‘He spoils her rotten and it is my job as her mother to delay the inevitable until she is of age. She has a few more months to go before she’s twenty-one and then she can run off to Paris – if Paris is still standing in a year, if it has not been flattened by the Germans – and do as she likes. She fell in love with the place when she was thirteen and we spent Christmas there. She thinks all her dreams will come true in Paris. Now it’s all Paris, Paris, Paris. Papa, Papa, Papa. Over my dead body. But she has improved since she got that job and it gets her out of the house, doing something useful. And now they’ve chucked out the Mairie staff, goodness knows what’s next. She’s quite distraught. Even though she thinks it’s all beneath her, she thought she could work her way up to Paris. Work in some grand couture house or something. Why couldn’t she be nice and sensible and responsible and clever like you?’
‘That’s not fair, Tante – don’t compare. Every child is different and everyone has their own weaknesses and strengths.’
‘I haven’t seen your weaknesses yet, nor her strengths.’
‘Well, they exist, I assure you. So, enough of Marie-Claire. I do like her a lot but I know she is a headache for you. What about the boys? Are they back yet?’
Leon and Lucien had run off to fight for France after the invasion; they had been captured and were now prisoners of war somewhere in Germany.
Margaux sighed. ‘No. Goodness knows when Hitler will send them back. It’s all a disaster, from beginning to end.’
‘And Jacques? I haven’t heard from him in ages.’
‘Your brother has absconded. He’s in Strasbourg. Ran off just after the vendange. We haven’t heard from him since.’
‘In Strasbourg? That’s not like Jacques. What’s he doing up there?’
‘I think the less we know about what Jacques is up to, the better. He always had a political bent, and ever since the Nazis took Strasbourg he’s been on a mission.’
‘You don’t mean…?’
‘I said, the less we know, the better. Don’t you get involved.’
‘But I have to go to Strasbourg anyway. I might as well visit him. Do you have an address for him?’
‘He left a telephone number with Maxence. For emergencies. Not for social visits.’
‘But—’
‘He was quite clear about it, Juliette. Only for emergencies. Stay away from Jacques.’
Juliette fell silent. She understood perfectly. She knew her brother well. If he was in Strasbourg, it could only mean one thing.
* * *
Eventually they arrived at La Maison des Collines, Maxence’s home at the end of Chemin des Sources, the winding lane that passed by Château Gauthier. As its name implied, La Maison des Collines nestled between gentle hills, mounds that eventually rolled up to the Vosges mountain range that separated Alsace from Lorraine and the rest of France; softly undulating hills, striped with the inevitable ranks of grapevines characteristic of the region, vines now brown and bare, stripped of fruit and foliage. Here, nature was so close it wrapped itself around a person, each season coming and going with unmistakeable gestures, familiar signs.
Now dusk was approaching, a grey November dusk with a low-hung sky and a hint of drizzle. As the van drove into the cobbled front yard two dogs leapt forth from behind the house, barking, which turned into yelps of delight as Juliette descended from the van’s cabin. She bent over to fondle their heads, crouched down to accept their excited writhing, stroked their sleek wriggling bodies, laughed at their slobbery kisses.
‘Gigi! Rififi! How I’ve missed you! You lovely, lovely creatures! Calm down, calm down, you will both get your share of hugs! Where is Papa?’
‘Here I am, chérie!’
A man, dressed as a farmer in torn and faded dungarees and a sloppy, over-large gabardine coat and black rubber boots, emerged from the barn-like building adjacent to the house. Dark strands of hair flopped forward over a gnarled, weather-beaten face lit up not only by a broad smile but by eyes that shone with love. Maxence Dolch, tall, gaunt, wiry, strode towards the group of girl and squirming dogs. Juliette abandoned the dogs and leapt towards him, flinging herself into his arms.
‘Papa! Papa, it’s so good to see you!’
‘And you, ma petite! And when will you stop growing? I still cannot believe you are so tall! Let me look at you…’ he held her shoulders and pushed her back, took her in, then drew her back into his embrace. ‘…more beautiful than ever. You look good, my darling, in spite of the terrible news. I heard it on the wireless and I’ve been worried all day. I’ve been trying to get hold of Margaux for news – I knew you’d call her – and went over this afternoon. Victoire told me she’d gone to pick you up, so I’ve been waiting here and worrying. Hello, Margaux. Thank you for bringing them. Maman! So it took a German invasion to drag you back home!’
Max let go of Juliette and stepped forward to embrace both Margaux and Hélène, exchanging cheek kisses, folding his mother into his arms.
‘Maman, you are so thin. You are like a feather. I’m going to have to feed you up.’
‘I’m not staying long, Maxence. Only until that bothersome Boche has retreated out of Colmar so that we can get on with our lives. Hopefully not more than a week or two. At the most, a month.’
‘You haven’t even heard the worst of it, Papa! They requisitioned our house and threw out Grandmère!’
‘What! Really! Hopefully they did not harm you? Come on inside. I have prepared a nice soup for you all.’ Maxence ushered the three women towards the house and in through the front door. The hallway was cold; Maxence hurried them into the large square kitchen, warmed by a pot-bellied cast-iron stove on bowlegs, and gestured for them to be seated around the heavy oak central table.
‘The child exaggerates,’ said Hélène. ‘They did not throw me out. I volunteered to go. Or rather, given the option of staying – which I would have been perfectly happy to do – I decided after all that I prefer your company for a while than to share my home with a bunch of uncouth, uncivilised brutes.’
‘I should think so! Here, sit down, the soup is still warm but I think I’ll heat it up a bit. And there’s some bread to go with it – slightly hard, but the soup will soften it.’
He placed a large and apparently heavy pot onto the range, opened the stove door to feed the smouldering fire, stoked it and shut the door again. The stove gave off a pleasant, cosy warmth and the smell of burning wood lent to the atmosphere a sense of homely comfort; the delicious, distinctive feeling of home wrapped itself around Juliette and she hugged her father once again.
‘It’s so good to be back!’ she said.
‘Well, you know – nobody chased you away. You’re welcome to stay here all the time.’
‘Papa, you know I have to study, get a degree. I can’t do that here.’
‘I don’t see the point of it. Why didn’t you do like Jacques – he didn’t bother with all these nonsensical school qualifications. It just goes to people’s heads, makes them think they’re better than us uneducated morons.’
‘Oh Papa, don’t say that! And don’t compare me with Jacques. Jacques is a born winemaker like you, with an instinct for his work. I can’t very well become a vet just by instinct.’