He was lying on the bed, breathing in the smell of Sven from the sheets, when he suddenly heard a noise and sat bolt upright. Footsteps on the gravel, then his parents crossing the wooden floor.
Had something happened to Sven? But it could be anyone out there. Mathieu had to hide. He flew down the stairs, and as he ran into his parents’ bedroom, someone hammered on the front door. He yanked open the hatch, and as he reached the bottom of the cellar steps, he heard Jérôme’s voice—the boy from the neighboring vineyard—and slowly exhaled. Then he heard what Jérôme was actually saying.
“The Germans are on the way.”
“What’s happening?” Mom’s agitated voice.
“I think they know about Mathieu. The priest ran over to our place; he’d heard something about Château de Chênes being on a list. Apparently there’s a lot of activity among the Germans in the village. He asked me to warn you; he was going to speak to the others.”
“Thank you, Jérôme. Are you all right?”
Mathieu didn’t hear Jérôme’s reply, but the door soon closed. He assumed that the neighbors weren’t in any danger.
The hatch opened and Mom came down. She handed him his old rucksack and a water bottle. “You have to get away, Mathieu. As far as you can. All the way to Lassac.”
To Lassac, to Gerard’s parents. Mathieu hadn’t heard from them since Gerard died, since they sent him their son’s dog tag.
He looked at his parents. “What about you?”
“We’ll be fine. Don’t think about us, it’s you they’re after.”
What if the Germans forced his mom and dad to talk? Maybe he should stay. Then the Nazis would get the person they were looking for.
“Please, Mathieu. Run. We’ll be fine.” Hugo put a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders, then looked sternly at his son. “Go.”
Mom held out a lit candle.
Mathieu quickly kissed each of them on the cheek, shrugged on the rucksack, and took the candle. He then set off along the winding passageways leading to Château du Boda, the vineyard next door. The darkness and dampness surrounding him were dense. He could hear the storm rumbling overhead, or was it the Germans’ running footsteps? He didn’t know, he just kept on walking through the darkness for several minutes.
Eventually he reached his destination. He recognized Château du Boda’s cellar with its long wooden shelves, which were usually full of bottles of wine, but now stood empty because the Nazis had requisitioned every harvest.
Then on through the passageways to the next vineyard. From time to time he had to claw at the cobwebs that stuck to his face and clothes. All the cellars were empty and dark. He felt as if he were heading into eternity. The fact that he was now using these passageways, that he was finally on the run as he and his parents had constantly feared he would be one day, gave him a feeling of having arrived at his fate.
Eventually he reached the heavy door at Lassac. From here he could leave the passageways and continue out into the fields and forests.Hide as best he could until he found help somewhere. At least he would be alive.
The door opened and there stood Gerard’s mother, Madame Bresson. Her expression was grim as she looked at him.
“Madame ...” Mathieu began, but he fell silent when he heard footsteps up above. Voices. German. Someone shouting orders, more running footsteps. What were the Germans doing here? Had shereported him?
Gerard’s mother didn’t like Mathieu’s type. Maybe the solidarity between the vineyards meant nothing to her.Hemeant nothing to her.
The next moment he heard boots clattering down the cellar steps.
37
That damned summer party meant absolutely nothing. For some reason, possibly as an emotional defense mechanism, Bente had simply started going through the practical details in her head during their discussion. The journey home from Bordeaux, contact with the production company, the rest of the research, the summer party. And that was where she had gotten stuck—what were they going to do about the party? It was just something she had blurted out in the moment, a meaningless thought that for some reason had come out of her mouth.
But yes, they did need time to think. She needed to give Didrik the chance to do that. And she needed time herself.
Was she going to lose him? If he had time to think, would he realize there was someone better out there? Some famous, successful woman who, unlike Bente, wanted children. But who, unlike Lovisa, also understood Didrik’s career and way of life. Someone who wasperfectfor Didrik.
Someone who wasn’t Bente.
The thought was like a thorn in her flesh. She wasn’t good enough for him, of course she wasn’t. How could she have believed anything else?
She stayed in her hotel room until dinner. They still had material to go through; she might as well distract herself by making a start.
She took the box of Jérôme’s mother’s letters down to the outdoor dining area in the inner courtyard—she wanted a change of scenery. Sheordered a salade Niçoise and turned her attention to the letters. They were all written by Jérôme’s aunt, his mother’s sister.
