Chapter 16
When Sven woke up the following morning, he heard subdued voices from the kitchen. He got dressed and went downstairs. A short man was standing opposite Juliette and Hugo.
Juliette turned to Sven. “This is our neighbor, Monsieur Marcel Fossey. He also works for the resistance.” Sven shook hands with Marcel Fossey, who was holding his beret.
His shirt was creased, and he had the air of someone who was feeling stress.
Sven got the sense he had gotten ready in haste before rushing over.
“The Allies’ successes are making the Germans nervous. There are rumors that they’re tightening up their checks on travelers,” Marcel said. “They’re stopping anyone traveling to or from Bordeaux, and they’re letting hardly anyone through.”
Juliette looked at Sven. “You can’t leave now.”
“The Germans already know I’m here—I can’t stay with you indefinitely.”
“Best to lie low,” Hugo said. “If they call here and ask, it won’t seem strange that you’re staying on with relatives, but if you try to leave, they’ll check your ID papers and ask lots of questions.”
“Thank you, Marcel.” Juliette squeezed the man’s hands. “Thank you for warning us.”
He nodded and turned to leave, then stopped. “So you’ll be putting out the bottles this evening?”
“We will, as usual. This evening. On the steps.”
“Good. Good.” Marcel nodded, then left.
Juliette and Hugo exchanged anxious looks.
“You don’t need to think about me, of course I must go. I won’t stay here unnecessarily. I’ll keep a low profile.”
“We can’t risk you getting caught,” Juliette said firmly. “It’s dangerous for all of us, and you’re more than welcome to stay here.”
Sven nodded slowly. If he was caught and exposed, then Hugo and Juliette would be in danger. And yet he was another mouth to feed, and who knew how long he would be forced to stay? Then again, he had some money with him—not a great deal of it, but enough to make a contribution.
“I could do with a hand in the vineyard,” Hugo said encouragingly.
“Yes, because Mathieu isn’t here,” Juliette added.
They had told him over dinner the previous evening that their son was in Paris, helping relatives with their shop. Mathieu was obviously missed—it was hard for the two of them to do all the work in the vineyard on their own.
That settled the matter. Sven could be of use, and of course it was safest for everyone if he stayed on for a while.
The flickering flame of the candle chased away some of the darkness in the cellar. Mathieu had spent a whole twenty-four hours down here. Considerably longer than usual—he normally hid for short periods when unexpected visitors showed up, either the Germans or strangers.
His parents had explained that their guest, a man who worked for the resistance movement, would be staying on for a while, and until they had worked out what to do, Mathieu must remain in the cellar.
He moved along the vaulted brick corridor to his desk.
Lit another sconce, then another; took down one of the candles and sat down at the wooden table, placing the burning candle in a candlestick made of tin.
He smoothed out the map he had drawn and tried to remember where he had stopped the previous evening, what point he should continue from.
He looked up at the ceiling, listened for footsteps. He really wanted to get out of here.
Suddenly it felt to him as if all the oxygen was sucked out of the room. The dampness and the darkness seemed to seep into his body, into his veins. He needed air and daylight. Maybe he could creep upstairs while Mom, Dad, and their guest were asleep.
A second later he heard murmuring—his parents were awake.
He continued working on the map while listening hard, hoping to make out what they were saying. Perhaps the guest would be leaving soon.
Mathieu allowed one hand to slide into his pocket, where it caressed the silver chain and the flat medallion. The cool metal against his fingers always calmed him.
Gerard
Then he stood up and sighed deeply, paced up and down the vaulted corridor.
It had been dug out and built after the First World War; his parents and paternal grandparents had learned from the Germans’ progress back then.
The plan was to create an easy passage to the next vineyard that they could use to smuggle and hide bottles of wine, or as an escape route if they needed to flee.
Mathieu’s family had chosen to stay put when the Germans came to the village this time.
It had been too late to run by the time they found out that France had capitulated and that the Germans had begun to occupy large parts of the country.
The family had stayed even after the Germans reached Bordeaux; they had nowhere else to go, and they wanted to protect the vineyard as much as possible.
The cellar and these corridors had become Mathieu’s refuge.
He moved toward the hatch and took a couple of steps up the wooden ladder, taking care not to let it creak.
He was so tired of being a prisoner in his own home, but even before the war there had been rumors about him and Gerard.
He had never mentioned their relationship to his parents, and they hadn’t asked.
Maybe they didn’t want to know. He and Gerard had kept it a secret, as far as they were able, but once the rumors started, his parents had warned him to be careful.
Gerard’s parents, on the other hand, had been furious when they heard.
Then both Mathieu and Gerard had been called up to join the army. When Mathieu later returned to the village, Bordeaux was occupied. He and his parents tried to live as normal, even though everything had changed. That’s when they became a part of the resistance movement.
Then the deportations began. Jews and communists.
Mathieu’s family helped out as best they could.
They received reports from other parts of France: Men were being taken prisoner and removed from the villages, herded onto trains and buses and transported far away—no one knew where they had gone.
Men who had sexual relations with other men were taken away along with the Jews and the communists.
Mathieu didn’t know what the Nazis might have heard about him, but he knew that they were going around with lists asking about this and that—trying to get people to inform on their neighbors.
One cold gray day in the fall, after Mathieu had been out in the forest foraging for mushrooms, his mother came to meet him on his way back to the vineyard. She was running, her cheeks were red.
“Mathieu, Mathieu. My son, my darling son.” She drew him close.
“Mom—what’s happened?” Her gray eyes were filled with tears. She was smiling with relief even as horror was etched on her face.
She held his face between her hands. “They came looking for you. The Nazis. They came and asked about you.” She took a breath. “Come back to the house, you can’t be outside.”
Since then Mathieu had hidden whenever anyone came by.
Not because he and his parents didn’t trust their friends—everyone in the village stuck together.
The solidarity since war broke out had been unshakable.
Still, the fewer people who knew where he was, the better.
Only their closest neighbors, Monsieur and Madame Fossey, knew that Mathieu was still at home.
It wasn’t clear why the Nazis had asked about him—perhaps they suspected he was involved in the resistance, or maybe they had heard the rumors about him and Gerard.
So Mathieu had stayed hidden. And although he was tired of it, he knew it was the safest option.
He had cooperated mainly for his mother’s sake, but now he felt he couldn’t stand it for a second longer.
If the guest was a part of the resistance, then surely he wouldn’t say anything about Mathieu to the Nazis?
If he was taken prisoner and forced to talk, then they would be lost anyway. All of them.
He would speak to his mother later in the day. But first he was going to sneak upstairs and get some fresh air before their guest came down.
It was worth the risk.
When Sven woke up on his second day at the vineyard, after a deep, sound sleep, he sat on the bed for a little while.
It was still early, the sun had just risen.
He opened the window and let the pleasant morning breeze sweep into the room as he listened to the birdsong.
Sometimes it was hard to grasp that half of Europe was at war, in flames.
He got dressed and went down to the kitchen. Hugo and Juliette were still asleep, and he thought he would make them breakfast.
He was peeling the hard-boiled eggs when he heard a thud from the bedroom, then another, followed by the sound of whispering voices. Hugo and Juliette seemed to be talking to someone. Had they had a visitor during the night? Someone from the resistance?
Then the noise level rose, and there were more loud thuds.
It almost sounded as if a fight was going on in there—was it an intruder?
Sven rushed toward the bedroom door. The soldier within him was on full alert, his senses sharpened, and he glanced into the hallway to check if there was anyone else there.
The voices in the bedroom were clearly agitated now.
“Please,” Juliette begged.
Was it the Nazis?
Sven flung open the door.
Juliette, wearing a nightdress and with her hair in a loose braid, was holding a young man’s shoulders in a firm grip.
A hatch in the floor next to the bed was open, and it looked as if she was trying to force the young man down into the hole, while he did his best to resist. Hugo was standing to one side, watching the spectacle.
“Let him come up, chérie,” Hugo said with a sigh.
“I refuse to be a prisoner in my own home!” the man said.
Only then did they notice Sven.
The man was around Sven’s age, slim, of medium height. He had the same big gray-blue eyes as Juliette, and Hugo’s chiseled jawline. Tousled light-brown hair that made Sven think of poets and artists.
“Is everything okay in here?” he asked as he backed away. It was clear that the man was no stranger. Sven realized this had nothing to do with him, and he needed to apologize. “I’m so sorry, but I heard voices and there seemed to be some sort of argument going on, so I . . .”
“There’s always some sort of argument going on.” Hugo shook his head slowly.
“Hi—I’m Mathieu.” The young man twisted free of Juliette’s grip and ran his fingers casually through his hair, a gesture that took Sven’s breath away. He came toward Sven holding out his hand.
“Our son.” Juliette gave a resigned shrug.
“Sven Steen.” Sven shook Mathieu’s hand. “I believe you live in Paris—did you arrive home last night?”
Mathieu looked at his mother, then his father, as if he was working out what to say.
“He doesn’t live in Paris,” Juliette said. “He’s not officially at home, so sometimes he has to hide in the cellar.”
Sven nodded. Realized he shouldn’t ask any more questions.