The Lost Vintage

by Ann Mah

  “But you have no authority!” Madame protested. “The war is not even over!”

  “The Comité de Libération was formed two days ago, Madame,” said the mayor. “We are beginning tribunals immediately. You are accused of undermining national morale with your unpatriotic behavior.”

  Madame twisted violently in Monsieur Fresnes’s hands. “C’est pas possible!” she protested. “Ce n’est pas juste!” Her words rang through the house. It’s not fair.

  “Come, come, Madame Charpin,” said the mayor in soothing tones. “There’s no need to get hysterical. I assure you all this will be easier if you just remain calm.”

  “Calm?” She struggled again to break free. “Calm?” Her eyes burned against her papery skin. “You barge into my home in the middle of the night, attack me with these ridiculous accusations, restrain me in front of my sons—and you expect me to remain calm?” She was screaming now, specks of spittle flying from her mouth, her features stretched like a madwoman’s. “I have done nothing worse than any of you!”

  At this, Monsieur Fresnes’s face darkened, and he forced her hands behind her back, giving her arms an extra vicious twist. “The tribunal will be the judge, Madame.”

  Suddenly she wilted and began to cry, heedless of the tears and snot running down her face. “Please,” she sobbed. “My boy, my Benoît, he is so frail—I couldn’t bear to watch him waste away. I only did it to take care of my sons. With their father gone, I’m all they have in this world. Please let me stay with them—don’t take me away. Find some mercy in your heart. Please. Please.”

  The mayor and Monsieur Parent exchanged a look. “I am afraid, Madame, that you are being accused of more than mere, er, horizontal collaboration.” The mayor coughed delicately. “More seriously there is the matter of your work as a Gestapo informant. The Comité has learned of a raid on a local Resistance network, which led to at least one execution—the leader, shot by a firing squad.”

  “He was my nephew!” boomed Monsieur Parent.

  The air disappeared from my lungs. Stéphane was dead? I had suspected it—feared it—but hearing the confirmation, a wave of nausea caught in my throat. The image of the last time I’d seen him rose in my mind’s eye—the slouch of his shoulders, the line of blood running down his face, his eyes blazing with pride. He was so alive, so vital—how could he be gone? I shot a look at my stepmother and hot fury coursed through my veins.

  “Me?” Madame exclaimed. “An informant? I have no idea what you mean! I would never—I couldn’t imagine—deep in my heart, I have always remained loyal to France.”

  Her audacity stunned me from my silence. “Liar!” I screeched. “You know exactly what they’re talking about! You spied on me for weeks, and then gave the information straight to the Germans. You’re a traitor, Virginie, and now everyone knows it, including your sons. Fille de Boches!” The words exploded from me, propelled by grief and rage.

  “Let’s go.” Monsieur Parent moved forward to hustle Madame down the stairs.

  “But why did Hélène go free?” Madame said quickly. “If I’m the informant—if I’m the traitor—why was she the only one of her group to be released? Why was she the only one who didn’t get put in handcuffs? She tells a pretty story, but have you stopped to consider that maybe she is the one walking around in complete liberty—because she set up her friends.”

  “What?” I reeled upon the stairs. “That is a complete fabrication! There are many who would vouch for me—just ask Madame Maurieux at the Café des Tonneliers.” Too late I remembered she was missing, feared dead. “Or—or the old woman at the boulangerie on the place Carnot . . .” I faltered, recalling that I never even asked her name.

  Monsieur Fresnes had loosened his grip on Madame, and now she crouched low, opening her arms to Benoît, burrowing her face into his hair, her shoulders wracked with sobs. It was a most touching portrait of motherly love. False as her words were, I had no doubt her maternal devotion—as well as her fear—was very, very real.

  “You know,” Monsieur Fresnes said to no one in particular, “I didn’t say anything earlier, but my wife did mention some rumors about Hélène.”

  The mayor turned to me and an icy prickle ran down my spine. “She’s lying!” I insisted. “She’ll say anything to save her own skin.”

  “Shhh, shhh, don’t cry,” Madame soothed Benoît. “Maman est là, maman est là.”

  “Hélène Charpin,” the mayor said. “You will come with us for questioning.”

  “This is ridiculous!” I protested. “I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong—anyone in my circuit would tell you that.”

  “Everyone in your circuit is gone,” said Madame.

  In a flash, Monsieur Fresnes was beside me, encircling my wrists with an iron grip. “Tell them the truth, Virginie!” I cried. “Tell them I’m innocent!”

  For a second, guilt flickered across her features, and I sensed her wavering. But before she could respond, the men began moving me down the stairs, bumping me painfully down each step. My last glimpse of Madame was of her head bowed over Benoît’s slender form, her body limp with relief.

  21 SEPTEMBRE 1944

  The past two days have been the stuff of nightmares—worse, actually—a humiliation greater than any I could have imagined. All the way to Beaune, I held out hope for the humanity of my fellow townspeople. But when we arrived, there was no justice. There was no tribunal. There was no voice of mercy. There was only a crowd thirsting for revenge, straining to punish “les putes”—the whores, the women who had submitted in the most obvious, carnal way to our Occupiers—a group of six that somehow, impossibly, I had joined. The throng was so eager to disgrace us that no one paused to deliberate the truth. Hands tore at my clothes, stripping me naked. Sticks prodded me through the streets. Razor blades skimmed my scalp, shaving the hair from my head. Paint was smeared across my most private parts, daubed upon my skin in designs of swastikas. Jeers and taunts and globules of spit were hurled toward my face, along with chants of “whore” and “slut.” Stones were plucked from the ground and flung toward me.

  I write this account now, as plainly as possible, so that there is a record, so that no one forgets what happened to the group of us. I write this account now because I saw with my own eyes that today’s most enthusiastic persecutors were the war’s most spineless cowards—traitors, informers, racketeers—hoping to expunge their record by pouncing upon this most convenient scapegoat.

  Later I heard them calling it the wild purge, and the wildness, yes, I understood it. Theirs was a savage fury, fueled by righteousness and fear. But the purge made less sense to me. They claimed to be cleansing the filth from our society. But what they really wanted was to scrub the guilt from their own souls.

  Later

  I left the domaine at dawn, and so I return to the domaine at dawn. It is the last place I want to be. But half-naked in my tattered clothes, shaved of my hair, with an open gash on my head seeping blood, I have nowhere else to go. At least the house is asleep so that I do not have to see Madame, hear her treacherous voice attempting to justify her actions. My head throbs and spins, bursts of light swim before my eyes as I stagger to my room and close the door.

  Albert wakes me. He has a damp cloth in his hand, and is trying to clean the cut on my head. Sunlight shimmers from the window, a bright blaze that makes my stomach churn. I throw a hand over my eyes. “Ça va, Léna?” Albert says, looming over me, his voice so shrill it pierces my skull. Turning to my side, I retch, and retch, and retch.

  What is that smell? Do you smell it? It fills my nostrils, choking me—blackening my lungs from the inside out—an acrid smell, burning, burning like the scorched rubble of the Café des Tonneliers. Albert raises a cup to my lips. “Drink some broth, Léna,” he urges. I breathe the steam and recoil, the pungent odor stinging my nose. “Get it away!” I cry, knocking the cup from his hand. It falls to the ground and shatters.

  I drift and dream of hands. Ripping my clothes. Tearing at my h
air. Hurling stones at my face. Grasping my shoulders and shaking until my head bobbles like a rag doll’s. I awake, screaming, to find a woman sitting on a chair at the end of my bed. She is frowning, her face creased into familiar lines of disappointment. “Hélène,” she calls, “comment vas-tu?” I try to respond, but my words slip and slur, like a drunkard. Am I drugged? Perhaps that explains this heaviness of my limbs, this persistent drowsiness. I am so tired, so tired, so tired, and yet when I close my eyes, my mind refuses to quiet. I scribble within these pages, trying to still my spinning thoughts, hiding the book beneath my pillows whenever I hear footsteps on the landing.

  Now there is a man in my room, his heavy features blurring as he draws closer. I do not know him—do I? He lifts the bandage from my head with gentle fingers. “Open your eyes,” he urges me. With difficulty, I comply. His words float toward me. Pupils are dilated . . . she’s disoriented . . . head injury . . . potentially fatal . . . do not let her sleep . . .

  A woman hovers above me once more—I know this face—it’s so very, very familiar. It’s my mother. No, no, it’s my stepmother. She grips my hands too tightly and I try to shove them away. “Hélène,” she says sharply, “stay awake! Dammit, stay awake!” But I cannot.

  Chapter

  16

  “That’s it?” Jean-Luc gestured at the journal. “There’s nothing more?”

  I fanned the remaining pages of the notebook. “It’s blank.”

  “But what happened to Hélène? She just . . . died?”

  “I guess so.” I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Jesus, Jean-Luc, I can’t believe what we just read.” A slow, ugly churn turned in the pit of my stomach, propelled by a combination of sorrow and disgust. “Now I understand why they kept Hélène a secret for all these years.” My voice broke. “It’s even worse than I ever suspected.”

  Jean-Luc gave me a pat on the shoulder, but I barely registered it. When the clock in the hallway struck four, he moved to the kitchen and began making tea. We had been here for hours, I realized, reading Hélène’s diary aloud. Now it was nearly dawn and I felt drained and emotionally hollow. How on earth would I tell Nico and Heather about what I’d discovered? At the thought of them, a dull twist of pain began radiating down the back of my neck. Over the past few months, I had imagined a thousand different horrific fates for Hélène, but nothing could have prepared me for this truth.

  “Here.” Jean-Luc handed me a steaming mug. “Tisane with honey.” Then he reached across to the sideboard and produced a nondescript bottle, pouring a shot into each of our cups. “C’est du marc,” he explained.

  “Merci,” I said. The brandy hit the back of my throat, the heat sliding down to my stomach, loosening the taut muscles in the back of my neck so that my head floated free. “How could they stand it?” I demanded. “Living with that huge lie for their entire lives? Uncle Philippe always says that our destiny connected us to this land—that we have a responsibility to care for these vines—that our family fought for generations to preserve this heritage. But now that I know that my great-grandmother was dishonorable, deceitful—” I sucked in a sharp breath. “She didn’t care about protecting our heritage. She only cared about saving herself!” I shook my head, trying to process everything. “I always thought my mother was crazy to turn her back on this place. It seemed ridiculous—like a silly affectation—but now I see she was right. This place has way too much history for us to overcome. It’s—it’s insurmountable.” A shiver ran down my spine, and I crossed my arms, clenching my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.

  “Here.” Jean-Luc stood and removed his sweater, attempting to drape it over my shoulders.

  “It’s fine—I’m okay,” I said, catching a cashmere sleeve between my fingers.

  “Oh, Kat!” Jean-Luc burst out irritably. “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”

  I choked on a sip of tea. Take care of me? Glancing up, I saw Jean-Luc staring at the ground, a flush spreading slowly across his face. “Oh,” I whispered.

  “When I heard you were coming back, I thought I couldn’t bear it,” he said in a low voice. “Surely you must have guessed how I felt. It was torture for me, having you so close.”

  I shook my head. “But what about Louise?”

  “Oh, Kat.” He sighed. “There’s only ever been you.” In his face, I saw such vulnerable sadness that my heart began to melt, like butter on hot toast. I shut my eyes, expecting to feel his warm grasp, a tug pulling me toward him, the brush of his lips across my own.

  I opened my eyes. Jean-Luc was motionless in his chair, gazing at his tea with an unreadable expression. As quickly as he had revealed that flash of tenderness, he had tucked it away. If he had forgiven me, he hadn’t forgotten the pain I had once caused him. I held my breath, my thoughts a jumble of impulse and consequence. What would it mean—for either of us? I stared at his hands on the table, his long fingers rough with callouses, strong hands, farmer’s hands, heartbreakingly elegant, and suddenly I was overcome by a single emotion: All I truly wanted was for us to care for each other.

  “Jean-Luc?” I whispered, stretching my fingers to brush them against his.

  His smile sent a jolt through me even before we touched, our chairs tumbling sideways in our haste to reach each other. His hands were tangled in my hair, soft upon my neck, and we were kissing, our clothes falling to the floor, his tenderness at once familiar and unknown, like something I remembered from a dream of long ago, once upon a time when I was happy.

  The sound of birds woke me, an insistent squabbling chirp. The room was dim, but the shaded windows were outlined in chinks of light. I stretched in bed, the sheets crisp against my bare skin. Slowly the events of the previous night returned. Jean-Luc and I in the kitchen. Streaking upstairs to his bedroom. Tumbling into bed. A blush spread across my cheeks.

  On the bedside table, I found a cup of coffee and a note.

  The coffee was lukewarm, but it revived me. I found my thoughts turning again to Hélène and her diary, and all we had uncovered last night. In the bright light of morning, my initial, visceral shock was fading. But I still had absolutely no idea how to proceed.

  I took a shower and began to repack my little bag, all the while wondering when I’d be back here again. What did the future hold for us? Last night had been like a dream, but now the mists were beginning to clear. Were Jean-Luc and I destined for a long-distance relationship? Was ours to be a romance of Skype conversations carefully orchestrated around time zones? Even considering the logistics exhausted me. I couldn’t help but feel we were in the exact situation we’d been in ten years ago: older but no wiser, still wrestling with the same responsibilities and ambitions.

  I shoved a sweater in my bag and struggled to close the zipper. Was it possible that our lives were incompatible? Just focus on The Test, I told myself. If you love each other, things will fall into place. But at the thought of The Test, my heart began racing. It was only a week away, yet here I was halfway around the world, tangled up in family tragedy when I should be reviewing rare grape varietals or the role of enzymes in winemaking. I pressed my hands to my head, which was suddenly splitting. Everything was bearing down upon me at once—my anguished turmoil over Hélène, my concern about a future with Jean-Luc, my anxiety about The Test—all of it assailing me so that panic was closing up my throat, choking me, stifling me.

  I had to get out of here. I needed to go home and take The Test, and once that was done, maybe I’d be able to figure out what to do about everything else. At the thought of returning to San Francisco, the clamp on my chest began to loosen. I would leave Jean-Luc a note—I hoped he’d understand—and call a taxi to bring me to the train station in Dijon.

  Fifteen minutes later I was in the back seat of a Renault, watching the familiar landscape tumble away. “Can we make a stop before we get on the highway?” I asked the driver, and he nodded. “Turn into this driveway here. I’ll only be a second.”

  I knocked at the back door, but wh
en no one answered, I let myself in, just like I always had. The kitchen was barren, a yawning cement hole, with plastic tarps covering the carved woodwork. “Jesus, Kate, you scared the daylights out of me!” Heather shrieked when I found her upstairs folding laundry. “Wait a second. Kate! Shouldn’t you be in San Francisco? Aren’t you taking your test in like seventy-two hours?”

  Conscious of the waiting taxi—and its ticking meter—I thrust Hélène’s diary into her hands. “Jean-Luc and I found this last night. You and Nico have to read it.”

  She stared at me in complete bewilderment.

  “It’s Hélène’s diary. I’ll explain later. I’ve got a taxi downstairs—I can’t miss my flight. Just read it!” I called as I ran down the hall. “And get in touch with me when you’re done!” I dashed down the stairs and out the door, moving more swiftly than I had in days.

  It took me over twenty-four hours to get home to San Francisco, more than a full day of travel. I stumbled up the stairs to my apartment, my legs stiff from being crammed into an economy seat, and my head aching. In my living room, I unearthed a stack of flash cards and began quizzing myself on Italian grape varietals, grimly focused once more on The Test that I would be taking in seven days’ time.

  “Kate! My dear girl!” Jennifer flung open her front door. “Big day tomorrow! How’re you feeling?”

  “Nervous,” I admitted, kissing her on both cheeks.

  “You’re going to be fine!” she said with a wave, taking my coat and throwing it over the banister. “Anyway, we’re not going to talk about the exam. Tonight is all about relaxing. Bax has been cooking up a storm, and we’re just going to eat and talk and drink—one glass of wine each.” She lifted an eyebrow. “After all, you’ve got to stay fresh for tomorrow.”

  I stepped into her house feeling, as I always did, embraced by its cheerful clutter. “Watch out for the shoes,” Jennifer said, kicking several pairs aside. “Kids!” she shouted up the stairs. “Say hello to Kate!”