At the thought of him, Mathieu’s hand slipped into his pocket, as it always did, and he touched the silver chain, then the cold medallion. His fingers traced the engraved letters and numbers.
Mathieu didn’t understand German, but his father translated for his mother as he spoke. The soldiers asked if they could take a look around the wine cellar. Access to the wine cellar was from the other side of the house; there was a passageway leading from it to the cellar where Mathieu hid, but its opening was well concealed.
“Of course,” Hugo replied in German. Then he said something else. Naturally it was good to be able to speak the language, it made the Nazis slightly more well disposed toward them. At the same time it was important not to go too far, otherwise people might start saying you were a traitor. Doing business with the Nazis wasn’t exactly accepted, but on the other hand, everyone in the village realized that they had no choice. There were no longer any other options when it came to exporting the wine; plus it was impossible to refuse—no one wanted to give the Nazis an excuse to arrest anybody.
One of the soldiers asked a question, and Hugo translated for Juliette.
“Yes, that’s my nephew,” she replied in French. “He’s here to help us with the work in the vineyard while our son is helping relatives elsewhere.”
“Oh? Which relatives is he helping, if your nephew is here?” The other soldier spoke French; most in the higher ranks were familiar withthe language, while others had begun to learn. “Seems a bit complicated, all this moving about.”
“He’s with my elderly aunt,” Hugo said quickly.
“I see. So could we say hello to your relative? The Swede?”
“Of course. This way.” Mathieu heard the sound of boots crossing the floor, then fading away.
His heart was pounding. What did they want with Sven? It was hardly surprising that they wanted to meet him, but what if they saw through his story? Meanwhile, Mathieu was hiding down here like a coward. He sighed in frustration. After half an hour, which felt like an eternity, he heard footsteps again, followed by a thud—presumably a wooden box—and the clink of bottles. They must have spoken to Sven and visited the wine cellar.
“Thank you—always a pleasure to do business with you, Monsieur Latorre.”
“Thank you,” Hugo replied. Mathieu could hear how difficult it was for him to force the words out. No one really wanted to do business with the Germans.
After a while, his mother opened the hatch.
“Everything okay?” Mathieu asked as he clambered out. Juliette nodded.
Mathieu hurried through the house. He wanted to see Sven with his own eyes, wanted to know for sure that he was all right.
Hugo was in the hallway, about to return to the vines. Mathieu went with him. Sven was outside, standing by a row of vines. Mathieu rushed over, then stopped in front of him. What had he intended to do? Throw his arms around him?
“Did they suspect anything?” Mathieu asked, his heart in his mouth.
Sven shook his head. “No.”
“Good.”
“You can’t trust them.”
“I want you here,” Mathieu said.
Sven looked surprised, then gave a brief nod before getting back to work.
Sven liked the monotony of the days. Routine was something he had appreciated during his training in the Legion.
Being able to help the family meant a great deal to him, and he reluctantly began to accept that he liked it here. He saw his life as a soldier and a member of the Legion as a vocation, and his decision to join the Legion had meant leaving his old life behind him. However, now that he had the opportunity to live something that resembled his former life—a normal everyday life—he experienced for the first time in years a sense of calmness, of harmony.
The thought of home and family, and the fact that he couldn’t speak to his mother or sister, lay over him like a suffocating, wet woolen blanket.
He would never forget the expression that had come over his father’s face when he realized what a mess Sven had gotten into. Father, who never lost his temper, who rarely showed his emotions at all, had gone crazy and said that Sven wassick. He had spat out the word.
Sven’s father was a good person, with high moral standards. He cared about those who were worse off, and he had taught Sven that a decent man shows kindness toward everyone. Sven looked up to his father, respected him, loved him. He was everything a son could wish for. He had taught Sven all he knew. Sven would always remember how his father had defended him when Sven was teased and bullied by older boys in school, how he had stood up to not only the teacher, but also the father of one of the boys, who ran a factory in their small town. He had found the courage to face him because it had beenthe right thing to do. He had made it clear to Sven that the two of them had a special connection. The best times in the day were the ones they spent working together. Probably both of them assumed that this would continue foras long as they both lived. When Father became too old, Sven would take over the farm.
But then Sven had let his father down, disappointed him. Had kissed another man. Looking back, Sven wondered if it had been worth it. He hadn’t had any strong feelings for the man in question—a former classmate who had left Vetlanda to work elsewhere, but had now returned to get married.
They met at a crayfish party hosted by mutual friends. Sven had noticed the man watching him; he hadn’t dared to encourage the attention, didn’t really know how he felt about this chap, even if the feeling was not unfamiliar. He had been attracted to other men before, and had tried to suppress his desire, but when this man kissed him, he had responded, curious to explore the possibilities.
They were caught. Sven’s parents found out.
