The Winemaker's Wife(7)
Now, with war looming on the horizon, Inès felt more isolated than ever. In the depths of the cellars, she and Céline should have been sharing their fears about what was to come. Instead, they worked in silence, the only sound the quiet thud of each crate landing in its new hidden home.
four
JUNE 1940
CéLINE
On a Friday morning in June, days after the Germans had finally marched into the Champagne region, Theo came rushing into the small cottage he shared with Céline, his face flushed.
“They are finally here in Ville-Dommange,” he blurted out. “The Germans. Come quickly.”
Céline felt a surge of fear. She had known this was coming, for the Germans had been pillaging the towns around them since they’d swept in earlier that week. She’d been holding out hope that somehow their small village would be overlooked, but of course that was silly. The conquerors would want their reward—in this case, the endless bottles of fine champagne that huddled in the dark cellars beneath the countryside. But what if the Germans were after something else, too? What if they were coming because they knew Céline was half Jewish? “Should I hide?” she asked.
“This isn’t about you,” Theo said instantly, his dark brows drawing together. “It is happening to all the champagne houses. Come, Céline. We are not in danger as long as we do what they say. And right now, Michel needs us.”
Céline couldn’t say no to that, not after the kindness Michel had shown them. When Theo had applied for the job of head winemaker at the Maison Chauveau four years earlier, just after marrying Céline in Nuits-Saint-Georges, he’d already been turned down from several larger champagne houses in Reims because he’d learned his trade in Burgundy rather than in Champagne. But Michel hadn’t cared at all about his lack of pedigree. “You are a skilled winemaker; that much is clear,” he had said after reviewing Theo’s references and doing several rounds of tasting and blending with him. “Any house would be lucky to have you.”
And that had been that. Michel had offered them the former caretaker’s cottage, just fifty yards to the right of the main house, as part of Theo’s salary, and Theo had accepted. Since that day, Michel had been generous to a fault, treating the Laurents like family, inviting them every so often to Sunday dinners in the much grander main house, even including them in holiday celebrations. He and Theo had been almost like brothers for a time, although since war had been declared in September, Céline had seen a growing distance between them. Theo wanted to pretend that nothing was happening, while Michel was determined to look the future square in the eye, even if it was frightening and uncertain. Céline would never say so, but she thought Michel was right, while her husband was being shortsighted.
And so, despite her hammering heart and clammy palms, Céline smoothed back her hair and forced a smile. She was already dressed for the day in dungarees and work boots, a white cotton blouse buttoned over her camisole. She had planned to accompany Theo to a nearby vineyard to inspect some of the early buds, though it was clear that would have to wait. “Very well,” she told Theo. “Let’s go.”
He grasped her hand, squeezing her fingers too hard, and pulled her out the door. Down the lane, maybe a half mile away, Céline could see a small caravan of military trucks, dust swirling around them as they approached. The hum of their engines cut through the afternoon stillness, a low and insistent buzz of warning. “Merde,” Theo muttered. “They’re here sooner than I thought they’d be.”
Theo and Céline ran to the main house. The door was already open, Michel and Inès waiting for them just inside, their faces pale. “What will we do?” Inès asked as soon as they entered. For once, she looked undone, her dark auburn hair swirling untamed and wild. She was in black T-strap heels and a long blue dress with a fitted waist, somehow still delicately pretty in the midst of all the chaos. Inès looked from Theo to Céline and then back to Michel. “We have to do something!” She put her palms on her cheeks and then ran her nails down the lengths of her arms, as if she didn’t know what to do with her hands.
“We wait,” Michel said, closing the door. The dark stillness of the front hall engulfed them. “We wait, and we see what they want.”
Less than a minute later, after the squealing of brakes and a cacophony of rough laughter and deep voices outside, there was a heavy knock on their front door.
“Calm,” Michel reminded them, and then he swung the door open to greet their invaders. Céline could see three German soldiers, all in full uniform, two toting long rifles, standing on the step, and behind them, a half dozen more. They were young, perhaps in their early twenties, except for the broad-shouldered man in front, who appeared to be closer to forty. His hand hovered over the holstered pistol at his hip.
“Hello,” Michel said evenly, as if answering the door to Germans was an everyday occurrence. “How can we help you?”
“Help us?” The older man snorted. “You can help us by showing us where the entrance to your champagne cellar is.”
Michel didn’t reply right away, and in those frozen few seconds, Céline studied the man. He was tall, dark-haired, with a narrow mustache, small eyes, and refined, almost elegant features that were currently arranged in a sneer. His forest green uniform jacket with its rigid black collar was cinched with a brown leather belt and adorned with bronze buttons, medals, and a Nazi insignia. His pants were gray, and below them, his black jackboots gleamed in the sunlight. Despite the heat of the morning, there wasn’t a single crease on him. He was an officer, she realized, in charge of the others. His French was perfect, hinting at some level of education and grooming.