He put the mugs down on the bench and one fell over, the little berries tumbling out onto the ground. Then he ran away.
Down into the cellar, where everyone thought he belonged.
After dinner that evening, Sven sat in his room with the small brass plaque on the desk in front of him, etching away fervently. It would soon be finished, but he had no idea when he would be able to send the bottle. Right now it was too risky; he might have to wait a month or more, depending on how the war progressed. The thought of how worried his mother must be made him feel sick. She hadn’t heard from him for what seemed like an eternity.
He liked working with the metal, which was cold and hard to the touch. The work was slightly painful, and the pain took away all the thoughts in his head.
Hearing the sound of fast-moving footsteps outside, he stopped his work and slid the little plaque under his bed with his tools. The Germans confiscated—or requisitioned, as they put it—everything they could. Maybe they’d want the piece of metal too.
Sven hurried to the door, heard stressed voices, people speaking French. One sounded like Marcel, the owner of Château du Boda, the neighboring vineyard. Sven ran downstairs to see what was going on.
“They’ve started asking around again,” Marcel said. “They’re looking for Jews, communists, homosexuals.” He looked very anxious. “And ... I don’t want to worry you, but Jérôme saw Mathieu in the forest the other day. He asked me if Mathieu was allowed to be outside.”
Juliette inhaled sharply. Hugo and Sven remained silent.
Marcel continued: “I told him nothing has changed, and that he absolutely mustn’t tell anybody.”
Sven went back upstairs and returned to working on the plaque. He couldn’t stop thinking about the last couple of days, how Mathieu constantly pushed the boundaries and risked attracting attention. He was putting so many people in danger—Mathieu’s parents and friends.
Sven made up his mind. He had to leave, for everyone’s sake.
Maybe his absence would give Mathieu the chance to start behaving sensibly and go back to the life he had lived before: listening to his parents, staying hidden, focusing on simply surviving. Until the hell of occupation was over.
He packed his few possessions. Put on the clothes he had been wearing when he arrived. He hadn’t worn the shirt and suit during his whole time at the vineyard, or the change of outfit, which he now pushed into his bag.
He looked at the brass plaque, which he’d left lying on the bed. He slipped it into his pocket; maybe he would be able to get back to the Legion now. The plaque would be a special memory of the vineyard.
He gathered up the last of his things, then left the house.
Mathieu clambered slowly up the ladder to join his parents for supper, which on these warm evenings and in these difficult times usually consisted of a little boiled water and, if they were lucky, some stale bread.
He had considered missing supper in order to avoid Sven, but his mother would have come looking for him, and he would have had to come up with some excuse. He was really bad at lying to her.
Only Juliette and Hugo were in the kitchen. Mathieu helped himself to some water and cut a small piece of the bread Juliette had set out. He sat down. “Where’s Sven?”
“He hasn’t come down yet,” his mother said.
Mathieu took a bite of the bread.
Always a polite guest, Sven never missed a meal, or showed up late for supper. Maybe he was sick?
After a few minutes, Mathieu said, “I’ll go and take a look.” He went up to Sven’s room, but it echoed with emptiness. The window overlooking the yard was wide open. An envelope on the bed fluttered in the breeze. Mathieu’s name was on it, in Sven’s neat handwriting.
He picked it up, opened it, and read the letter inside.
Taking in the words, he was overcome with the same pain he had felt on the day he and Gerard had been separated. But this was even worse, because Sven had chosen to leave him.
For Mathieu’sown sake. For his safety, Sven wrote.
Mathieu tried to hurl the piece of paper at the wall, but it only drifted as it left his hands, and fell slowly until it reached the floor.
33
A week later, Bente and Didrik traveled to Bordeaux. Elnaz was busy with another production and had decided to stay home, and they were looking forward to spending some time together, just the two of them.
They arrived early in the morning, and after dropping their luggage in their respective rooms, went downstairs for a late breakfast. The small boutique hotel had a beautiful inner courtyard where the staff served a generous breakfast every morning, and cocktails every afternoon. The air was filled with the scent of honeysuckle and the aroma of café au lait and freshly baked croissants. Bente got there first and sat down at a table, and Didrik soon appeared. He gently touched her shoulder and sat down beside her.
He went through the notes he’d written down on the train journey while Bente glanced through her own research. Château de Chênes seemed not to exist anymore—they had searched everywhere, gathering up every scrap of information they could find in Sweden. Bente’s book on Bordeaux had been published in 1955, and at some point after that the vineyard had ceased production.
