“Of course,” Sven replied, as if it were no problem at all. He opened the case and the soldier picked up the wooden boxes.
“Nice.” He nodded admiringly. “For wine?”
“That’s right. My relatives own a small vineyard in Médoc.”
The German turned the boxes this way and that, apparently inspecting the carpentry as Sven held his breath. The man couldn’t possibly see the tiny space. The minute gap above a loose piece of wood that had been pushed to one side from the base of the box, where the document had been placed. If you didn’t know it was there, it was impossible to see it. Someone might hear the loose piece of wood rattle if they shook the box, but the German simply looked at it. Gave it back to Sven without further investigation.
“So you’re heading for the Médoc peninsula?”
“That’s right.” Sven kept his voice steady, as he had been trained to do. “Château de Chênes.”
“You can travel with me.” The German nodded in the direction of a car. “I’m going that way.”
“There’s no need, I can get there under my own steam. There’s a bus due shortly.” Sven looked at the silver watch his parents had given him for his twentieth birthday.
“I’m heading there anyway—that’s where I’m stationed, in the village where you’re going. I was planning to leave in a little while—I’m sure I can get permission to go earlier.” The soldier took a step closer to Sven. “It would be nice to talk to someone with the same interests—I’m a carpenter too. Back home in Germany.” He held out his hand. “My name is Max.” He turned to his colleagues and said a few words inGerman. The other soldiers nodded, and Max looked at Sven again. “Let’s go.”
Sven realized that he couldn’t say no. The offer of a ride was a friendly gesture, and you didn’t say no to a member of the occupying forces. Maybe the soldier was just being kind, or maybe he had a hidden agenda—it was impossible to tell. You couldn’t trust the Nazis.
Max led the way to his car and Sven jumped in.
“Most of my company are from Bavaria, from urban families. They’re not the children of carpenters, so there’s no one to talk to about craft. And I have to say, those boxes are a fine example of your skills.”
“Thanks,” Sven mumbled.
“Are they made of oak or ... is it ...” Max frowned. “I can’t think of the name for that type of wood in French.” He thought hard. “Big cones.” He made a large, elongated oval shape with his hands.
“You mean pine? Yes, you’re right.”
“That’s it, pine.” Max nodded.
Had it been a trick question? Max might suspect something, but Sven had given the perfect answer, as he had rehearsed before he left. He glanced at Max as he started the car; he certainly didn’t look suspicious.
Max set off through the town and out onto the main highway. The car was open-topped, and the country air swirled around them, bringing with it the smell of hay and a hint of the sea breeze from the Atlantic coast. Sven could almost taste the damp saltiness of the ocean.
He sat bolt upright all the way, ready for anything. He could only hope that Max would take him to the vineyard as promised, and that he hadn’t been caught out. If that were the case, Sven knew exactly how this would end.
He knew exactly what the Germans did to members of the resistance.
6
In hindsight it was almost laughable to think that they had been in such a hurry to buy a house. They had moved in on a glorious autumn day, and both Didrik and Lovisa had waxed lyrical over the beautiful maple with its leaves in shades of golden yellow and copper red, and at the back, the stately mountain ash with glowing orange berries. It was as if every corner of the garden offered up unexpected treasures.
They’d lit a fire and enjoyed their new home, dreaming of the children who would run around there one day, and they immediately started discussing what kind of protection they would need for the stove, to make sure tiny hands didn’t get burned. But the months passed by without Lovisa getting pregnant, and eventually the months became a year. A year became two, then three and four. Then they both turned forty, and just the two of them living in a relatively large house made the lack of children even more tangible.
Right now, though, walking up the familiar steps to his own childhood home, whose every variation Didrik knew well, and stepping over the threshold with the chip from when his little brother Victor dropped his skateboard there, felt reassuring. Like a warm, soft blanket. And Didrik needed that today.
His mother met him in the hallway, and he handed over the plant he had bought on the way.
“Lovely,” she said, but judging by the look on her face, he had made the wrong choice. “Hydrangeas are beautiful, as long as you give themplenty of water.” And there it was, the little dig. As always. His mother spent a ridiculous amount of time on her plants every week, and yet the potted plant Didrik had given her was deemed way too taxing to look after.
She looked inquiringly over his shoulder.
“I’m afraid Lovisa had to work late.”
His mother frowned. Shit, he should have prepared a better excuse. Lovisa never missed dinner with Didrik’s parents. He had to think fast.
“There was a tight deadline for a piece of the project she’s working on.”
