“She’s very beautiful,” Emma said to Jeanne.
“Wasn’t she? That photo was taken in the nineteen thirties, I think. She left Reims right after the war, and later became a schoolteacher, like Lucie. I followed in her footsteps, and now my daughters are both teachers!”
“That’s a wonderful legacy,” said Emma. “Lucie was a teacher, then? I heard she was an assistant.”
“If I recall correctly, Lucie Maréchal wasn’t trained as a professionalmaîtresse, but during the war she helped in the classrooms they set up in the caves. I’m sorry I don’t have any photos of that time.”
“And did your mother ever tell you what happened to Lucie?” Rosalyn asked.
“What? Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought you knew,” said Jeanne, looking troubled.
“Knew what?”
“This is why the story is so famous, why my mother told it to me so many times. It broke her heart.”
The strains of Beethoven heightened the emotion of Jeanne’s words. Rosalyn was suddenly afraid to hear what Jeanne had to say, not wanting the elderly woman to utter words that could not be taken back.
“Please, madame,” Emma said softly. “What happened to Lucie Maréchal? We know part of her story, but not the ending.”
“My mother was an orphan; she lost her parents in the war. She found refuge with the villagers in the Pommery caves, and was taken in by Lucie and her mother, Madame Maréchal. Madame taught my mother to knit and crochet—even to tat—and she in turn taught me.” Jeanne smiled. “I remember my mother saying that Lucie was terrible at knitting, and every time she tried, they had to rip it all out and start again. She said Lucie’s talents lay in other areas.”
“And what broke your mother’s heart?” Emma asked.
“Lucie and my mother worked the harvest, along with so many others. Women and children, the old people who were still strong enough to manage. They brought in the Victory Vintages, knowing they would have to wait several years for the wines to fermentproperly, to effervesce. They believed they were investing in the future of France, a future without war.
“One night of a full moon, the silver light limned the grapevines and everyone was working among the vines.
“All of a sudden, the children started screaming and flinging themselves into the mud, the way they had been taught to do when they heard gunfire or mortars. It wasn’t clear where the sniper shots were coming from. Lucie ran toward my mother and sheltered her with her body.
“My mother said they lay there in the vines for what felt like hours. Finally, the firing ceased, and they remained still for a count of three hundred, as they had been taught. Then they started to crawl toward the hole they used to reach the caves—they crawled along on their elbows, dragging their bodies to remain close to the ground.
“Lucie ordered my mother to go into the caves. Mother didn’t want to leave her, but Lucie was very stern. When the survivors gathered back at the caves, they realized three people were missing: a boy and a girl, and... Lucie. It was only then that my mother realized she was covered in blood. Lucie’s blood.”
“Lucie was shot,” Rosalyn said, a statement more than a question.
Jeanne nodded. “Her body was recovered from among the grapevines the following night, along with the twopetits enfants.”
?“After all this time, we find out Émile survived the war but Lucie did not?” said Emma as they pulled away from Jeanne Bisset’s house, waving good-bye to Topette’s daughter, who stood in her doorway watching them leave. “I can’t believe this.”
“Maybe she’s wrong,” said Blondine. “She’s old. Maybe her memory is affected. Or she’s making it up.”
“Why would she make up such a story?” Rosalyn asked. “I think we all want to deny it happened, but it has the ring of truth, doesn’t it? I can easily imagine Lucie giving up her life to save a child.”
Blondine shrugged. “I think we should find some proof. Maybe there are lists of the civilians killed in the vines, or something?”
“I didn’t think to look for such a thing when I was at the Reims archives,” said Emma, sounding tired. She checked the clock on her phone. “The archives are open another half an hour—André, let’s see if we can get there before they close.”
“Oui, madame,”André said, and floored it.
They pulled up just minutes before closing time. The well-dressed, perfectly coiffed woman at the front desk was not pleased to see them, but when Emma made it clear she wasn’t leaving, the woman agreed to make photocopies of the pertinent documents, then shooed them out, no doubt needing to shop for her intricate French dinner.
Rosalyn was eager to read through the papers, but the mound of handwritten documents was daunting. The three women were tired and hungry, and overwhelmed by all they had learned that day.
“I suppose it’s like my father said,” said Blondine after they’d arrived back in Cochet. “They would have been dead for years, anyway. For now, we have dinner to make.”
“You’re right, Blondine,” said Emma. “We’ll tackle this in the morning, when we’re fresh. For now, hand me that bottle of champagne.”
?The next morning in the Blé Champagne tasting room, the three women took their seats at the document-strewn table, divided up the photocopies from the archive, and began reading through thefaint handwritten names and explanations entered into the archive’s database.
