He placed the freshly picked produce on the counter. Tomatoes, carrots, shallots.
Mathieu’s mother smiled, and the frown lines in her forehead that had deepened since the occupation seemed to disappear for a few seconds. Sometimes it seemed like her constant anxiety might destroy her. Anxiety over her family, over France, over Mathieu.
“That’s not bad!” she said.
The sight of the sun-ripened tomatoes made Mathieu’s mouth water.
“I managed to get some eggs this morning, but we can save them until tomorrow,” Mom added.
Mathieu turned his attention to the map on the kitchen table once more. Lunch could wait; he had to finish what he was doing. A Jewish family was in hiding in the neighboring village, and the map detailedtheir escape route. The wine bottle with the map hidden in it would be collected this evening. He carried on with his work, drawing with meticulous care and swearing out loud whenever he made a mistake. He wasn’t a skilled draftsman, but he was the best out of the three of them, so the task fell to him.
He leaned back and contemplated the map. It seemed to him that it left something to be desired. He tried to rescue it by correcting the meandering main road, but ended up having to throw it away; the whole thing was illegible.
He made a fresh start, and his mother tried to persuade him to eat while he drew.
“You have to have something, you worked hard this morning.” They were behind with the tasks needing to be completed in the vineyard. Mathieu was able to help out only very early in the day, when there was no risk of any of the Nazis coming by and seeing him.
He gave in and munched a juicy tomato, a slice of the dark bread, and a little salad. Then he picked up his pen once more.
“I was thinking about labeling the 1934 blend,” his father said.
“Is it ready?” Mathieu asked.
“Yes, I tried it yesterday. It was excellent.” His father smiled.
It was one of their finest blends, and probably the best year in the whole of the thirties.
Not that they would label it that way.
These small, silent acts of rebellion enabled them to keep going. Wrongly labeled bottles. Or, as in this case, giving their friends in the resistance movement a bottle of their finest vintage. The Germans insisted that the best must be reserved for them, and the winemakers allowed the Germans to believe that they were cooperating. At least in this village the occupying Nazis paid for their wine, albeit at a ridiculously low price. Many other wine producers in Bordeaux had simply had their cellars plundered, or even worse—had had their entire vineyards taken over.
TheWeinführer—as the German soldier who led the occupation of Bordeaux was called—had decreed that the finer wines must be reserved for the Germans. The vineyards were permitted to sell only the more basic table wines to other Frenchmen, who could barely afford to buy wine at all these days.
Mathieu’s family had worked in the resistance movement ever since the occupation began, but over time, their role in it had changed. At first the goal had been resistance itself: helping the British to infiltrate occupied territory, carry out ambushes, and sabotage the German efforts on the ground. But ever since the Nazis had begun transporting prisoners by bus and train, and going from one vineyard to the next with their lists of names, the family had focused on supporting escape missions instead. They received information about upcoming operations and passed it on by delivering wine bottles with maps and messages concealed behind the labels, and sometimes, in addition to the maps that made their way past the Nazis, incorrectly labeled bottles of finer wines also slipped through.
In the time since the Allies had achieved several successes using this method, the resistance movement had become even more active, and the family’s responsibilities had changed yet again. They still worked on escape routes, but they also passed on information and maps that were directly linked to the Allies’ campaign.
Mathieu was just about to return to the map when he heard the sound of an engine, and tires crunching across the gravel in front of the house. He inhaled sharply.
They weren’t expecting anyone.
His mother was washing up; she stopped in mid-movement, then flew into action.
“Quick, quick Mathieu!”
He gathered up his papers and hurried out of the kitchen, then realized he had forgotten his pens and rushed back.
“Come on!” his mother hissed, peering out of the kitchen window. “It’s a German soldier and someone ... someone I don’t recognize.Hurry up, Mathieu!” His father ran into the bedroom next door, followed by Mathieu, then his mother, pushing him along.
He turned around. “Calm down.”
Panic shone in her eyes.
His father yanked open the hatch, and his mother urged him down into the dark hole.
9
Didrik was sitting at his desk with his laptop in front of him, preparing for tonight’s discussion topic onThe Experts. His blue-and-white-checked pillow was poking out from behind the cupboard where he had shoved it when he put away his bedding, just in case he got a visitor. He rented the office with a few other freelancers at TV24. It was in Gärdet, not far from the studios, and sometimes friends would stop by, or his cousin Vendela, who was a reporter at the station.
