The Winemaker's Wife(12)

“You’re not.”

“Then why does Michel jump down my throat every time I say a word these days?” The question was meant to be rhetorical, so Inès was surprised when Céline spoke again.

“He’s under a lot of pressure, Inès.”

Inès gritted her teeth and attacked the turnip she was holding with a vengeance. “I realize that, Céline. You don’t actually need to explain my husband’s state of mind to me.”

Céline didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“Of course you did.” Inès set her knife down. She had tried for more than a year to be as pleasant as possible to Céline, in hopes that the other woman would finally view her as a peer, but she was sick and tired of playing nice while everyone else walked all over her. “You think I’m a fool, Céline. You think I don’t care about what’s happening here, but I do. I know I’m not as good at helping out in the caves as you are, but I’m not the useless idiot you like to believe I am.” Inès choked on the last word as she swallowed a sob.

Céline sighed. “I don’t think you’re useless, Inès. I think . . . I think you’re just new at this. It’s a lot to learn.”

“I’m trying, Céline, I really am.”

The silence that descended felt awkward, uncomfortable. Inès returned to peeling vegetables, her eyes stinging with tears she refused to cry in front of Céline.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Céline said after a while. “I haven’t always been very fair to you.”

Inès looked up. “No, you haven’t. I know we don’t have much in common, Céline, but I used to imagine that you and I would rely on each other one day. After all, we’re stuck out here in the middle of nowhere together. Michel never seems to listen to me anymore, and, well, it would be nice to have a friend.”

“We’re friends, Inès.”

“Are we?”

“Of course.” But Céline didn’t look up or offer anything else, and as Inès lapsed back into uneasy silence, she felt even more estranged from the woman beside her than she had before.

? ? ?

By the time the vines had fallen into their late autumn slumber and the mornings sparkled with frost, Inès was exhausted. She rose each day before the sun and followed Michel sleepily into the caves, where they affixed labels to bottles from the 1936 harvest and prepared shipments, though it was hard to know when they might have regular clients again.

One night in November, long after darkness had fallen, Michel came up from the caves, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wild. “Klaebisch is coming in the morning,” he announced to Inès, who was standing in the kitchen, frowning into their nearly empty cupboard. “Emile from the commission just sent a messenger to inform us.”

“What does he want?” Inès asked. Otto Klaebisch was the newly appointed German overseer of wine production in Champagne, the Beauftragter für den Weinimport Frankreich, a man they had dubbed the weinführer. His arrival in Champagne that July had been somewhat of a relief, for it had put an end to the cellar looting. Besides, he came from a good family that had been involved for a long time in the wine trade; he had even been born in Cognac, where his parents had been brandy merchants before the Great War. If Champagne was going to be ruled by an invader, it might as well be someone who understood their work, their way of life. But Champagne’s taste for him had quickly soured when he requisitioned Bertrand de Vogüé’s personal chateau at Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin and moved right in.

“No doubt to demand more wine,” Michel said through gritted teeth.

“And what will you say?” Inès asked.

“I will do my best to accommodate him.”

Inès clenched her jaw and went back to stirring. “They cannot do this.”

“Inès, of course they can.” Michel sounded weary. “This will be a long war, and we must do what we can to survive. We’ve talked about this, yes?”

“Yes,” Inès mumbled, knowing she’d once again said the wrong thing.

The next morning, Inès and Michel rose even earlier than usual to finish labeling the last of their bottles so they would be ready by the time Klaebisch arrived. Inès changed into a pale green dress that swished against her calves, pulled her hair back into a low chignon, and swiped on a bit of lipstick. Before the war, this was how she had always looked—elegant, put together, fashionable. Now, it had been so long since she’d dressed nicely that she barely recognized herself in the mirror.

“You are making much effort for our occupiers,” Michel said with a frown as she emerged from their bedroom to stand beside him in the parlor.

“Don’t you think it’s important that he take us seriously?” Inès asked, smoothing her dress. She felt suddenly self-conscious when Michel didn’t answer. “Are Theo and Céline joining us?”

Michel shook his head. “I thought it better if Klaebisch does not meet Céline. The German opinion on Jews, well . . . Céline’s situation might be less secure than ours.”

“But she doesn’t fall under the statut des Juifs,” Inès pointed out. In October, the French government had issued restrictions on Jews, but only those who had at least three Jewish grandparents. Céline had just two.