The Vineyards of Champagne

by Juliet Blackwell

  Until it wasn’t.

  Rosalyn sometimes tortured herself, wondering: Had Dash made himself sick, somehow? The drinking, the rich food, the indulgent lifestyle. During the day while she was painting in the vines, lost in sweet oblivion, he attended to business but also lingered over three-hour lunches with clients and potential investors.

  Later, when the terrible truth set in, that their lifestyle was built on credit, that he—that they—were deeply in debt, Rosalyn realized that Dash had not been attending to business after all. At the very least, not well.

  She had wanted to believe him when he said he had everything under control; she trusted him to handle their finances while she spent her days among the rows of vines, reveling in her palette of sap greens and raw siennas and hints of vermilion. Dave’s gray and phthalocyanine, viridian green. Lost in the shape and form of the hills, the blue of the sky, the fluff of the clouds outlined in gold.

  She had given her life over, part and parcel, to Dash.

  Now, as she slipped la fève into the locket, where it was a snug fit, and turned back to Émile’s letters, Rosalyn tried to remember: Had he even asked for it?

  March 27, 1915

  Dear Madame Whittaker,

  Once again I have been sent to Reims. My poor, devastated city is even worse than before. I am so sorry to say it. After looking the lady Lucie Maréchal up at her Villa Traverne, only to find there nothing but charred ruins, I discovered through a passerby that they had moved to another house, to the south of the city.

  But there, another ruin stood.

  In truth I began to panic, thinking of the terrible things that might have happened to the young lady and her family. Though I see the death of my fellow soldiers every day, it is harder to cope with the violence done to civilians.

  At long last, and with great relief, I found the lady in question, along with her mother, father, and brother, hiding down in the crayères of Pommery. They have taken shelter there, along with so many others, and have made a little niche for themselves into a strange kind of home, under the sign of Dakar.

  I don’t quite know how to describe Mademoiselle Lucie Maréchal. The first time I met her, her words and attitude surprised me; she was not the spoiled girl I had expected. But now . . . she has given up her fine silks for simple muslins, her soft kid shoes for the wooden clogs worn by women who work in the fields. She does not seem embittered, but merely determined. There is a stubborn set to her chin that makes even this battle-weary soldier believe that she will survive and do as she pleases, within the confines of her war-scarred world.

  Already the others in the caves look to her for guidance. She forms groups that go out to scavenge for useful items—and to help the wounded—in the rubble after shellings. A little orphan girl named Topette follows her around and sleeps by her side at night.

  Many of our brave troops are bunked down in the caves under xxx, mostly French but some British as well. I find myself wishing, fervently, that I could remain here to fight alongside them. At times they become emboldened with champagne, and I find myself fearful that they might bother the young ladies. It is something quite akin to jealousy, though I realize it is not my place.

  The tunnels have been extended far out under the vines on the hillsides. Into No Man’s Land, a hell of trenches and soot, shell holes and séchoirs. That the vines survive the gas and bombardment is a testament to [unreadable], and, I like to think, to the spirit of the Rémois.

  Please always know I think of you with le coeur toujours chaud.

  Respectfully,

  Émile Legrand

  * * *

  July 5, 1915

  My dear marraine,

  Many of my battalion have been dropped not by bullets but by disease. I think the flies have something to do with it, as well as the heat and the still-unburied bodies. There seem to be millions of flies here in xxx, and they are all over everything. Put a cup of tea down without a cover and it is immediately covered; when you open your mouth to speak or to eat, in they pop. It is a gruesome sort of game.

  Where we are now must have been a “No Man’s Land” because there are no houses or buildings of any kind to be seen, and except for the flies, the only living things are rats and lizards and occasionally brave little canaries.

  You asked about our rations. We get plenty of bully beef and army biscuits, but bread and fresh meat have become a luxury, and it is not possible to buy anything. Last winter flour was in such short supply that bread was being made with dried ground turnips, but it was better than nothing. Once, a few weeks ago, a boulangerie roulante appeared; you cannot imagine the jubilation to have a few slices of pain au levain! I believe I will never again take such things for granted.

  Lately we have been fed on pea soup with a few lumps of horse meat, if we’re lucky. I don’t complain, as I know the kitchen staff eats the same as we do, and theirs is not an easy job. Not long ago one cook was hit by a sniper while out scouting for nettles and dandelion greens to add a little flavor to the soup.

  I find the worst part is that the kitchen staff has only two large vats, in which everything is prepared, and here in xxx it is difficult to wash our bodies, much less the dishes. Thus everything we eat tastes of something else; our tea often smells like potatoes and onions.

  When last I visited Reims, Lucie took me to a little café that had been set up underground, in the caves. There were little tables, and we all seemed to be taking part in a play, as though we were outside at a sidewalk café. We shared a tea cake and some champagne; the cake was stale and made of something other than flour—it is best not to wonder—but it was ambrosia nonetheless. The champagne shimmered like the nectar of the gods, as always.

  And the lovely Lucie, sitting before me, was like an angel from heaven (a very determined, stubborn angel) that has been assigned to purgatory for some unspoken sin, trapped beneath the earth, within the caves.

  Yours with all affection and respect,

  Émile Legrand

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Lucie

  When first we landed in our underground lair, the overwhelming feeling was one of relief. But that did not last long.

  Soon enough I came to understand that the gravest danger was no longer the shells that dropped—though they sometimes shook us even deep within the cave—but the prodigious degradation of spirit.

  There are soldiers billeted in their own sections of the crayères; they have extended the tunnels so they can travel for many kilometers into No Man’s Land without ever exposing themselves to the outside world.

  Though they do not live among us, their military presence means that the world at large has learned about the pitiable, brave Rémois living underground. Journalists and sometimes even politicians and famous performers appeal to the military authorities for special passes to come visit the strange and remarkable “underground cities” that now house the populace of Reims under the celebrated champagne houses of Clicquot, Taittinger, and Pommery.

  It feels more and more like we are, indeed, living in Alice’s wonderland, that we have fallen down the rabbit’s hole.

  I care less about visiting dignitaries than I do about my own stomach. When the dangerous zone is relatively clear, the soldiers are able to bring in food and other necessities. Occasionally presents arrive from concerned citizens in sections of France relatively untouched by war, and some by admirers from faraway parts of the world: One year the children were sent new shoes, and another time thousands of cut flowers filled the caves, lending us their garish colors and heavenly scents for a few days.

  Oil for the lamps is always in short supply and we suffer the indignity of using “latrines”—buckets that must be taken out and dumped—for our most basic needs. We have to line up for food, but at the very least, we know we will not starve.

  Indeed, businesses spring up in the caves. When
he has access to flour, the baker can make pain au levain and pains-biscuits, sending warmth and the mouthwatering aroma of baking bread through its section of the cellars; the grocery often has a stock of vegetables and canned goods, and very occasionally offers grapes, apples, or even pears for sale.

  Somehow, Monsieur Émile Legrand found us down there, in Dakar. He brought a note from my fiancé, and another present: This time it was a wheel of cheese, so I suppose he was listening. He sent a postcard, telling me he was well, and wishing me better.

  In the caves a small café proffers coffee and tea, and even champagne and brandy; the woman in charge sets out little tables and chairs so we can pretend we are sitting outside, enjoying the air.

  Monsieur Legrand and I took a glass of champagne there, feeling quite daring. He told me he was sorry to see my family living down in the caves, but was happy to know we were safe. At my heartfelt urging he spoke of his life in the trenches; he said he felt like an animal, poking his head above the earthen rim of his ditch only to feed and to kill.

  I told him we made quite the pair, both running to ground to survive.

  He told me that he writes several times a week to his marraine, a woman who lives in Australia, which is a country clear on the other side of the world, where no bombs fall. He laughed when I asked whether he had ever seen the ocean, and whether we might sail away to that land of peace, after the war.

  Before leaving, he asked if he could leave a bundle of his marraine’s letters with me for safekeeping; he invited me to read them at will.

  When I stood I remarked that I thought the champagne was going to my head. He smiled and quoted his favorite poet, a man named Charles Baudelaire:

  One must always be drunk. That’s it—that’s the only question. In order not to feel the horrible burden of time that weighs on your shoulders and bends you to the earth, you must be drunk without pause. . . . But drunk with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you wish.

  I made him write it down for me. To be honest, I am not sure whether my head was affected by the champagne or by the man himself.

  This time, I nearly cried to see him go.

  * * *

  My family fell into a pattern: Upon rising and sharing tea, my mother and I would tidy our niche, which meant folding our blankets, dusting, and sweeping up the chalky white powder that sifted down incessantly from the walls and ceiling. Henri would venture deeper into the caves to find out through the grapevine whether any new supplies were expected that day and, if so, where we were supposed to line up. My father would remain mute, sitting on a scavenged chair and staring at the bottles that provided us a modicum of privacy.

  He was not the only one; I would venture to say that the great majority of those dwelling in the underground shared that same vacant stare, beset by the treacherous malaise that attacks one who has lost too much.

  The children, meanwhile, ran wild.

  Had I been only a few years younger, I’m quite certain I would have joined them—most likely I would have led the little gang, running through the tunnels and mounting crude stairs, discovering hidden niches and tunnels within tunnels, exploring galleries that led onto wider galleries or narrow passages or dropped into steep pits, pretending to be in Alice’s world.

  But as it was, my mother drew me aside and told me I must do something to help.

  “What am I to do about it?” I asked. “No one else is doing anything.”

  “You must,” she said. “You are able, and therefore you must.”

  My mother was not a woman to be gainsaid. And it was clear she was right; this was no way to live.

  First, I joined the small groups that waited for a pause in the shelling, and then went to sift through charred remains, searching for anything of value: unbroken chairs, serviceable blankets, even pretty little items that would remind us of the before time. We raided the ruins of a pharmacy and helped to stock the “hospital” that had been set up in a large quarry pit; a soot-covered Madonna was rescued from the cathedral, cleaned, and brought down to grace our underground chapel. We scavenged from a damaged interior decorator’s shop, and were able to embellish parts of the cellars with wallpaper and figurines; it may sound silly but it provided a degree of normalcy to some family niches and well-used sections of the caves.

  The bravest children were able to help, slipping through openings too small for adults and reaching into crevices between the rubble to extract items of value. Though it was hazardous to be outside, we learned to stay close to standing buildings, to dart quickly across open areas, and to listen for shells and bullets.

  One little girl of seven years, Topette, began to follow me around. She has no idea what happened to her family; as far as she could explain it to me, she last saw her parents at the train station, when they were waiting for permission to evacuate. Her father had to go back to their home to retrieve some important papers, but when he did not return, her mother ordered her to stay right where she was, by the pillar closest to the track; her mother disappeared into the crowd, and that was the last time she saw her. Through her tears, Topette told me she stayed by the pillar as long as she could, but night came and went, her stomach hurt, and she wet her pants. Finally she disobeyed her mother and ran home, but their house was now no more than a bombed-out crater.

  Topette and I were mending privacy curtains one day when Monsieur Albert Corpart, the longtime vineyard manager of Pommery champagne house, came down to the caves.

  He announced he was looking for help to bring in the harvest.

  Dull eyes turned to him, wondering if it were true. The vines were now on the front line of the fighting; how could he expect us to bring in the grapes?

  But Monsieur Corpart is well-known to all for his entêtement, his pigheadedness. After working in Pommery’s vineyards and nurturing the plants for nearly thirty years, he was not about to abandon his precious vines to the vicissitudes of war.

  “The winery has no access to proper money since the banks closed,” Monsieur Corpart explained, “but workers will be paid in vouchers that can be used at any local businesses, and after the war, Pommery promises to make good on the markers. All of our healthy young workers have gone to battle the Boches, but you women and children, and anyone else feeling well enough, can wage war against the enemy in the classic way of the Rémois: You can help make champagne.”

  He was asking us to bring in the grapes, to lay up bottles of a Victory Vintage that would develop bubbles and be ready to drink only after this wretched war was over. For some reason I thought of Monsieur Émile Legrand; I imagined sharing a glass with him in peacetime, long after the war.

  Despite the bombs, despite everything, Monsieur Corpart was asking us to make the wine.

  I was the first to raise my hand.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Madame Bolze was not only willing to talk but was delighted at the prospect of visitors, and invited them to come on Tuesday at eleven o’clock. Blondine wasn’t about to miss a chance to see the inside of the Vieille Ruche, and she offered to drive so that André might have a day off.

  “Works for me,” Emma said. “But be forewarned: I’m a backseat driver of the first order.”

  “Backseat . . . ?” Blondine asked.

  “She means she’s going to tell you what to do every step of the way,” Rosalyn said.

  “This is supposed to be news?” Blondine said. “We’ll leave at nine.”

  “I’ll be ready,” said Rosalyn. “But why so early? Michel said it was only a twenty-minute drive.”

  “We have stops to make. We will need a basket with fruit and pâté, and we must stop at the boulangerie. We cannot arrive empty-handed.”

  * * *

  The next day Rosalyn helped Emma into the front passenger’s seat and climbed in the back with Emma’s crutches.

  At the butcher a few towns over, Emma and Blondine arg
ued over which basket to buy and which pâté was superior: the pâté de campagne or the truffled mousse. At the fruit stand, Emma and Blondine argued over whether to buy apples or pears, clementines or Valencia oranges, or dried fruits like plums, apricots, and dates.

  And that was nothing compared to the long, drawn-out discussion at the counter of the boulangerie. Blondine insisted on bread that was pas trop cuit, not too cooked, which engendered yet another heated discussion with Emma, who was staunchly of the opinion that a well-browned baguette was best. Soon the baker emerged from the rear of the store to weigh in on the proper degree of doneness of a perfect baguette, and several other customers waiting their turn to order chimed in.

  Rosalyn stayed out of it, relishing the opportunity to examine the baked goods on display. The boulangerie wasn’t a pâtisserie—a shop that specialized in pastries and desserts—but nonetheless sold delectable-looking choux, or cream puffs, as well as éclairs, madeleines, macarons, meringues, and tartes aux fruits, which were miniature open-faced fruit-and-custard tarts. How in the world did the French stay so skinny?

  The boulangerie smelled like heaven, and Rosalyn hoped the scent would linger on her clothing the way the cigarette smoke had after the Ephipany party.

  The disputants in the Great Baguette Debate at last called a truce—neither side had convinced the other, though all agreed the proprietor of the boulangerie had the best bread in all of Champagne—and, to appease Emma, Blondine bought several baguettes in varying degrees of doneness, as well as an assortment of other breads to bring home with them.

  Back in the car and once again en route to visit Madame Bolze, Blondine ripped off the heel of a baguette and handed it to Rosalyn.

  “It’s called le quignon, the bit you eat on the way home,” she explained.