The Winemaker's Wife(106)

“Yes, ma’am. It’s Liv. I go by Liv.”

“Liv. How fitting, for here you are, alive, which should be impossible. But God works in mysterious ways.” The woman’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t blink. “Well, it is very nice to meet you, Liv. My name is—was—Céline Laurent. And I . . . I am your father’s mother.”

? ? ?

Later, with the sun casting a golden glow over the plump black grapes, Liv went for a walk with Céline through the vineyards while her son, Jo?l—who looked so much like Liv’s father would have if he’d had the chance to grow older—stayed behind to talk with Julien.

“You see, my dear,” said Céline, leaning into Liv for support as she used her cane to help her navigate the uneven ground, “I read Le Monde every morning online from my house outside Tel Aviv. The Internet is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Six weeks ago, I read the story about you and the Maison Chauveau, and at first, I could not believe it. But then Jo?l helped me to print out the photograph of you that accompanied the article, and when I saw your face, I knew. You look so much like your grandfather, Liv. It’s your eyes. They’re the same ones your father had, too.

“It took me a month to resolve to come,” she continued. “I never thought I would return to this place, you see. When I left in 1945, after being told that both your grandfather and father were dead, I was sure I was leaving for the last time.” She gazed off into the distance and then smiled slightly. “It took me another week to convince Jo?l that I was fit enough to travel at my age. But finally he understood how much I needed to see you in person. And here we are.”

“My grandmother—I mean, Inès—always believed you died in Auschwitz,” Liv said. “Her attorney Samuel told me that she searched for you for many months, going every day to the H?tel Lutetia in Paris, but that she was told by an Auschwitz survivor that you had succumbed to tuberculosis just before the liberation of the camp.”

Céline looked surprised. “My God. And I was told when I returned to the Maison Chauveau that Inès had perished, and, of course, David, too. But they both lived.”

“I’m so sorry,” Liv said, though the words felt terribly insufficient.

“You see, I was quite ill just before the liberation. And there was a time that I was very close to death. That is likely what the woman remembered. There was a lot of confusion at that time, and perhaps if she was sick, too, her memories were jumbled. But I fought death with every fiber of my being, because I believed your father was still alive. That is what kept me going, knowing that I had to return for my child.

“The fact is, I did not die in Auschwitz. I died after Auschwitz, when I came back here and learned that everyone was gone. I had nothing left to live for, so I spent a year simply drifting before I met a man named Paul Vogel. It was a long time before I loved him, for my heart was still with Michel. In fact, I suppose it always will be; when you love someone the way I loved him, that feeling never really fades, you see. In any case, Paul became my companion, and in 1950, when he asked me to marry him and move to Israel, I agreed, because there was nothing left for me in France.”

Liv wiped a tear away as Céline paused to catch her breath.

“Jo?l was the second miracle of my life, for I never thought I would be able to have another child, not after what Auschwitz had done to me. It has been a mostly happy life, Liv, but I never forgot my firstborn, my first son.”

“I—I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.” Liv cleared her throat. “My Grandma Edith—Inès—spent her whole life blaming herself for what happened to you. I know she would want me to tell you how terribly, terribly sorry she was.”

“That makes me very sad, Liv, for you see, I don’t blame Inès, not anymore. She was always careless when she was young, but never cruel. I know that she did not betray us on purpose. In a way, everything was my own fault. I stole her husband. I had a baby with her husband behind her back. Can you imagine the magnitude of that treachery? How must she have felt on the night she discovered us together and realized the truth?” Céline shook her head. “No, the fault was mine. But I couldn’t have done it any differently. Michel was the love of my life, and if I had not loved him, my dear Liv, you would not be here today. So how can I regret a moment of it?”

Liv nodded, wiping away her tears. “But what about the fact that you missed a whole lifetime with my father and me, while Inès spent the past seventy years with a son—and then a granddaughter—who were really never meant to be hers?”

“But maybe you were. Maybe you were supposed to belong to Inès all along. Who can really know? I owe Inès more than I can say for saving your father, after everything I did to her. I will always regret that I never saw David again. But here I am, standing in the vineyard your grandfather once tended, with you, my granddaughter. Liv, I never imagined I would see the day. You are proof that miracles do happen.” Céline leaned into Liv’s shoulder. “Come, let’s take a walk. I will tell you some things that I remember.”

As Liv helped Céline stroll through the vineyards, listening raptly as she pointed out spots that had meant something to her and shared anecdotes about Michel and Inès, Liv felt as if she could see slivers of the past through Céline’s eyes. So much had unfolded here, so many things that had shaped her own life, blessings and tragedies. Somehow, everything had come together to bring them to this moment.