“A word of what? Edith you’re frightening me.”

Edith waited until Inès looked into her eyes, then she spoke slowly and clearly. “We are resisting, my dear friend. We are fighting for France.”

Inès blinked at her. “But you’re serving Germans in your brasserie! How is that resisting?”

“Because alcohol loosens lips.” Edith released Inès and leaned back. “And loose lips mean that secrets sometimes spill out. We smile, and we cater to their every need, and always—always, Inès—we are listening.”

“But who do you tell the secrets to?”

Edith sat back and regarded Inès for a moment. “The less you know about the specifics, the better,” she said, and Inès felt a stab of frustration. Like Michel, it seemed her friend only trusted her to a point. Edith stood and yawned. “It has been a long day, Inès. Shall we head to bed now? I’m sure you’re tired, too. You’ll find your old bedroom just as you left it. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“But—”

“We can talk then.” And with that, Edith was gone.

That night, Inès lay in the small bed that had been hers before she married Michel, and as she stared at the ceiling, she felt more alone than ever. Inès had come here to tell Edith she wasn’t sure she was happy with Michel anymore, to ask her friend’s advice. Instead, she had stumbled upon the fact that Edith was involved in something much more important, with consequences that ran far deeper than she could have imagined. It made Inès’s problems seem silly, juvenile.

As she finally drifted off into a troubled sleep, she wondered what it meant that Edith had decided to resist, while Inès only wanted to keep life as it was before the war. Was Edith making a mistake? Or was Inès a fool for believing that she bore no responsibility to protect France? But one thing she was sure of: she would keep Edith’s confidence. Otherwise, what kind of friend would she be?

ten

SEPTEMBER 1941

CéLINE

With Inès still in Reims early the next morning, Theo and Michel had to rely on Henri Beauvais, an ancient vigneron and Great War veteran who’d been friends with Michel’s father, to give them a ride to Clos Vannier, in the nearby village of écueil, to observe the first few hours of the harvest. Céline had wanted to accompany them, but Theo had been indifferent, and Michel had urged her to stay home for her own safety, something he’d been saying a lot lately. Though she knew he meant well, Céline was growing frustrated with being trapped on the grounds of the Maison Chauveau. It had been nearly a year since the first statut des Juifs had been announced, and three months since the second round of regulations had come down, barring Jews from professions ranging from banking to real estate, and giving local authorities the right to place them in internment camps should they violate any of the new restrictions. Céline was still considered Christian for the purposes of German record keeping, but they were all aware that the noose was being pulled tighter.

“I feel useless here,” she had argued before they left.

“I know,” Michel had said gently. “But there are German sympathizers all around us, and people who are jealous of our success here at Chauveau. Please, I realize it’s a lot to ask, but I want to keep you safe.”

Theo had grunted in agreement, and they had gone off without waiting for an answer.

And so Céline was missing the harvest, which felt like a punishment in itself. And then there was Inès, able-bodied and unimpeachably Catholic, off having a grand old time with her friend in Reims, not caring about the work she was missing or the way she was inconveniencing Michel and Theo. Céline had tried to have some sympathy for the other woman, but how could she be so selfish?

After an hour of straightening their cottage to keep herself occupied, Céline finally gave up and wandered out to the cellar entrance. She knew she would find some solace in the familiar caves beneath the earth.

As she descended the steps with a lamp, the cold air wrapped itself around her like an embrace, and she shuddered. Down here, the silence was a salve. She could be alone with her thoughts, which right now were all focused on her family.

She had finally received a letter from her father the day before, courtesy of Michel’s mysterious friend, who apparently traveled all over the zone occupée delivering and collecting messages. She’d been greatly relieved to hear that her father and his parents hadn’t been arrested or moved by the Germans, but the letter had also confirmed some of her fears. Her father was no longer allowed to work at the winery he’d overseen for thirty years, and he’d had to register—along with his parents—as a Jew.

Your grand-mère and grand-père are in the greatest danger, I fear, her father had written. Because they were born in Poland, we do not believe the French government considers them French any longer. Right now, they are safe, but for how long? I am worried for all of us, but I know Theo will look after you, my dear, and that brings me some comfort. These are terrible times, and I pray that the darkness will soon lift.

In the letter Céline had sent back with Michel’s friend, she had spoken brightly, cheerfully about life in Champagne, saying it hadn’t changed much, so her father wouldn’t worry. To tell the truth—that she was afraid about the future—would be to place a burden on him he shouldn’t have to bear. To tell him she had seen the signs posted around town—caricatures of Jews with hook noses, drawn to look like monsters—would be to frighten him. She was the one who had taken her father’s advice to leave home with Theo. She feared now she would regret it for the rest of her life.