“Oh yes—it was you who had some questions about Château de Chênes, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Bente said, edging a little nearer to the phone. “We’ve found a picture painted by a Swedish guy—Sven Steen, although he was known as Dejje Steen. We’re wondering if you know why there was a Swede living at the vineyard toward the end of the Second World War, and in the years that followed?”
Jérôme thought for a moment. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said.
Bente’s heart sank. She’d had such high hopes for this call. This would be the last time they spoke to Jérôme, they couldn’t disturb him again. They had enough of a story for the TV show. Maybe they would never know what had really happened to the two men, and she and Didrik would have to accept that.
“So you’re not aware that there was a Swedish guy at the neighboring vineyard?” she tried again.
Jérôme gave a cunning smile. “That’s what I was told to say. ‘I don’t know anything about that,’” he repeated with a secretive glint in his eye. “That’s what I had to say if anyone asked about them. Mathieu and Sven.” He looked almost boyish now, and she could see a glimmer of eight-year-old Jérôme. “Or Dejje, as we called him. It was a name he used to call himself as a child.”
Bente glanced at Didrik, who was also smiling. They both turned their attention to Jérôme, who took a sip of his tea. He clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “But now I think I can tell you everything I know. The only people who might be damaged by it are long dead. I hope you have plenty of time?”
41
1944
Sven sat on the seat behind the two soldiers.
The driver set off again, but after only twenty yards or so the car began to judder, the sign of a slow puncture. He stopped, the soldier in the passenger seat moved to get out, and in that brief moment of confusion, Sven seized his opportunity.
He hit the driver hard over the head, then jabbed his elbow into the other man’s temple, and before either of them could work out which direction he’d taken, Sven had jumped out and fled into the darkness. He heard their voices, swearing and shouting to him, but they didn’t use their guns. Presumably they didn’t want to waste a bullet on him.
He ran back toward the vineyard, along the edge of the forest where he couldn’t be seen. Within minutes he heard the sound of engines, and a convoy of five vehicles drove by, their headlamps lighting up the night.
They were heading in the direction of Château de Chênes.
He wasn’t going to make it in time.
But he kept on running anyway. Maybe the soldiers had another mission?
He ran and ran, his lungs were burning, but he didn’t stop for even half a second to catch his breath. His legs moved faster than ever. He knew he was several minutes behind the soldiers, and he couldn’t bring himself to think about what they might have already done. He racedinto the courtyard, which was deserted. Either they had driven past, or they had already achieved their goal and gone.
He flung open the double doors, and when he saw the devastation, he realized he was too late.
The hall table had been knocked over, and the vase that always stood on top of it was smashed to pieces. That was what the Nazis did: They destroyed everything in their path. No doubt their aim had been to frighten Hugo and Juliette into talking.
Hugo and Juliette.
The house was silent. Sven walked through the chaos, then he heard a sob from the kitchen and rushed in.
Juliette was on her knees on the floor next to the tipped-over kitchen table. Hugo was beside her, with a bleeding gash in his forehead.
They glanced up in terror as Sven came crashing in. At least Hugo was conscious, even though the wound looked nasty.
“They hit him,” Juliette said.
“Are you all right? How’s ... Where’s ... Did they take him?”
Juliette scrambled to her feet. “He managed to get away. Shortly after he left, we heard that someone in the village had organized a truck for Mathieu and a few others—they’d had advance warning, and so had we. This man is going to get them out of Bordeaux, and to a vineyard farther south.”
Sven slowed his breathing. The relief was overwhelming. His efforts caught up with him, and he sank down onto the floor next to Hugo.
The Germans had checked his papers—oh God, they had kept his papers. They knew he’d been at Château de Chênes, they kneweverything. Would they come looking for him?
He dragged himself to his feet. “I’m going with them.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer for you to stay here?” Juliette asked, concern etched on her face. Sven’s heart broke—they knew exactly how much danger Mathieu would be exposed to by fleeing.
