Wine and War: The French, the Nazis, and the Battle for France's Greatest Treasure

by Donald Kladstrup

  Resentment, and much more. There was now the conviction that one mistake, one false step, could result in torture or even death.

  “We tried to live in the shadows,” Jean-Michel said.

  That year, in the darkness of a December night, a solitary truck wound its way carefully over Champagne’s Montagne de Reims (Mountain of Reims) toward the city of Reims. The driver, who knew the route well, relied on his darkened headlights as little as possible. It was well after curfew.

  Suddenly, a light flashed in front of him. He blinked several times to see what was happening but the light was leveled directly at him. Then there came a shout in heavily accented French ordering him to stop. He slammed on his brakes.

  A German soldier yanked open the door and pulled the driver out. Where are you going? What are you doing? The questions came fast and furious as other soldiers converged on the truck and began searching it. Before the driver could say anything, there was a shout from the rear of the vehicle. A soldier jumped down, holding an armful of weapons.

  “What’s all this?” the officer demanded. The terrified driver refused to talk. Slamming his fist into the driver’s stomach, the German repeated his question. The driver, held upright by two other soldiers, said he did not know anything about the weapons. They dragged him to another vehicle and drove him to Gestapo headquarters in Reims. Other soldiers followed in the truck he had been driving.

  Under torture, the driver said he did not know anything about the weapons but confessed that he had been sent by his boss “to make a pickup” and that he was just following orders. His boss was the Marquis Suarez d’Aulan, who ran Piper-Heidsieck Champagne. The pickup consisted of a huge cache of arms, including rifles, pistols and grenades, that had been parachuted in for the Resistance. The weapons had been dropped into a vineyard Piper owned near Avize on the Côte des Blancs, about twenty miles south of Reims.

  Like many other champagne producers, the marquis had turned his vast cellar into a place of refuge for the Resistance. He also had created an arms depot there, stockpiling weapons that were flown into Champagne by the Allies and which were to be handed out to the Maquis when the battle for the liberation of France began.

  The Germans had long suspected what was going on but had never been able to prove it, thanks largely to the disciplined and highly secretive nature of Resistance organizations in Champagne. With the arrest and confession of the driver from Piper-Heidsieck, the Germans now had the evidence they needed.

  Early the next morning, a convoy of vehicles carrying soldiers and the Gestapo descended on the headquarters of Piper-Heidsieck. They did not bother to knock; they pushed straight in, demanding to know where Monsieur Suarez d’Aulan was. A Piper employee replied that the marquis was not there, that he had gone mountain climbing in the Alps. The Germans began searching the premises. They discovered a huge quantity of weapons hidden in the cellars, but no sign of Suarez d’Aulan.

  Furious, the Gestapo sped to his home, hoping to catch other members of the family, but someone else from Piper had gotten there ten minutes earlier and warned the family what was happening. By the time the Germans arrived, everyone, including the marquis’s wife Yolande was gone.

  The Germans, however, were not about to give up. A few days later, when Yolande’s mother died, the Germans sensed another opportunity. They decided to surround the church during the funeral service and arrest the family when they came out.

  The service began as planned. As prayers were recited, soldiers took up positions around the church, guarding all the doors. When the service ended, however, only one member of the family emerged. It was Suarez d’Aulan’s fifteen-year-old daughter, Ghislaine. The rest of the family had stayed away, suspecting the Gestapo might try something but believing they would not bother a young girl.

  The Gestapo, however, was so angry that it grabbed Ghislaine as a hostage, warning that she would only be released in exchange for her parents. Ghislaine insisted she had no idea where they were. The officer said they would wait. The girl was thrown into the prison at Châlons-sur-Marne, where other Resistance figures from Champagne were being held.

  The entire Champagne community was outraged. They besieged the Germans with letters of protest. Some braved immediate punishment and possible imprisonment by going to the Gestapo and voicing their complaints in person. Even the mayor of Paris, Pierre Taittinger, became involved by calling on the King of Sweden to intervene.

  Three weeks later, in the face of increasing protests and with no sign of Ghislaine’s family, the Germans finally let her go.

  By then, her father, an experienced pilot, had made his way to Algiers and joined a French fighter squadron. Her mother found refuge with the Maquis in the Vercours region of eastern France.

  Their champagne house, however, was placed under direct German control. The person charged with running it was weinführer Otto Klaebisch.

  Even small producers like Henri Billiot were feeling the pressure. Billiot owned about five acres of vines near Ambonnay, selling his grapes to the major champagne houses. With his father in ill health and his grandfather partially paralyzed by a stroke, Henri, who was seventeen years old, had to take care of the entire family. That included his five younger brothers and sisters, his parents, two sets of elderly grandparents and his aunt and her three children. His uncle, an officer in the French army, had been sent to a camp in Germany after refusing to work for the Germans.

  “My youth was not a time of fun,” Henri said. “I worked twenty-four hours a day trying to feed the family. I never had holidays or weekends.”

  But he did have a horse. That was more than most champagne producers had, because most horses had been requisitioned by the Germans. The Billiots still had theirs only because of Henri’s partially paralyzed grandfather. When the Germans came to requisition it, Grandfather Billiot had parked himself and his wheelchair in front of the stable and refused to move. Shaking his cane in the face of the German officer, Grandpa Billiot bellowed, “You can’t have my horse. Get the hell out of here!” The outburst startled the officer, who snarled back, “You’re too French!” Turning on his heels, he and the other Germans stomped angrily across the courtyard and slammed the big wooden door as they left.

  Thanks to his grandfather’s obstinacy, Henri was able to pool his resources with a neighbor who also had managed to keep one horse. With two horses, vineyard work became easier. Other parts of Henri’s life, however, were becoming much more complicated.

  The Germans, who had opened an officers’ training school near Ambonnay, announced they were requisitioning part of Billiot’s house to quarter some of their soldiers.

  About the same time, Henri’s sister Denise came to him and revealed that she had been working with the Resistance. Now, she said, the Resistance was wondering if Henri would be willing to get involved by joining the Service des Renseignements, or Information Service. In other words, become a spy. Denise told Henri the Resistance felt he was well suited, that he knew the vineyards and had spent long hours each day working in them or biking up and down the paths to check on the vines. It would be a simple matter, Denise suggested, for Henri to go just a bit further and also check on German comings and goings, and then, once a week, bike up the slopes of the Montagne de Reims and relay his information to a contact.

  It sounded exciting. Like many of his friends, Henri wanted to become involved in the war and do something to help his country. Unlike them, he had not been able to run off to join the Free French Forces because of his obligations at home. The spy job seemed perfect. Henri eagerly accepted.

  All went well until the winter of 1944. Heavy snows confined nearly everyone to their homes and prevented Henri from venturing outside to monitor German troops or meet with his contact. To make matters worse, four German soldiers had moved into Billiot’s house.

  Henri struggled to bide his time and concentrate on his champagne business. Like other growers, he had been thinking about making his own champagne. His grapes were of high qual
ity and had always commanded a good price, so why not?

  Before he could experiment, however, his sister appeared with another message from the Resistance. “Go to Bouzy immediately,” she said. “Your contact wants to see you.”

  Despite the darkness and the deep snow, Henri got on his bike and pedaled several kilometers to the rendezvous point, a windswept patch of ground in the middle of a vineyard. There, he was met by his contact, a truck and a small mountain of burlap bags filled with potatoes. Nearby stood four American airmen whose planes had been shot down. Each of them was holding an empty bag.

  Before Henri could ask what was going on, his contact pointed to the Americans and said, “Get those guys into their sacks and let’s get loaded up before anyone sees us.” The four Americans climbed onto the truck and, with help from Henri, crawled into their bags. Henri and his contact then lugged the sacks containing potatoes over to the truck and piled them on top of the airmen until they were completely hidden from view.

  Henri was instructed to drive them to Ambonnay and hide them for two days. Someone else from the Resistance would then arrive and help them escape to Spain.

  Henri threw his bike into the truck and started the engine. It had stopped snowing and was becoming light. As the truck moved slowly down an icy hill, a German encampment came into view. This was the most dangerous part of the journey. If there was any place Henri would be stopped, this was where it would happen. Despite an overwhelming urge to speed up to get past the Germans, he knew he did not dare. He held his breath and continued on. Two minutes later, Henri breathed a sigh of relief. The German camp was behind him.

  Henri drove straight to his grandfather’s house on the outskirts of Ambonnay and explained the situation. “It’s just for a couple of days,” he said. His grandfather allowed two of the airmen to stay in his house.

  Henri’s next stop was a café run by a friend, who agreed to hide another of the Americans in a room just above the establishment.

  By now, it was midmorning and German soldiers would be about, but Henri still had another airman to hide, a bombardier named Edmund Bairstow. Henri decided to take a chance. Turning his truck, he headed straight for home. His mother was there when he arrived. “Are any of the Germans around?” he asked, quickly explaining that an American flier was hidden in his truck. When she assured him they were out, Henri rushed back to the truck, helped Bairstow out of the bag and ushered him into the house. He put Bairstow in his bedroom, warning him to be quiet because German soldiers were living in the next room. At first, Bairstow did not understand. “There was no one in Ambonnay who spoke English and Bairstow didn’t speak French,” recalled Henri, “so I was a little worried but I figured we could manage for two days.”

  Henri’s worries, however, had only begun. Two days later, someone from the Resistance arrived at his house to say that the person who was supposed to spirit the Americans away had been captured by the Germans and sent to a concentration camp. Henri was told he would have to take care of the airmen until other arrangements could be made.

  It was about the worst news Henri could imagine. To continue hiding an American in his bedroom with German soldiers quartered in the same house was unthinkable. He decided to contact the one other person in the Resistance he knew, a surgeon, who might be able to help him. But before he could get to the surgeon’s house, Henri learned that the Gestapo had gotten there first, dragged the man from his house and shot him.

  Henri was in despair, worrying that the Gestapo was closing in and could arrive at his door next. At the same time, the four Americans were going stir-crazy as the days wore on, frustrated by being confined to small spaces and not having anyone to talk to. Ed Bairstow was suffering the most. “He was incredibly depressed and cried all the time,” Henri said. “He feared that all the men on his plane had been killed and he was desperate for news.”

  Henri felt he had no choice. With the help of a friend, he got the airmen civilian clothes and escorted them into the village so they could get together, warning them to be careful and not speak English. For the most part, they followed his instructions. Sometimes, with Henri’s friend acting as a lookout, the Americans would linger over drinks and smoke cigarettes at the local café. Sometimes, much to Henri’s dismay, one of them would slip off to watch the village soccer games. On one occasion, they persuaded Henri to take their picture as they posed outside Henri’s house, trying their best to look very French. It did not help Henri’s nerves.

  One night, he decided the safest thing was to bring the men over to his house to play cards. The Germans were scheduled to be out. All went well until Henri’s sister Denise came running in. “You’ve got to get them out of here,” she said frantically. “The Germans are on their way back!” Henri motioned the Americans to follow him, his sister’s panic leaving no doubt in their minds that something was wrong. Henri led the men outside, across the courtyard and down into his wine cellar. Then he scurried back to the house.

  Almost at the same time, a group of German soldiers entered the courtyard and headed for the house. It was March, and Allied planes had just conducted their first daylight bombing of Berlin.

  The Germans told Billiot that Hitler would be making a major speech shortly and that they intended to listen to it on Billiot’s radio. Billiot’s spirits sank. Who knew how long the Führer would talk? How long could he keep the airmen closed off in the darkness of his cave?

  Amazingly, his sister Denise smiled serenely. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  The Germans, about a dozen of them, pulled their chairs around the console and began trying to tune in the broadcast. All they got was static and strange noises. Denise returned a few minutes later and gave Henri’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

  The Germans were puzzled. They could not get a thing from the radio. Henri was puzzled too, saying he had been listening to it only an hour or so earlier. One of the soldiers was a communications specialist and he began checking the radio. “There’s nothing wrong with it; it seems fine to me,” he said.

  The Germans glanced at their watches. Hitler’s speech was about to begin. After fiddling with the radio one last time, the Germans got up and announced they were going elsewhere to listen to the speech. As the soldiers went out the door, Henri heard one of them say, “Who cares anyway? The Führer is crazy.”

  “I can’t figure it out,” Henri said to Denise. “The radio was working perfectly.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but that was before I took a piece of lead out of the electric meter. You learn a few things in the Resistance.”

  The next day, Henri went to the café to tell his friend that the strain was too much. His vineyard needed attention and something had to be done about the four Americans; they had been there more than a month. The friend replied that he had heard that a certain Monsieur Joly in Reims was working for the Resistance and could probably help.

  Henri and his friend got on their bikes and headed toward Joly’s home, about thirty kilometers away. When they arrived and explained their problem, Joly said he did not know what they were talking about. He refused to let them in and slammed the door in their faces.

  As they turned to leave, another man emerged from Joly’s house and, as he walked past, said under his breath, “He’ll see you tonight.”

  The meeting was not satisfactory. Joly was noncommittal. Henri and his friend were dejected as they made the long, dangerous ride back to Ambonnay in the dark after curfew.

  Less than a week later, however, a railroad worker knocked on Henri’s door and said he was there to collect the Americans. They had been in Ambonnay forty-two days.

  After their departure, the exhausted Billiot went to his bedroom to collapse. There, on his pillow, he found two hundred-franc notes. On one of them was a handwritten message: “Dear Henri, To you I owe very much, more than words can express. May your future be as bright as those days I have spent with you.”

  It was signed Edmund N. Bairstow.

  * * *

&
nbsp; SEVEN

  The Fête

  GASTON HUET FELT LIKE VOMITING. IF THERE had been anything in his stomach he probably would have.

  Staring out from the dish of soup in front of him was a giant bedbug. Huet was tempted to push the bowl away, then thought better of it. Instead, he dipped his spoon into the thin milky substance and flipped the bug onto the floor. Then he shut his eyes and drank the soup.

  What he would have given for a juicy poulet rôti or rillettes de porc to eat, washed down by a bottle of his own sweet Vouvray! But after more than two years in a German prisoner of war camp, the fantasy was almost too much to bear.

  Ever since June 17, 1940, when the gates of Oflag IV D in Silesia slammed shut behind him following his capture at Calais, life for the Vouvray winemaker had steadily deteriorated. He had weighed seventy-two kilos when he arrived; now he was down to forty-eight.