, just sailed through life obeying orders and not caring. What a waste of a job.
As for Jacques: Victoire knew exactly what he was up to. Immediately after the vendange Jacques had gone underground to fight the Nazis, had disappeared into the shadowy world of the maquisards, guerrillas fighting for France, men and women who had escaped into the mountains to avoid conscription into Vichy France’s Service du travail obligatoire, Compulsory Work Service, to provide forced labour for Germany. He had come home for a few days last week and, as ever, had taken time for her. So had it ever been with Jacques: he was closer to her than her own brothers, never dismissing her as a child, always including her in his projects and plans. But not this time; this time she was too young, the project too dangerous.
‘No, Victoire. I’m sorry. You cannot be a Maquis.’
‘Just because I’m a girl! I heard that lots of boys my age are fighting the Germans. Why can’t I?!’
‘They are playing a dangerous game in Strasbourg, those boys. Throwing grenades into shop windows and running away. They are brave boys and I have full respect for them. But I’m not going to let you join them.’
‘Because I’m a girl!’
‘Because it’s reckless. Brave, but reckless, and I worry about them. They’re all below the age for conscription so they’re under the Nazi radar, but still, I fear that sooner or later they’ll be caught, and it’s for nothing. It’s not enough to throw grenades and run. To truly defeat the Nazis takes more planning, a more mature approach. And I promise you, Victoire, I’ll find a role for you. Later. Something you can do well, and which will be essential to our work. Just wait.’
So that was what she had to do: wait. Fulfil her duties, the same tasks, morning and evening. Look after the hens and the rabbits and the greenhouse, not to mention Leah and Estelle, morning, noon and night. Margaux constantly reminded her that looking after their fugitive Jews was important and dangerous war work, but Victoire found it hard to see it that way; where was the adventure in looking after a woman and a child? She longed to be out there, like Jacques, doing things. Killing Germans. That was real Resistance work.
Another day passed by, a day filled with domestic and farm duties, not to mention school. Once the kitchen was in order after supper she put on her coat, lifted the torch from its hook on the wall next to the back door and sallied out into the night. There’d probably be frost tonight; winter was breathing down their backs and she had to make sure the greenhouse door was closed and the plants were protected.
Pushing her hand into her coat pocket, she felt something: paper. She remembered: today at school a woman had visited and invited pupils to take part in a special First Aid course sponsored by the Red Cross. There’d be a course starting in January, in Colmar. It sounded mildly interesting. Something to do, something more than looking after house and home for Maman. A start. A First Aid course might not have the same stature as joining the Maquis, but it was better than school. Particularly now that all classes had to be delivered in German. It was simply grotesque, and so unfair.
Victoire sighed as she walked across the cobbles to the greenhouse. Being the youngest, with no skills at all except the care of plants and animals, she was by default regulated to the boring domestic duties that everyone depended upon, but no one appreciated. A nobody.
Thirteen
Marie-Claire
There was a knock at the back door. ‘Who would come at this time of night!’ said Tante Sophie. ‘And knock at the back door!’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Marie-Claire. She put the Vogue magazine she’d been leafing through on the floor beside her armchair and got up. She had managed to develop a comfortable relationship with her great-aunt, Grandpère’s sister, whom she called Tatie; of an evening they sat together in the parlour, beside the fire dancing in the hearth, Tatie knitting a scarf for her, she leafing through all the old magazines her father had sent in the previous years. She had over the last few weeks discovered an unlikely ally in Tatie, who had never married and who had, in her day, enjoyed some local fame as a clarinettist, but had never been close to her niece, Margaux; there had, it appeared, been some family disagreement between the two.
Tatie had received her with open arms, welcomed her into her home, told her she could stay as long as she wanted, and over time they had talked, and grown close; and though she had never quite understood the reason for the estrangement, she knew now that it had nothing to do with her or any of her siblings; it was all between Margaux and her own mother.
‘It’s no use chewing it all over again,’ Tatie had said, ‘but you and I can start from scratch.’ And so it had developed into this: cosy evenings by the fire, a sense of homeliness Marie-Claire had never known in a house dominated by her mother’s personality.
‘Be careful, chérie!’ Tatie said now as Marie-Claire walked towards the door leading to the kitchen and back door. ‘Check who it is first.’
‘Of course, Tatie,’ said Marie-Claire. She proceeded through the kitchen. At the back door she drew back the curtain over the little window that allowed those inside to view those outside and speak to them. But it was too dark to recognise the face that loomed in the blackness of the courtyard.
‘Who is it?’ Marie-Claire called. ‘I can’t see you.’
‘It’s me. Jacques. Can I come in?’
She gasped, and immediately opened the door.
‘Jacques! Come in! What are you—?�
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He didn’t let her finish.
‘Marie-Claire, I need to speak to you. Is it possible? It’s very important.’
‘Yes, yes, of course – but Tante Sophie – she’s in the parlour, and—’
‘Yes, of course I will go and greet her first. But I need to speak to you alone. It’s terribly important.’
‘Come with me.’
She led him back into the parlour. She noticed that he was dressed all in shades of black and grey, like a burglar in a back alley; his face was long and gaunt as if he had not had a good meal in weeks, and his clothes looked old and worn. But he was still, beneath it all, Jacques, and the moment she’d recognised him her heart had started that unwanted and involuntary mad thumping that was its customary reaction whenever Jacques was within touching distance. It was as if that terrible, inexcusable, painfully embarrassing scene had never happened.
Jacques greeted Tatie with such enthusiasm and seemingly genuine warmth he might have been her own nephew; and yet he was quick to excuse himself and pull away.
‘I’m so sorry – I’d love to stay for a chat and a glass of wine, Madame Gauthier, but I have only a few minutes and I need to discuss a small matter with Marie-Claire – may we be excused?’
‘But of course! I know all about such small matters. Go in the kitchen and take as long as you like.’
‘Then I’ll say au revoir now; I’ll come for a longer visit when I get the chance.’ He stretched out a hand to her; she took it in both of hers, pulled his face down to her and kissed him on both cheeks.
‘You were always a good boy, Jacques, just like your father. A pity, such a pity—’ She stopped abruptly then, and let him go with a farewell nod.
Jacques nodded at Marie-Claire, and she led him back into the kitchen. They stood, facing each other. Jacques’ eyes seemed on fire.
‘Marie-Claire…’