She read each letter carefully, first while drinking a glass of white Bordeaux, and then, a coffee. The letters were well written, and were mostly about life in Paris during the occupation. However, a lot of information was omitted, so the content was often sparse. The love between the two sisters shone through; no doubt they’d written to one another as a way of trying to maintain some kind of normalcy.
Then she saw it.
This particular letter opened with the usual details about the availability of food and other essentials. Jérôme’s aunt wrote that it was hard to obtain eggs, then she added a few details about how her husband had been spending his time. Next came the fateful words. Everything inside Bente froze, and the last spark of hope she’d felt was extinguished.
She paid the bill, gathered the letters together, and went up to Didrik’s room. She stood outside his door for a few seconds. Closed her eyes. Should she disturb him? Yes, they were here to do a job. She knocked.
Didrik opened the door and gave her a questioning look. Silently she handed him the letter. He took it and read, first to himself and then the shattering words out loud.
“My beloved sister, the news you shared with me is heartbreaking. So many people who have disappeared. Darling Mathieu. It feels like only yesterday that he was running barefoot among the vines when I came to visit. Please, God, let him survive. All this time I thought he was in Paris. Poor Mathieu. Again, please let him survive.”
Didrik glanced at the top of the letter. “This was the summer of 1944.”
Bente nodded. “And no one seems to have heard from Mathieu after that. He must have been arrested.”
Didrik looked pensive.
“So I presume we’ve solved the mystery,” Bente continued. “He and Sven were taken prisoner, and neither of them was ever seen again.” She couldn’t stop her voice from trembling, and quickly cleared her throat.
“Mm,” Didrik said, gazing at her.
Was he going to hug her? She didn’t think she could bear that right now. “I’ll go and fetch the camera—we ought to film this.” She hurried to her room and returned with it. She placed the letter on Didrik’s desk, then read it aloud.
“But we still don’t know how, when, or why the bottle was sent to Sven’s parents,” Didrik said, looking into the camera.
“Like we said before, maybe Hugo and Juliette sent it after Sven disappeared?” Bente speculated. “Because Sven wanted his parents to have it.”
“That’s one possible explanation.”
They switched off the camera. Didrik came over to her, put his arms around her, and she allowed herself to be hugged. They had searched for the origins of the bottle, found the sender, been astonished by the love story of the two young men at the vineyard, and now they had reached the end of the narrative. A heartbreaking end, one that made her feel a sense of resignation. What had made her think she could hope for more? This was the Second World War. Millions of people’s stories had ended in tragedy—why should Sven and Mathieu have been any different?
She looked at Didrik. They had shared their own story, but now it was over too. She took a deep breath. “I’m going back to my room to pack. I can return the boxes to Sylvie first thing tomorrow.”
“No, don’t bother—I’ll take them. You have an early train to catch.”
“Won’t you be on the train?”
“My brother is coming down—I just found out. So I’m going to stay for another day and meet up with him—he’s working on a project here.”
“Okay,” was all she could manage.
She made her way slowly to her room. He really had been serious.
They had definitely broken up.
38
The following morning Didrik went through Sylvie’s boxes, which Bente had left with him. He had found nothing new, and was placing the last bundle of documents in a box when a receipt dated 1982 fell out. It was the amount of money that caught his attention: 19,500 francs, a huge sum of money at that time.
The receipt was from an art dealer who had paid the money out. Didrik saw that it had been signed by the dealer, and then he saw a familiar name.Ida Steen.He’d seen that first name somewhere before—was she a relative of Sven’s, maybe his sister? Did this mean that Sven’s family knew that he had been in Bordeaux? He opened up his laptop and scrolled through their notes until he found the address list from the National Archive, which Bente had sent him earlier. Ida Steen. Sven’s mother! He took a closer look at the receipt. Ida had brought in some artwork to sell to the dealer, and the artist’s name was ... Dejje Steen.
Didrik leaned back against the wall, his thoughts whirling. What was going on here? Had Ida traveled to Bordeaux after her son’s death and found his work? In that case, she must have somehow learned that Sven had been in the Médoc region. So had she come here in the autumn of her life—she must have been pretty old in 1982?
The receipt had been issued by Galerie Doré. He googled the name and discovered to his delight that the gallery still existed. A shudder of excitement ran through his body. How he loved this kind of thing! He made a note of the address, checked the hours of business, looked athis watch. They opened in half an hour. He went down to the breakfast room and ordered a baguette and a cup of coffee. Then he drank the coffee quickly, took the baguette with him, and set off into the morning rush hour.
The art gallery was on a street of old buildings, its entrance tucked into an arched portal, the name painted in a handwritten style directly on the facade. Tall windows overlooked the street, and the glass doors were also modern in style.
Didrik walked in and took a deep breath. Paintings were displayed on every wall, from floor to ceiling. Behind the desk stood an older lady who was inspecting a small watercolor. She rubbed at the frame with her thumb, then set it aside as he approached.
