Chapter 19 #2
Shortly after that Sven joined the Foreign Legion in order to cleanse himself and get rid of those sick tendencies.
Perhaps Father would be proud of him now.
Sven had fought at Narvik. His battalion had then ended up in Britain, and shortly afterward Charles de Gaulle had established the Free French forces.
Sven and several of his fellow legionnaires decided that they would continue to fight for France’s liberty, even if Pétain and his government collaborated with the Germans and allowed them to occupy half the country in order to maintain the ceasefire.
Sven’s brigadier had given him the task of delivering documents to the resistance movement, an incredibly dangerous job in occupied France.
So yes, he thought Father would be proud.
He had told himself that eventually, when he was done with the Legion and they were done with him, he would return home as a new man, a man worthy of Father’s respect. They could go back to working together. Sven would take over the farm, maybe even meet a woman and start a family of his own.
Carry on living his life.
And now that fantasy about home, the red house with the white gables behind the huge oak tree in Vetlanda, everything he longed for, had become tangible—only it was happening here.
With the Latorre family.
One morning when he was in the kitchen, he noted the morning light coming in through the narrow window, casting long, soft stripes over a single onion.
Sven was struck by how beautiful the simple motif was.
He noticed a pen and a piece of paper on the table, and couldn’t help starting to sketch the contours of the onion.
When he heard footsteps, he stopped and turned around.
It was Juliette.
“Don’t let me disturb you.” She looked at what he had drawn.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to waste paper, but . . .”
“Don’t apologize, I understand. We all need an outlet for our creativity.
And we need to breathe, in the middle of all this.
It can’t just be work, worry, and misery.
” She smiled. “We have to devote time to things we enjoy in order to survive. Did you do any drawing when you were in the Foreign Legion?”
Sven nodded. “I had drawing and painting equipment.”
“But you didn’t bring any of it with you?”
He shook his head. “If the Germans searched my things . . . well, it’s important not to reveal too much. I didn’t bring any personal possessions apart from my watch.” Even the clothes he wore were not his own, but had been supplied by the resistance specifically for the journey.
“Wait a moment.” Juliette disappeared into the hallway, and he heard her rummaging around in a closet in the bedroom. She returned with several sheets of paper and a pencil. “Use these for the time being, and I’ll see if I can get ahold of some proper supplies for you.”
“But this is perfect—are you sure you don’t need it?”
“It’s fine. We can get more.”
“Thank you, Madame Latorre. Thank you so much.” Sven thanked her over and over again.
No one could understand how much this meant to him.
Drawing and painting was his way of resting, of escaping those thoughts of his mother, his father, his sister.
His sister’s children, whom he adored and had had to leave.
It also meant he could keep certain images at bay, things he had seen during the war.
It gave his brain a respite from seeing beautiful Europe in flames, all the innocent civilians who had died, all the young men sent to the front as cannon fodder.
Like the physical work in the vineyard, this creative work would enable his brain to switch off for a while.
One afternoon when Sven was taking a break from his labors, he sat down on a stone bench in the shade of the house so that he could see the huge oak he had admired on the day he arrived. He drew its magnificent network of branches, gnarled like an old woman’s hands, the small leaves.
“That’s beautiful.”
The voice from behind Sven made him jump. His pencil slipped and drew a line straight across the sketch.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” It was Mathieu.
Sven turned around. Mathieu was leaning over his shoulder, and they came face-to-face. They were only inches apart. For a second Sven held his breath. He saw something in Mathieu’s eyes. Desire. Or was he mistaken?
Mathieu ran his fingers through his hair in the nonchalant way that made Sven go weak at the knees—in fact, it made every bone in his body soften like butter that has been left out too long.
“Should you be on this side of the vineyard?” Sven said after a moment. “What if someone sees you?”
“I’ve only come out for a little while.” Mathieu shrugged and slipped one hand in his pocket. Sven caught a glimpse of the silver chain that Mathieu often took out and held. He wondered, not for the first time, what it might represent.
“You should be the one drawing our maps. You’re far more talented than me.”
“Maps?” Sven didn’t know how he got the word out; he was still holding his breath because of Mathieu’s proximity.
“Yes—they’re part of our work for the resistance.”
Until now, Sven hadn’t been involved in this aspect of the family’s life.
He hadn’t been allocated any tasks by either the resistance or the Legion since he arrived here.
No doubt his superiors had only just found out that he’d been forced to stay on.
If he was going to operate from here, he needed instructions, and he was still waiting for those.
In the kitchen that evening, by the light of a single candle, Hugo, Juliette, and Mathieu introduced him to their work.
“You’re a member of the Legion, which means you’re helping the resistance, so we know we can trust you,” Hugo said with a certain formality. “We need all the help we can get.”
They explained that they were currently helping a Jewish family in the neighboring village to flee. The family was heading to Switzerland. Mathieu showed him the map he was currently working on.
“We draw maps on the back of the wine labels, showing escape routes. Then we stick those labels on the bottles that are going to be delivered to other members of the resistance. You can’t see the map until you’ve emptied the bottle, and the label falls to pieces, making the maps completely unreadable, if you try to remove it. ”
“How do you make sure the Germans don’t get these particular bottles?”
“We provide them with plenty of wine—this one is the cheapest we produce, and they think it’s not good enough for them,” Hugo said with a snort. “They leave the table wine to the French. Yes, of course there’s a risk—but it’s a risk we’re willing to take.”
They sat up until late that night.
“Do you miss home?” Mathieu asked when Hugo and Juliette had gone to bed.
“Sometimes, yes. I miss my mom most of all. She . . .” Sven cleared his throat in order to hide the tremor in his voice, which always came when he spoke about his beloved mother.
“She doesn’t know where I am right now, and it’s hard, not being able to speak to her or send a letter.
She doesn’t even know if I’m alive or dead. ”
“And your father?”
“My father . . .” He broke off. “He’d be proud of what I’m doing here.
Proud of the fact that I’m helping you.” Sven didn’t look at Mathieu.
He focused on correcting the line that showed the escape route along the road on the map.
“It’s so kind of your parents to let me stay.
” He wanted to shift the focus from his father—it was too hard to talk about what had happened.
Mathieu nodded. “They’re good people. Thoughtful. And sending you away might mean sending you to your death.”
“So the whole village thinks you’re in Paris?” Sven asked eventually. He had been wondering why Mathieu’s parents were so determined to hide him.
“Yes, Mom and Dad felt it was for the best.” He took a deep breath as if he were about to say more, but at that moment the kitchen door opened.
“Are you two still up? Don’t you think you should go to bed?” Juliette was standing there in her nightdress.
“Absolutely, Madame Latorre.” Sven put down the pen and got to his feet.
Mathieu simply rolled his eyes. “Okay, Mom.”
Sven went up to the guest room and lay down. What had Mathieu been going to say? And had Juliette been eavesdropping? Whatever was going on, it was clear that Juliette didn’t want Mathieu to reveal the real reason why they were keeping him hidden. Had he committed some crime?
Even more difficult to stop thinking about was the sense that there was something between them. A kind of chemistry. He couldn’t describe it in any other way. Was it just his imagination, or did Mathieu feel the same?
He suddenly sat up as a thought struck him. Had he infected Mathieu with his . . . with his sickness? Shame and guilt flooded his body.
Hugo and Juliette, the wonderful couple who had done nothing but help him, had taken him in—and in return he’d infected their son with that dreadful, disgusting sickness.
Those unnatural urges.
He had to get out of here, he couldn’t stay.
But he had nowhere to go.
That didn’t matter, he reasoned as he paced up and down. He couldn’t stay here and drag Mathieu into depravity.
It was too late to go right now, so instead he went back to bed.
He barely slept a wink all night.