The Lost Vintage

by Ann Mah

  I forced a smile and nodded.

  Papa motioned at me to switch off the kitchen light, then opened the back door and one by one the five of them slipped into the damp night, their feet muffled by the shaggy grass in the garden, so all I heard was the chirp of crickets. Moonlight streamed like a silvery beacon, cascading over the landscape. Even though they tucked themselves in the shadows, I could see their little group walking out into the vineyards until they disappeared over the slope.

  I was far too restless to sleep. My hands worried over some knitting—the first few rows of an oiled wool sock—but I dropped so many stitches, I finally unraveled the whole thing and cast on again. Eventually, my nervous energy burned out and I placed my arms on the table and lay my head upon them, closing my eyes. If Papa returned early, I would be here waiting for him.

  The boys woke me with shouting, their usual morning squabble about who was to wash first. A dull ache throbbed in my neck, and my hands prickled as the blood returned to them. Behind the blackout curtains, milky light trickled through the trees in the garden; the living room clock began to chime seven o’clock. Breakfast was in half an hour. Papa would soon be home.

  I fetched some logs from the woodpile, stirred the stove’s embers to life, filled the kettle, and set a small pot of semolina simmering for the boys. It was a relief to busy myself with these familiar tasks, to distract myself from the thoughts running on an endless loop in my mind. Above, I heard thumps and more shouts, and I ran upstairs to help my brothers get dressed for the day.

  “Léna, j’ai faim !” cried Albert when he saw me.

  “You’re always hungry, cochon !” Benoît stabbed an index finger into his brother’s stomach.

  “Boys, stop that right now! I have porridge on the stove—it’ll be ready in a few minutes.” I glanced at Madame’s door, surprised to find it open. She was standing before the mirror pinning up her hair, already clad in a day dress of violet silk, high heels, and, instead of silk stockings, a painted line running down the back of each leg.

  “Oh, good, Hélène, there you are. Can you watch the boys this morning? I’d like to breakfast with Edouard.” She raised her arms to adjust her hair and I caught a whiff of perfume—Chanel No. 5—floating through the air like an exterminator’s cloud.

  Madame must be feeling guilty about yesterday, I thought as I wrestled a pair of socks onto Albert’s feet. “Of course,” I replied.

  “Merci!” she chirped.

  By the time I had dressed the boys, run downstairs, and saved the simmering semolina right before it stuck and burned, brewed a weak pot of barley coffee, and set the table for breakfast, it was eight o’clock. I kept one ear cocked as I scraped out the meager bowls of porridge and watched my brothers eat. Madame drained the coffeepot, and I made another without complaint, placed the dishes to soak, drew on my shoes, and walked my brothers to the neighbor’s house to play. All the while, I told myself: “Papa will be home when I get back. Papa will be home when I get back.” But when I returned, Madame was in the salon, draped elegantly over a velvet chaise longue, and Papa was nowhere in sight.

  Ten o’clock. Eleven o’clock. No Papa.

  At lunch, I forced down a cold potato and took my bicycle to the vineyards. I rode up the same hill that Papa and the Reinachs had walked several hours earlier, but if the vines knew their whereabouts, they kept it secret. I returned home in the late afternoon, bursting through the kitchen door, certain I’d see Papa sitting at the table, crumpling up pages of the newspaper and shoving them into the stove.

  At the sound of the door, Madame came running down the stairs. Her face fell when she saw me. “Oh, it’s you.”

  I, too, was disappointed not to find Papa, but for once I managed to keep my voice even. “Sorry.” I lowered my head and slid from the room.

  “Hélène.” She followed me to the hall and gazed up at me on the stairs. “Where is he.” It was not a question.

  I shook my head and climbed another step.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know. I know you know everything—you two are thick as thieves, always whispering behind my back!”

  “Virginie.” I turned toward her. “I’m worried about him, too. If I knew where he was, I would tell you.” Despite myself, my voice began to shake.

  “But he’s always come home before this! He’s never not come home. It’s because of those people, isn’t it? I told you, they should never have come here. He was helping them, and now the worst has happened. I’m left completely alone!” She covered her face and began to sob.

  I stared at her, and even sick with worry, I felt filled with disgust for this woman, so myopic she lacked a shred of compassion for anyone else.

  Madame lowered her hands, her eyelashes spiky with tears, and looked at me beseechingly. “What are we going to do?”

  We? I thought. “The only thing we can do,” I said, turning back up the stairs. “Wait.”

  Two days went by—two fraught, agonizing days in which my heart leapt every time I heard heels crunching on the driveway or the creak of the back door. But Papa did not return. By this time, Madame had taken to her bed, lying on the covers with a damp cloth across her forehead, screaming at me if the boys made any sound above a whisper. By the end of the second day, it was almost a relief when Michel arrived at the domaine.

  I opened the door to his knock—the boys were in the garden, and Madame was, of course, in bed—but if he was surprised to see me, he gave no indication. “Bonsoir,” he said, stone-faced. “Is my aunt at home?”

  “Edouard? Is that you?” Madame ran down the stairs in slippered feet. Two days of nervous crisis had left her face sallow, though I saw she’d taken the time to comb her hair into a knot and pull a few soft tendrils around her forehead. “Oh, Michel! What a surprise!”

  “Ma tante, bonsoir.” They exchanged cheek kisses.

  “Can I offer you a tisane?” she asked. “A glass of wine? Hélène”—she threw me a sharp glance—“prepare a tray for my nephew.”

  “Non, non, c’est bon,” he declined. “Is there somewhere we can go to speak privately?”

  Her eyes widened, but she spoke steadily. “Of course! Come, we’ll go into the salon.” I heard her opening the curtains and plumping cushions, the rise and fall of their voices.

  Why had he come? Did he know something about Papa? I had to hear the words from his lips—I could not depend on Madame to relay the information. Slipping off my wood-soled shoes, I crept to the open door of the salon and stood to one side, just out of their line of sight.

  “Tatie, I have bad news, I’m afraid,” Michel said. “Your husband—”

  “Your uncle,” Madame demurred.

  “Edouard was picked up two nights ago by one of our patrols. He claimed he was out for an evening stroll, but we believe he was helping a group of Jews cross the Demarcation Line.”

  Madame gasped. “C’est pas possible.”

  “Did you have any idea that he might be planning something like this?”

  “Non,” Madame said immediately.

  A long silence while I held my breath and waited for Michel’s response.

  “Where is he now?” Madame said at last. “At the prison in Beaune? Can I go see him?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Michel cleared his throat. “As I said, he was picked up with several Jews. They were sent immediately to an internment camp—and Edouard along with them.”

  “But he’s not Jewish! This is a terrible mistake! He must be released immediately.”

  Michel’s shoes scuffed the floor. “The authorities will sort it out, Tatie. But even when they discover he’s in the wrong place . . . well, there are other places to send him. He won’t be returning home.”

  Madame burst into noisy tears, as my heart began thudding again in my chest.

  “But how will we survive without him? We can’t survive!” Madame moaned.

  I didn’t hear Michel’s response, and anyway I was desperate to be alone. In my socked feet, I crept up th
e stairs to my room, where I sat at the desk and watched the light fade from the afternoon sky. Papa was gone. Rose was gone. Théodore, Madame and Monsieur Reinach, all of them as good as dead.

  Eventually, I heard footsteps in the foyer, and a few minutes later I watched Michel ride away on his bicycle. My head dropped to my arms and I wondered if I’d ever see my father again. Tears came streaming down my face, choking me with their strength, until every part of my face ached—my eyes, my teeth, my jaw.

  I was so caught up in this torrent of emotion that I didn’t notice Madame until she spoke from the door of my room. “I gather you overheard my conversation,” she said. In her hand were my clogs, which I’d left in the hallway.

  I nodded and tried to swallow my sobs. “Papa . . . Papa. I’m so afraid, Virginie, I’m so desperately afraid.”

  Her face was white, tight-lipped, her eyes burning lumps of fury. “I suppose you should have thought of that before you let those people into our house,” she said acidly.

  I stared at her blankly, unable to process her words. “Those people? I let them in?”

  “You brought them to our home! You put us all in danger! And now look what has happened to my home and my husband. Are you happy with yourself, Hélène? Are you happy?” She was screaming at the top of her voice. “Because this is all your fault. This is entirely your fault!” And before I could shield myself, she threw the shoes at my face, one after the other, striking first my forehead, and then my nose, leaving a stream of blood to mingle with my tears.

  Three days have passed, cher journal. The first three days of the rest of my life. I’ve managed to continue because of the boys. My little brothers still demand to be fed; they show their fear by fighting with each other and shoving me away when I try to intervene, even as they creep to my bed in the middle of the night. This entire time, I have not seen Madame emerge once from her room, though late at night I hear her sobbing. I am not sure if she is crying because she misses my father—or his protection.

  23 SEPTEMBRE 1942

  Last night I snuck down to Papa’s office and twisted the radio dial until I found the BBC. I listened carefully to the news, and then sat through every one of the personal messages even though they were gibberish to me. Jean has a long moustache. Yvette likes big carrots. Paul has some good tobacco. Even though I know it’s impossible, I couldn’t help but wonder if one of those messages was for Papa. Was there was some way he was listening, plotting an escape?

  Eventually sorrow took hold of me. I switched off the radio and came upstairs to bed, hoping to find the sleep that has eluded me for so many weeks. The moon was full and bright in the sky, and I left my blackout curtains open a crack so that I could take comfort in its steady presence. Eventually I drifted off, waking several hours later to a low rumble. Thunder? No, it was a steady drone, the buzz of an engine. By the time I peeped out the window, the aircraft was far in the distance—and a thousand leaflets were fluttering from the sky.

  What was it? I had to know. Heedless of the curfew that pens us in our homes from dusk to dawn, I slipped through the house, to the back door, and out into the vineyards. The rocky soil tore at the bare soles of my feet, but I scarcely felt a thing as I ran to the nearest paper, snatching it from the ground.

  It was a poem called “Liberté.” No, not just a poem—an ode. To freedom. To strength. To hope. I didn’t so much read the words as absorb them, returning to whisper them aloud again and again until they began to imprint themselves on my heart.

  Is it a sign? A reminder—an instruction—a prayer? Reading the poem over and over, I hear Papa’s voice reciting the lines, my papa who has refused to allow his moral strength to falter.

  Papa, are you out there?

  Chapter

  12

  Three o’clock in the afternoon in France is the hour for tea and biscuits. Today, the tea was lapsang souchong, dark amber with smoky depths. The biscuits, buttery discs with pale gold centers and crisp bronze edges, broke with a delicate crumb. Not even this toothsome pairing, however, could tempt the small group gathered in Heather and Nico’s living room. The Charpins sat on the edge of their chairs, spines stiff, feet crossed at the ankles, not a morsel passing their lips.

  From my spot next to the fireplace, I watched Heather and Nico circling futilely with laden trays. On the couch sat my aunt Jeanne, fresh from the coiffeuse, hair fluffed to an apricot pouf, and Uncle Philippe, grey and stern-faced, arms crossed. Chloé perched on the arm of the sofa like a sleek, dark bird. Her husband, Paul, sat on a nearby chair, swiping at the screen of his smartphone with thinly veiled impatience.

  Only my mother had been unable to come at such short notice. Her response to my email had been typically swift and succinct: “Sorry, Katherine, I’m swamped. P.S. I advise you to steer clear of family politics.” I had spent a few extra minutes puzzling over her message, wondering why she was warning me about family politics when I hadn’t mentioned them at all.

  At last Nico strode toward the fireplace. “Thanks for coming today, everyone,” he said in French. “I know you’re probably curious about why I asked you here, so I won’t go around the pot.” He drew a deep breath. “A few weeks ago, Kate and Bruyère began to clear out la cave—the cellar beneath the house.” I glanced at Uncle Philippe, whose face remained stony. “After several weeks of work, they discovered something astonishing. In a corner of the cave, there is an old armoire, and at its back a secret panel.” He went on describing the hidden cellar, “an Aladdin’s cave,” and the trove of wines within—“some of the greatest millésimes of the twentieth century.”

  Chloé gasped. “How long has the wine been down there?” she asked.

  Nico hesitated. “Several decades. We can’t be sure of the exact date, but since the 1940s, perhaps?”

  “You think it was hidden during World War II?”

  Again, a brief hesitation. “C’est possible,” Nico said.

  Chloé’s forehead folded into an adorable gamine pucker. “Mais c’est incroyable! We’ve been sitting on this treasure for over seventy years, with absolutely no idea. How is it possible?”

  “It must have been during the war,” said Aunt Jeanne. “There are so many legends from that period. I was just reading an article about a Renoir that was found hidden in an attic in the Dordogne.”

  “Well, obviously it’s from the war,” huffed Paul. “The question is— who hid it?”

  “Grandpère Benoît?” suggested Chloé.

  “But he was just a small boy back then,” said Paul. “It must have been your great-grandparents who hid the wine.”

  Chloé considered this idea. “Our great-grandfather died in a work camp,” she said. “So it would have been before 1942.”

  “Actually”—Heather cleared her throat—“we were wondering if it could have been—”

  “Enough!” exploded Uncle Philippe. “You are all gossiping like a bunch of old hags. Have you no respect for your great-grandparents’ memory? Have you no regard for the integrity of this house?” He glowered at us before rising from the sofa and striding in front of the fireplace so that Nico was forced to move beside him. “Listen. Obviously this is an interesting discovery. I’m sure some of you are relishing this small spark of excitement. But as the patron of this domaine, it’s my duty to safeguard its legacy—and that means proceeding with caution. I wish I had been told immediately about this alleged cave secrète.” He shot Nico a dark look. “But since I was not, I must insist that we end this discussion until I can familiarize myself with the details. We will organize a meeting at a future date. Merci.” He uttered the last word briskly, dismissing us with a nod.

  Without argument, Chloé slid off the arm of the couch and began putting on her coat. Paul stuffed his iPhone in his back pocket and wrapped a scarf around his neck in a single fluid gesture. Heather started rearranging teacups on a tray, and Nico moved to help her. Aunt Jeanne rummaged through her handbag. Only I remained motionless, curled onto a stool by the fireplace. As I sat
there, witnessing their mute acquiescence, a rising fury began to burn within me. Yes, Uncle Philippe was the family patriarch, but still, what right did he have to issue directives like an autocrat? Without thinking, I sprang to my feet. “Attendez, tout le monde!” I called. “Wait—just a moment, everyone, please!”

  “What is it, Katreen?” Uncle Philippe did not bother to disguise his displeasure.

  I took a deep breath. “Uncle,” I said in placating tones, “you know how much I admire you.” I lowered my head. “But in this case I must—respectfully—disagree.” I paused, twisting my fingers together. “I believe everyone has a right to know more about this secret cave—and we all have a right to decide how to proceed together. We are all descendants of Edouard Charpin, which means this heritage belongs to all of us.”

  “Of course it does. I agree with you, and so would any French court,” snapped Uncle Philippe. “But surely I also have the right to review my property.”

  “Our property,” I said mildly.

  Uncle Philippe’s face hardened. “Did it ever occur to you that I might be trying to protect you?”

  Chloé turned to her father. “Did you know about this cave, Papa?”

  My uncle shook his head. “I had absolutely no idea. It’s not the cave, it’s . . .” But the words stuck in his throat.

  “Is it because of Hélène?” Nico asked.

  “Who’s Hélène?” Chloé and Paul spoke almost in unison.

  “She was our great-half-aunt,” Nico explained, throwing his father a pleading look. Uncle Philippe remained grimly immobile, his eyes fixed on the edge of the carpet where a bit of fringe had been torn away. It was so silent I could hear the floorboards creak as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

  “Excuse me, everyone—Papi— je m’excuse.” Heather stepped forward from the back of the room. “I’m sorry, but there’s a reason you never talk about her. Hélène. A terrible reason, n’est-ce pas? At the end of the war, she was accused of being—” She hesitated, then plunged ahead: “A collaborator.” Her voice was low, but her eyes flashed with suppressed anger.