What had she said? She was already showing? She couldn’t be that far gone, they’d only just split up. What the hell? That must mean ...
With a sigh of despair, he ended the call and flopped back on the bed.
16
1944
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
