Hélène shrugged again, but did as Margaux requested, and walked towards the cellar stairs; why not save what one could? Juliette understood better; she sprang down the stairs ahead of Hélène and by the time Margaux returned with the van the two of them had packed several crates of Maxence’s wine. Saving the best wine was a futile gesture of revenge, perhaps, especially as it must go unnoticed if it were to be effective, yet still it granted her a small prick of satisfaction. A tiny notch of one-upmanship, a minute victory.
The three women hastily loaded the van with wine crates and suitcases. Juliette slammed the front door shut with a resounding bang. She had no idea, nor did she care, whether or not the invaders had a door key. She and Hélène climbed into the cabin, and Margaux edged herself in behind the steering wheel.
‘On y va!’ she said. ‘Let’s go!’ The van stuttered a little before jumping into activity. Margaux slammed down the accelerator, and they roared off as if a tiger was behind them.
* * *
It took almost three hours to cover the twenty-five kilometres between Colmar and Margaux’s chateau, nestled in the hills behind Ribeauvillé. It seemed that many other people had the same idea: the roads out of town were like snakes of metal, vehicles almost touching as they crawled along at a stop-and-go pace as the townspeople sought refuge in the villages or further afield. Juliette brought Margaux up to date on the events of the day, Hélène filling in some of the details.
‘I have to say, that for Germans, they were extremely polite,’ she said.
‘Polite thugs? Tell me another!’ scoffed Juliette. ‘In the end, they told you they’re moving into your house, throwing you out. Try saying that politely.’
Hélène shrugged. ‘You are young and impetuous. We older ones are not so easily thrown off balance. We’ve been German before, before you were born, right through the great war. How do you think Grandpère got that awful name, Dolch, dagger?’
‘I know, Hélène,’ said Margaux. ‘Maxence has told me that story, many times. Max thinks it’s funny.’
The family name had been Coûteaux, a traditional French surname, but the Germans responsible for renaming the citizens mistook it for Couteau, knife; Dolch was the German for dagger.
‘We should have changed the name back after the last war, when Alsace became French again. We have been French ever since and we will remain French no matter what our name or how many Germans invade. They can throw us out of our homes but they will never make us German.’
Juliette said: ‘You’re putting on a brave face, Grandma, but you were just as upset as me when they marched in this morning. You cried. Don’t deny it.’
‘Yes, I cried a bit because it’s hard to believe that after the thrashing they got last time the Germans are at it again, that they have not learned their lesson. It was hard for me to understand that they are back. It was a terrible time, Juliette, the Great War. You cannot imagine. And I am desolated that you might have to live through something similar. Let us only hope that it won’t last long. Not like the last time. But whatever happens, we must be calm and strong and not be cowed. I would have preferred to stay in my own home, even if I have to share it with Germans. It seems to me defeatist to run away.’
Juliette squeezed her grandmother’s hand. ‘You are stubborn, and strong, Grandma, but you could not have stayed there alone with them. You must see that.’
Hélène sighed, and returned the hand-squeeze. ‘I do. I suppose I do. It would not have been pleasant. But it feels like a defeat already, running away like this. Like when the Germans marched into Paris and the French government just ran off, tail between the legs. Capitulated. It’s a disgrace.’
‘The most important thing now is for us all to be safe. Even at the cost of our pride. Juliette is right, Hélène. The future for us all is unknown. It’s a new chapter opening on us and nobody knows how it will develop. Perhaps it will all be over in a few months. I am glad you are going to Maxence. He must be worried out of his mind – he will have heard of the invasion over the wireless but I have not been able to drop in to let him know you are coming. He will be so relieved to have you with him. And you, of course, Juliette!’
‘I haven’t been home for ages! I can’t stay long, but it’ll be wonderful to see him.’
‘How are your studies? What’s happening with your university? Max told me you had to evacuate?’
‘Yes – like all of Strasbourg. They’ve relocated the university to Clermont-Ferrand, near Vichy. I’m just on a mid-term break. Luckily I could be here for Grandmère.’
‘Well, I am just happy that I get to see you unexpectedly, even if the circumstances aren’t good. You come so rarely! Victoire will be delighted. You must come to the chateau as soon as possible.’
Juliette smiled. ‘Ah, Victoire! How is she?’
‘She misses you desperately. As you can imagine! She treasures your letters.’
It was a curious thing with Victoire. She was only fifteen, five years younger than Juliette, yet from the beginning Victoire had clung to her, Juliette, with all the devotion and admiration due an older sister. Even though she had an older sister of her own, Marie-Claire: Marie-Claire, who went her own way, and had no time for a little sister always at her heels. So Juliette had grown into that sisterly role.
Now that Victoire was becoming a young woman herself, mature beyond her years, that five-year gap seemed to grow less and less, on the cusp of disappearing altogether. Out of sisterhood genuine friendship was emerging; they would travel the world together, they had decided, visit England and Italy and maybe even Asia one day, and South America. Life had been so full of promise, so full of excitement and romance and adventure. Until now.
Margaux shrugged, pressed the horn sharply to get the car in front to move on. ‘That idiot – is he sleeping at the wheel or what? Look at the gap in front of him! At this rate we’ll be here all night. What were you saying? Ah yes, Victoire. Well, you know her. Restless as usual, following the news as best she can over the wireless, frustrated, anxious, worried.’
‘And the others? Marie-Claire?’
Margaux launched into a tirade about Marie-Claire: ‘That girl lives in the clouds! You know, I got her a job in the Ribeauvillé Mairie last year; better than moping around the house. She actually did quite well, so agreed to take a secretarial course and was promoted to the Colmar Mairie. But she still thinks she’s too good for it. Too good for Colmar. We’re all too provincial for that girl. Wants to run off to Paris to join her father.’
‘Well, why doesn’t she?’
‘Run off to Paris? Are you mad? People are running away from Paris, not to Paris!’
‘But Marie-Claire always dreamed of Paris, even before the war. Why didn’t you let her go?’
Margaux pressed on the horn again, this time letting it blare for a full ten seconds before responding. ‘Imbécile! Sleeping at the wheel! What was that? Ah yes – Marie-Claire. I wouldn’t let her go because that father of hers has no idea what to do with her and I am not letting a daughter of mine run wild in Paris. She has him wrapped around her little finger; he would say yes to anything she wanted, just for an easy life. Papa, can I join the Folies Bergère and do the can-can? Yes of course, my little darling!