Chapter 41
Sven sat on the seat behind the two soldiers.
The driver set off again, but after only twenty yards or so the car began to judder, the sign of a slow puncture. He stopped, the soldier in the passenger seat moved to get out, and in that brief moment of confusion, Sven seized his opportunity.
He hit the driver hard over the head, then jabbed his elbow into the other man’s temple, and before either of them could work out which direction he’d taken, Sven had jumped out and fled into the darkness.
He heard their voices, swearing and shouting to him, but they didn’t use their guns.
Presumably they didn’t want to waste a bullet on him.
He ran back toward the vineyard, along the edge of the forest where he couldn’t be seen. Within minutes he heard the sound of engines, and a convoy of five vehicles drove by, their headlamps lighting up the night.
They were heading in the direction of Chateau de Chênes.
He wasn’t going to make it in time.
But he kept on running anyway. Maybe the soldiers had another mission?
He ran and ran, his lungs were burning, but he didn’t stop for even half a second to catch his breath.
His legs moved faster than ever. He knew he was several minutes behind the soldiers, and he couldn’t bring himself to think about what they might have already done.
He raced into the courtyard, which was deserted.
Either they had driven past, or they had already achieved their goal and gone.
He flung open the double doors, and when he saw the devastation, he realized he was too late.
The hall table had been knocked over, and the vase that always stood on top of it was smashed to pieces. That was what the Nazis did: They destroyed everything in their path. No doubt their aim had been to frighten Hugo and Juliette into talking.
Hugo and Juliette.
The house was silent. Sven walked through the chaos, then he heard a sob from the kitchen and rushed in.
Juliette was on her knees on the floor next to the tipped-over kitchen table. Hugo was beside her, with a bleeding gash in his forehead.
They glanced up in terror as Sven came crashing in. At least Hugo was conscious, even though the wound looked nasty.
“They hit him,” Juliette said.
“Are you all right? How’s . . . Where’s . . . Did they take him?”
Juliette scrambled to her feet. “He managed to get away. Shortly after he left, we heard that someone in the village had organized a truck for Mathieu and a few others—they’d had advance warning, and so had we. This man is going to get them out of Bordeaux, and to a vineyard farther south.”
Sven slowed his breathing. The relief was overwhelming. His efforts caught up with him, and he sank down onto the floor next to Hugo.
The Germans had checked his papers—oh God, they had kept his papers. They knew he’d been at Chateau de Chênes, they knew everything. Would they come looking for him?
He dragged himself to his feet. “I’m going with them.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer for you to stay here?” Juliette asked, concern etched on her face. Sven’s heart broke—they knew exactly how much danger Mathieu would be exposed to by fleeing.
Sven had to get to Mathieu, he had to go with him. “How is this man going to get us out of Bordeaux? Surely the Germans are patrolling all the roads?” Sven asked as he and Juliette headed for the neighboring property. He didn’t want to criticize the plan, but he needed to know.
Juliette looked at him, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth despite her serious expression.
“By delivering wine.”
“In,” Madame Bresson hissed as she pushed Mathieu back through the opening and down into the cellar.
She took hold of one of the big wine shelves and pulled it out.
It was like a false wall, and behind it was another cellar.
Not a very big one, but she shoved him inside it, and just before she pushed the shelf back in place, Mathieu saw that the walls were covered in wooden shelves filled with wine bottles.
Seconds later the Nazis came storming in to the cellar on the other side of the false wall. They were yelling in German, and Madame Bresson answered calmly in French.
“There’s no one here. You’re welcome to search.”
They continued to shout at her in German.
Please don’t let them hurt her.
“Who are you looking for?” she asked.
“Your son—is he here?”
Mathieu was able to understand the gist of the German words. Surely the soldiers should be better informed? Maybe they didn’t know what to believe anymore.
“He died in the war.” Madame Bresson sounded furious. “You took his life. You don’t need to look for him here.”
Soon Mathieu heard the sound of boots moving away, then clomping up the cellar steps.
He slowly exhaled. A minute or two later, Madame Bresson pulled out the shelf, then took his arm.
“Come with me.”
They hurried through the house and out into the vineyard. The storm had broken, and rain was pouring down on the dry plains in huge, warm drops.
Madame Bresson ran between the rows of vines, with Mathieu close behind, then took shelter by the wall of one of the barns. As they made their way around the building, she looked around them constantly to make sure no one had spotted them. Mathieu had no idea if the Germans were still close by.
Soon they reached a minor road. She pulled Mathieu behind a tree, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the road.
Before long a small truck appeared and slowly came to a halt.
They emerged from their hiding place as a man jumped out of the driver’s seat. Mathieu recognized him—he was a winemaker from the other side of the village.
“The Germans are waiting for their wine,” he called out through the rain.
“The safest way out of here is via the enemy,” Madame Bresson said firmly, waving Mathieu toward the truck. He opened the door and started to climb in, then looked back at Gerard’s mother.
“Thank you.”
She nodded, gave a cautious smile. “I hope you make it.”
The driver had come around to the back of the vehicle. “Go farther in, behind the curtain,” he said. “There are some others there, we’ve picked up a few people.”
Mathieu made his way between the boxes of wine, right to the back of the truck behind the curtain.
He could make out five bodies pressed close together in the gloom.
Soon he was able to distinguish faces. A married couple, both teachers, rumored to be communists.
He nodded to them; the man patted him on the shoulder.
Then Mathieu saw a woman who had worked in the bakery for years; she was of Jewish heritage.
He didn’t recognize the fourth person, a young woman sitting with her eyes downcast. And the fifth . . . Sven.
It was Sven, curled up between the boxes. He looked up at Mathieu.
“Sven,” Mathieu said.
“Mathieu.”
What he noticed first was how relieved Sven sounded. Then Mathieu saw the tears pouring down his cheeks.
“You’re here.” Sven gave Mathieu a hug.
“For God’s sake, keep quiet when the truck is being unloaded. And don’t make a sound if you’re stopped,” Madame Bresson said behind Mathieu before slamming the door.
The truck set off, bumping along the road. The small space was stuffy, but fresh air seeped in through the gaps between the doors. Rain hammered down on the roof, and the interior was damp from where it had found its way in.
“Do you think we’ll make it?” Mathieu whispered to Sven.
“I don’t know. But this is our best option—they’ll come looking again. And again. We have to get away from here.” He put his arm around Mathieu in the darkness.
Mathieu felt safe.
Whatever happened, he was with Sven.