The Winemaker's Wife

by Kristin Harmel

  Céline swallowed hard, because a revelation was inevitable at some point, wasn’t it? She could hardly think of it without feeling ill. There would be so much pain, so much upheaval, and it would be her fault. But it could not happen while the war was still being waged, for betrayal made people do terrible things. “She will not find out anytime soon, Michel.”

  “If we are going to take in more refugees, we need to tell Theo about our work with the underground, too. It is only a matter of time, otherwise, until he stumbles upon the truth.”

  “I know.” Céline had already thought of this, of the risk they would take in including her husband. But they had no choice, not if they were going to save lives. Not if they were going to save their own souls.

  • • •

  Céline had expected Theo’s initial reaction to be negative, but she hadn’t expected the vehemence of his opposition.

  “No.” He sat at the table, his hands folded, his soup growing cold, as Céline clasped her hands in front of him in a fervent plea. “No, Céline. Absolutely not. It is not our concern.”

  “Of course it is! How can you say that?”

  He shrugged. “We are living away from the city. No one is bothering us, and we are bothering no one. This is the way we will survive the war, with our heads down.”

  “Do you really believe that keeping my head down will save me?” Céline demanded.

  “They are only taking away foreign Jews, not—”

  “Stop!” She jumped to her feet and nearly lost her balance. Placing one hand on her belly and the other on the table for balance, she repeated, “Stop. You are merely regurgitating the things the Germans want you to say.”

  “And what you’re saying is just propaganda from those who oppose the Germans. None of it has anything to do with us. The only way to ensure our safety is to do nothing!”

  “Doing nothing is for cowards!” she cried.

  “No!” Theo’s face turned red, and he stood, slamming his hands onto the table. “Feeling as if you have the ability to effect change is for fools!”

  “But if not us, then who?” Céline demanded. “If everyone thinks only of their own fate, who will save us? Who will save France?”

  “Save France?” His laugh was bitter. “It is too late for that, Céline. And look, look at the situation we find ourselves in.” He gestured to her belly. “You are pregnant! How did we make such a mistake? I will love our child, of course, but he or she is another Jew to protect, a liability! The only way to do that is to stay out of the Germans’ way.”

  “You think this baby is a liability?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. Just that the baby makes things all the more dangerous. We must think about our child.”

  “I am thinking of the child! I am trying to preserve a future!”

  “And I am trying to save your life!” Theo shouted.

  “You think you have the power to do that, but you do not. You are nothing, nothing, to the Germans. No, you are less than nothing, for you married a Jew. So you are already in danger, Theo. You just don’t see it.”

  He shook his head and sat back down. “No. My answer is no. I do not agree to helping refugees. I do not agree to sheltering illegal Jews. And I do not give you permission to put yourself—or my child—at risk.”

  “Theo,” Céline said, her tone desperate, pleading.

  “No. And that is final.” He gave her one last look before striding out of the room. A few seconds later, she heard the front door slam.

  Slowly, Céline sank back down into her seat at the table, her hand on her belly. “Baby,” she whispered in the silence, wondering if her unborn child could hear her voice, could feel her resolve. “We do not need his permission to be who we must be. Do you understand that?” Within her, the baby stirred, kicking once, in exactly the spot where her hand rested. “I will protect you, whatever it takes.”

  • • •

  On the day before March’s first full moon, late in the month, the cellars filled with a dozen workers—most of them children between twelve and fifteen who were grateful for the small fee Michel would pay them at day’s end—and despite her growing exhaustion, and the way her whole swollen body ached, Céline made her way belowground to help. It was tradition to begin bottling the wines the day the springtime moon rose in the sky; for hundreds of years, winemakers in Champagne had believed that the power of the lunar cycle drew the bubbles into the bottles.

  Céline worked beside Inès, who seemed extra solicitous. “Are you all right?” Inès asked her repeatedly, glancing with concern at Céline’s belly, which had grown enormous. The baby would arrive within seven weeks, in the first half of May, according to Céline’s math, but to Inès, the sheer size of Céline’s belly must have been confusing; like Theo, she had been told that the baby would come in June.

  “I’m fine,” Céline reassured her. Though her belly was huge and her limbs swollen, Céline also knew there was something radiant about her, too. She could feel it, and she could see the glow every time she looked in a mirror. Despite everything, she was the happiest she’d ever been.

  “You should rest. Why don’t you sit, Céline? There are plenty of people to help us today. You don’t want to exhaust yourself.”

  Céline blinked back sudden tears. She didn’t deserve Inès’s kindness. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Besides, this baby will have to learn to make wine one day, too. Might as well begin the lessons early.”

  She’d meant it as a lighthearted deflection of her discomfort, but Inès gave her a strange look. “You’ve already decided the baby will be a winemaker like Theo?”

  Céline realized too late that she’d been thinking, instead, that the baby would perhaps inherit Michel’s business one day. Certainly Michel would leave Inès after the war and legitimize his relationship with Céline. But of course she couldn’t say that. “I think winemaking will be in his blood.”

  “His blood?” Inès smiled. “You are so sure it will be a boy?”

  “I think so.” Now that the baby was moving with regularity, Céline was getting used to thinking of the person he would be when he emerged from the womb—and she was almost certain of his gender. At night, when she dreamed of a life with her child, it was always a little chubby-cheeked boy she saw, his eyes blue like his father’s, his hair dark and thick like hers. The best of both of them.

  “How wonderful. I’m sure Theo would be thrilled to welcome a son.”

  Céline could feel her breath catch in her throat. “Yes.”

  “You’re looking very pale,” Inès said, putting a hand on Céline’s arm. “Let’s walk upstairs for a little while, take a rest in the house.” When Céline began to protest, Inès cut her off firmly, adding, “Please. I’m exhausted. You would be doing me a favor.”

  Céline finally nodded and let Inès lead the way. They ascended into a bright, crisp morning, and Céline had just closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh air when the peace was shattered by the rumbling of an engine. She blinked a few times before her eyes adjusted enough to the sunshine to see a shiny black Mercedes rumbling down their drive, a Nazi flag flapping in the breeze.

  “God help us,” Inès said behind her. She took Céline’s hand, and together they stood still as the car approached and drew to a halt.

  Céline recognized the man who alighted from the passenger seat as the tall and broad-nosed Otto Klaebisch, the weinführer, for whom Michel and Theo had developed a grudging respect. The driver, she did not know, and she had just begun to relax, to believe that this was merely a routine inspection, when Hauptmann Richter unfolded himself from the back seat.

  His eyes fell on Céline immediately. “Good day, Madame Laurent,” he said as he stroked his thin mustache, his eyes pointedly fixed on the generous swell of her breasts beneath her cotton dress. She pulled her ragged sweater around her, and it was only then that he raised his gaze to hers, smirking at her discomfort.

  “Good day, ladies,” Herr Klaebisch said. “Forgive
the intrusion, but we are traveling all over Ville-Dommange today, inspecting cellars. If you will excuse us, we will head belowground to find your husbands.”

  “Yes, of course,” Inès said, as if Klaebisch had actually been asking her permission. Céline found that she could not speak; she was frozen under Richter’s unwavering gaze.

  Klaebisch and his driver headed for the stairs to the cellars, but Richter, who was still eyeing Céline, called after them, “I will stay here with the women and make sure everything is in order.”

  Klaebisch turned and assessed Richter. “Very well.” And then they were gone, swallowed by the earth, while Richter continued to pin Céline with his gaze.

  “Hauptmann Richter,” Inès said loudly, moving closer to Céline. “Perhaps you’d like to come into the house. I can make you some coffee.”

  “Your French coffee is swill.”

  “Then perhaps some bread?” Inès asked.

  “No,” Richter said. “But you go. I’d like to have a word alone with Madame Laurent.”

  “Oh, I’m not hungry,” Inès said quickly. “I think I will stay here.”

  Richter finally turned his attention to her, his glare hot with anger. “I asked you to go.”

  “Oh, but you couldn’t possibly have meant it that way,” Inès chirped, and Céline allowed herself to admire the other woman’s show of faux-ignorance. “Besides, if there’s something you need to say to Madame Laurent, it would be helpful for me to hear it, too.”

  Richter glowered at her before eyeing Céline again. “Very well. I did not realize you were expecting a child, Madame Laurent.”

  “Yes.”

  “Might I say that you look quite well?” When he smiled, she thought of a fox preparing to pounce on its prey. “Pregnancy agrees with you.”

  Céline fought her urge to flinch under his gaze. “Thank you.”

  “Of course the baby will be a Jew, too. Such a shame.”

  Céline swallowed hard and didn’t say anything.

  “But I could protect you,” Richter continued, his tone even as he watched Céline’s face. “Both you and your child. If you ask me to.”

  He seemed to be waiting for something, so Céline managed to say, “Please, do not hurt us.”

  “Oh, I am not the one you should worry about. I am only telling you that in times like these, a friendship like ours could be useful to you. Am I right in thinking you would do anything to save your child?”

  Céline’s heart thudded. “Of course,” she whispered.

  His smile was cold, vicious. “Good. Very good.”

  “Hauptmann Richter?” They were interrupted by a deep voice behind them, and Céline spun around to see the driver of the car ascending from the cellars. “Herr Klaebisch would like to have a word.”

  Richter turned back to Céline as the driver waited for him. “I will be back,” he said in a low tone, and then he strode away, toward the cellars.

  Céline didn’t breathe again until Richter was belowground.

  “Are you all right?” Inès’s voice sounded very distant, and the world swam before Céline’s eyes as she struggled to remain upright. She felt Inès’s hands grip her elbows, steadying her, and then the world righted itself. “Céline? You are all right?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Céline finally replied, gripping Inès for support.

  Without another word, Inès helped her into the house and settled her gently into a chair. She set about boiling water, and by the time she returned with a cup of ersatz coffee, Céline was feeling a bit better.

  “You mustn’t put too much stock in what Richter said,” Inès said soothingly. “He is just trying to intimidate you.”

  “But he’s not wrong. My baby will be in danger.”

  “Michel and I won’t let anything happen to either of you.”

  Céline shook her head. “Thank you.” Within her, the baby had gone still, as if waiting to see what would happen next. She wondered whether Inès really believed her own words—that she and Michel would have any power of protection—or whether the statement was simply a kindness, offered because there was nothing else to give.

  • • •

  Céline knew that Richter wasn’t done with her, but she hadn’t expected his return quite so soon.

  That evening, with Michel and Theo gone to a meeting of vignerons in Sacy, and Inès safely unaware within her own house, he appeared at her door in silence, his eyes burning holes in her. He had ridden a bicycle there, Céline realized, instead of arriving in a car, so Inès wouldn’t have heard his approach. “Madame Laurent,” he said, “there are some things I must follow up on in your cellars. You will show me belowground?”

  “I—I don’t think it’s appropriate,” she stammered, her hands protectively on her belly. “My husband should be back soon, and I—”

  “No, he won’t.” Richter smiled coldly. “I know he’s with Monsieur Chauveau at a meeting of winemakers. I feel certain they will be quite delayed.”

  “But surely Madame Chauveau—”

  “—will be completely unaware of my presence.” He finished her sentence for her, and then grabbed her arm. “Come, Madame Laurent. You do wish to protect your child, don’t you? But my friendship isn’t free. I thought I made that clear.”

  “Please, I can’t—”

  But Richter was no longer listening. He tugged her from her house, ignoring her protests. As he pulled her across the garden and toward the stone steps that led beneath the earth, she understood both what he wanted and that she would have no power to say no. She whimpered in the darkness, which only made him chuckle. “Is something wrong, madame?” he asked.

  “Please don’t make me do this.”

  “I am not making you do anything.” He picked up his pace, finally releasing her as he thrust her toward the entrance to the cellars and paused to illuminate his crank flashlight. “I am offering you a chance to save your child. Surely any mother would want that.” He didn’t wait for a response before shoving her toward the stairs. She stumbled on the first step, nearly falling, and he caught her roughly by the arm, laughing as she gasped. “Hoppla! You’re no good to me if you’re dead at the bottom of these steps, du Schlampe!”

  She pulled away and gripped the rail, descending as slowly as possible, her mind spinning as she tried to buy a bit of time. “My husband will report you,” she said as they reached the bottom of the stairs and he pushed her toward the first cave on the right, which was lined with resting bottles.

  “Oh, I do not believe you will tell your husband. Because if you do, I would have no choice to denounce you as a lying Jew. And lying Jews are sent east.” He chuckled. “In the camps, there is not much use for pregnant Jews. And certainly not for their babies.”

  They were in the cave now, and he set the flashlight down beside him and let her go. For a second, she considered running, but then he pulled a small knife from his pocket and flipped it open. It glinted in the slanted glare of the flashlight as he brandished it casually. “I hope I won’t need to use this to convince you.”

  “N-no.” She couldn’t tear her eyes from the knife, and this time, when he grabbed her around the waist, she forced herself not to flinch.

  He pushed her against the wall, face-first, and once she was pinned, he reached under her skirt with his free hand, his sweaty fingers cold against her flesh. “There, there,” he murmured as she whimpered in fear, and then his fist closed around her underwear and he pulled hard, ripping the fabric as he tore it loose.

  She gasped and gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. “No, please,” she begged, forgetting the knife momentarily, but as soon as she tried to pull away again, she found the blade pressed up against her right cheek.

  “Stupid, worthless cow,” he grunted in German as he unfastened his trousers, the sound of the belt buckle like a bell tolling in the darkness. “I told you to stay still.”

  “Please, please don’t. What if you hurt the baby?” That’s when she felt him shift slightly.
For an instant, she thought that her words had given him pause, but then he pulled her back and slammed her head against the wall, hard enough that she lost consciousness for a few seconds.

  “You think I give a shit about your Jew-child?” he barked as her world swam back into focus.

  She was slumped on the cold ground, her head throbbing. “Please, I—”

  “Get up!” he screamed at her.

  She strained to rise to her feet, but her limbs were useless, uncooperative. “I—”

  “Steh jetzt auf!”

  She moaned and tried to speak, to tell him she was trying, but her tongue wouldn’t cooperate.

  He cursed at her in German, then pulled her roughly to her feet and slammed her against the cold, wet wall again. “This is what happens when you refuse to follow orders,” he growled, and then a wave of excruciating pain washed over her as he dragged the knife down her right cheek, splitting her skin into a jagged river of blood. She screamed in agony, and instantly, the knife clattered to the ground and his thick hand was around her mouth and nose, suffocating her. “Shut the hell up, du Hure!” he hissed in her ear. “You asked for this.”

  When he finally took his hand away, she gulped the air greedily as pain coursed through her. She could smell her own blood, could feel it trickling down her shoulder. Then he was against her again, naked below the waist, nearly inside her. He grunted, the sound inhuman, animal-like. “You’re a filthy Jewish whore. You’re lucky a man like me wants you.”

  She closed her eyes and braced herself, reciting a silent prayer to God in her head that her baby would be protected and that it would all be over soon. But instead of the horrific violation she knew was coming, there was only a muffled cracking sound that reverberated through the cave, and then Richter’s body went slack against hers. She heard him hit the ground with a thud. Clutching her shredded, oozing face, she whirled around.

  Inès was standing there in the light of the tilted flashlight, clutching a champagne bottle with both hands. Its base was stained crimson, and between them lay the still form of the German officer, blood pooling under the back of his head, his pants twisted around his knees. His eyes were closed, a sneer still pasted across his ugly features. “Is—is he dead?” Céline asked.