“You think this baby is a liability?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. Just that the baby makes things all the more dangerous. We must think about our child.”

“I am thinking of the child! I am trying to preserve a future!”

“And I am trying to save your life!” Theo shouted.

“You think you have the power to do that, but you do not. You are nothing, nothing, to the Germans. No, you are less than nothing, for you married a Jew. So you are already in danger, Theo. You just don’t see it.”

He shook his head and sat back down. “No. My answer is no. I do not agree to helping refugees. I do not agree to sheltering illegal Jews. And I do not give you permission to put yourself—or my child—at risk.”

“Theo,” Céline said, her tone desperate, pleading.

“No. And that is final.” He gave her one last look before striding out of the room. A few seconds later, she heard the front door slam.

Slowly, Céline sank back down into her seat at the table, her hand on her belly. “Baby,” she whispered in the silence, wondering if her unborn child could hear her voice, could feel her resolve. “We do not need his permission to be who we must be. Do you understand that?” Within her, the baby stirred, kicking once, in exactly the spot where her hand rested. “I will protect you, whatever it takes.”

? ? ?

On the day before March’s first full moon, late in the month, the cellars filled with a dozen workers—most of them children between twelve and fifteen who were grateful for the small fee Michel would pay them at day’s end—and despite her growing exhaustion, and the way her whole swollen body ached, Céline made her way belowground to help. It was tradition to begin bottling the wines the day the springtime moon rose in the sky; for hundreds of years, winemakers in Champagne had believed that the power of the lunar cycle drew the bubbles into the bottles.

Céline worked beside Inès, who seemed extra solicitous. “Are you all right?” Inès asked her repeatedly, glancing with concern at Céline’s belly, which had grown enormous. The baby would arrive within seven weeks, in the first half of May, according to Céline’s math, but to Inès, the sheer size of Céline’s belly must have been confusing; like Theo, she had been told that the baby would come in June.

“I’m fine,” Céline reassured her. Though her belly was huge and her limbs swollen, Céline also knew there was something radiant about her, too. She could feel it, and she could see the glow every time she looked in a mirror. Despite everything, she was the happiest she’d ever been.

“You should rest. Why don’t you sit, Céline? There are plenty of people to help us today. You don’t want to exhaust yourself.”

Céline blinked back sudden tears. She didn’t deserve Inès’s kindness. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Besides, this baby will have to learn to make wine one day, too. Might as well begin the lessons early.”

She’d meant it as a lighthearted deflection of her discomfort, but Inès gave her a strange look. “You’ve already decided the baby will be a winemaker like Theo?”

Céline realized too late that she’d been thinking, instead, that the baby would perhaps inherit Michel’s business one day. Certainly Michel would leave Inès after the war and legitimize his relationship with Céline. But of course she couldn’t say that. “I think winemaking will be in his blood.”

“His blood?” Inès smiled. “You are so sure it will be a boy?”

“I think so.” Now that the baby was moving with regularity, Céline was getting used to thinking of the person he would be when he emerged from the womb—and she was almost certain of his gender. At night, when she dreamed of a life with her child, it was always a little chubby-cheeked boy she saw, his eyes blue like his father’s, his hair dark and thick like hers. The best of both of them.

“How wonderful. I’m sure Theo would be thrilled to welcome a son.”

Céline could feel her breath catch in her throat. “Yes.”

“You’re looking very pale,” Inès said, putting a hand on Céline’s arm. “Let’s walk upstairs for a little while, take a rest in the house.” When Céline began to protest, Inès cut her off firmly, adding, “Please. I’m exhausted. You would be doing me a favor.”

Céline finally nodded and let Inès lead the way. They ascended into a bright, crisp morning, and Céline had just closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh air when the peace was shattered by the rumbling of an engine. She blinked a few times before her eyes adjusted enough to the sunshine to see a shiny black Mercedes rumbling down their drive, a Nazi flag flapping in the breeze.

“God help us,” Inès said behind her. She took Céline’s hand, and together they stood still as the car approached and drew to a halt.

Céline recognized the man who alighted from the passenger seat as the tall and broad-nosed Otto Klaebisch, the weinführer, for whom Michel and Theo had developed a grudging respect. The driver, she did not know, and she had just begun to relax, to believe that this was merely a routine inspection, when Hauptmann Richter unfolded himself from the back seat.