Sweeter Than Wine (2 page)

"No," agreed Bauer sadly. "Your father, he will be glad to see you."

Then why didn't he come to pick me up?

Siegfried's imagination leaped to paint the scene with his father's anger and
disappointment: "
I sent you to defend the Fatherland, or die trying. You are a
coward to come home, defeated yet alive
."

Siegfried shook himself.
Had
he tried hard enough? He was whole
when so many others were maimed or dead. In the slowly passing vineyard,
leafless trunks stood in rows like cemetery crosses.

"You've seen my father more than I, Herr Bauer. He...rarely wrote to me. How
is he?"

"Unhappy, Herr Rodernwiller." Bauer clucked at the old nag, whose speed did
not increase. "I'm sorry to say it. He gave his all for the war effort..." He thought for
a while. "Maybe you can get him to come back to church. We have all been
worried about him."

Siegfried was oddly relieved. That was one thing they would not fight about.
He never wanted to set foot in a church again. The war had proved to Siegfried
that God was deaf, or dead.

They passed the village of St. Hyppolyte in silence. Siegfried's spirits rose a bit
when the red-tiled roofs of Rodern's houses appeared. Almost home!

Bauer stopped his wagon on the outskirts of the village at the entrance to
Rodernwiller Vineyards.

The climb down from the high hard wagon seat was painful, and his knapsack
was heavier than ever. Siegfried paused at the bottom of the drive and waved his
thanks.

Bauer nodded, flicked his horse's reins, and slowly pulled away.

The gravel of the drive crunched under his worn boots as Siegfried limped
toward the house. He looked eagerly ahead, but only the sharply triangular peak of
the tiled roof was visible through the veiling branches of the garden trees.

He slowed as he approached, passed under the trees, and saw what was left.
All the windows were boarded over. The east wing of the house, where his
bedroom and Ernst's had been, was roofless. The white-plastered walls bore ugly
shrapnel gouges from the shelling at the beginning of the War, from the attack that
had changed everything, forever.

No smoke issued from the kitchen chimney, and Father's Daimler was missing
from its usual place of honor in the middle of the cobbled courtyard. The rain
dripped quietly from the surrounding trees and a superstitious shiver threaded
down his spine.

We must have missed each other at the train station
. Any minute now,
he would see the Daimler's headlights approaching from the road. But why hadn't
Father caught up with Bauer's wagon? Was he still in Schlettstat?

Siegfried's stomach cramped as he saw a black-ribboned pine wreath, gray
and brittle now, lying where it had fallen on the doorstep. He imagined Father
fastening it on the door after
Mutti
's death. It was unlike him to leave
rubbish lying about. What had happened?

The front door opened at his touch. Siegfried's boots squeaked on the
checkered parquet floor, and he stood still, drawing his coat around him more
tightly. It was hardly warmer in the house than outside, and there was a musty
smell of disuse and abandonment. No lights shone anywhere.

"
Vater
!" he called into the silence of the house. No one answered.

He dropped his knapsack by the side table near the door and found a
kerosene lamp and matches. He lit the lamp, thankful for the warm glow. As he
lowered the clear glass chimney, two envelopes on the table caught his eye. The
first was unopened, bearing a San Francisco postmark and addressed to Father in
his grandmother Tati's unmistakable handwriting.

He frowned at the second, clearly opened, envelope. It was the telegram he
had sent, listing his arrival date and time.

Where was Father? Why had his telegram been ignored?

The light wavered as he picked up the lamp and ascended the stairs. The
walls were bare, and large unfaded squares of antique wallpaper attested to the
places where portraits of his ancestors had hung. Had they been put away for
safekeeping during the War?

Siegfried arrived on the second floor, where a dirty expanse of bare hardwood
stretched down the hall. The long Persian carpet--the furniture--the gilded rococo
mirrors--bronze gaslights--all gone.

He walked quietly towards his father's study. Very slowly, he pushed open the
door that guarded his father's sacred precinct. The glow of the lamplight fell first on
empty bookshelves, mahogany expanses once crowded with rare volumes. What
in God's name was going on here? His father loved his books almost as much as
he loved his wine.

Father put them away
, Siegfried reassured himself, but the back of his
neck and his arms were prickling. He knew this feeling from a thousand terrified
moments spent awaiting the order to advance into a deadly rain of enemy
bullets.

Siegfried saw his father, slumped forward over the massive desk, head
pillowed on his arm.
He fell asleep! That's why he missed the train.
For an
instant, he was glad.

"
Vater? Ich bin zu haus'
."

The figure did not stir. The lamplight touched silver-blond hair and gleamed
from the barrel of a pistol, held loosely in the slack fingers of his father's right
hand. On the gilt-edged leather blotter, a thick brown stain congealed. Blood.

"Oh, God, no." The lamp shook violently as Siegfried very carefully placed it on
the corner of the desk.

He knew I was coming home today
.

He had known. He had
known
, and had done this monstrous thing.

Siegfried's stomach heaved. Sour wine stung the back of his throat, then
subsided. Shadows fluttered as he steeled himself to view his father's corpse.

Heinrich Wilhelm August Rodernwiller was dressed in his best suit, dark blood
staining the stiff collar of his shirt. His left hand curled over a folded paper.

Siegfried tugged the document out from beneath cool flesh, gingerly avoiding
further contact. He slowly unfolded the page, tipping it toward the lamp.

It was a foreclosure notice, advising
Herr
Rodernwiller that the house
and property known as Rodernwiller, its contents, demesne, and chattel were now
the property of the
Allgemeine Landesbank Schlettstat, Elsaß,
and that
Herr
Rodernwiller should be prepared to vacate immediately. 'Schlettstat,
Elsaß' had been crossed out and 'Sélestat, Alsace, France' hand-written in
above.

Siegfried let the paper fall. There was another envelope, weighted down by his
father's gold signet ring, on the far right corner of the desk. It was addressed to
Siegfried. He opened it and tried to read, but the meaning of the words escaped
him.

Mein lieber Sohn!

Ich wünschte, daß ich Dir diese Enttäuschung ersparen könnte. Ohne mein
Weingut oder meine geliebte Gattin bin ich so verzweifelt, daß ich leider keinen
Ausweg finden kann. Mein Leben ist nichts mehr wert. Hoffentlich verstehst Du
meine endgültige Entscheidung und kannst mir dafür vergeben.

--Dein Dich liebender Vater

He had to read it again and again before he could comprehend.

My dear son:

I wish I could spare you this disappointment. But--without my vineyard,
without my dear wife--I am in such despair that I can see no way out. My life is no
longer worth anything. I hope you will understand my final decision, and forgive me
for it.

Your loving father

Black patches spotted Siegfried's vision and the world tilted. He caught himself
on the edge of the desk. The wood was sticky, and he realized dully that he had
put his hand squarely into his father's blood. The smell of violent death was
sickeningly familiar. He had not left it behind in the trenches. He staggered back,
staring at his tainted palm.

The naked bookshelves served to hold Siegfried up as he waited for his
dizziness to pass.

After a long while, he straightened. The pain was still with him, but he could
act again. Trying not to look at his father, Siegfried picked up the gold signet ring--
his only patrimony now--and tucked it into his greatcoat pocket, where it nestled
against his military discharge papers.

He needed to notify the authorities. Someone would have to...dispose of the
body. He should write to his father's sister,
Tante
Hilde. At least she would
grieve. Siegfried had nothing left for a father who had committed the ultimate
betrayal.

Now who is the coward? You have run away, and left me to deal with the
ruins
.

Siegfried left the study and stumbled downstairs, his body disconnected from
his mind, the house, once so beloved, strange and unreal. It was no longer his
home.

He thought about having to deal with the bank officials regarding the
foreclosure, and a spark of rage ignited, but it had no fuel to feed on. He had
nothing left. His hands trembled, and he missed the last step. He fell heavily to his
knees and the lamp flew from his hand, shattering against the parquet floor.
Kerosene splashed in fiery tendrils against the wall and vines of flame blossomed
upward.

Siegfried watched in disbelief as the fire spread.
At least it is finally
warm
. But warmth turned to searing pain an instant later, bringing him back to
reality as sparks attacked his hands and face.

He had to get out!

He could not get to his feet, so he crawled toward the door. The crackling
sound swelled to a roar. He looked over his shoulder. Flames devoured the wall
his ancestors had graced.

He grabbed his knapsack and the letter from
Oma
Tati, pulled himself
up the doorjamb, then hobbled down the drive to the road leading toward
Herr
Bauer's farm.

He did not look back as his father's house burned, a funeral pyre for all his
dreams.

Healdsburg, California

Tuesday, May 13, 1919

"Alice, you've got to make up your mind. Either sell Montclair to me, or tear out
the vines and plant prunes." Hugh Roye said, his high forehead wrinkling with
exaggerated concern. "This is not the best time to run a winery. Even Lake County
voted dry!"

"I loathe prunes." Alice Roye set down her fork, unable to take another bite of
the tough chicken her brother-in-law was serving for lunch. His cluttered, dusty
dining room seemed suddenly close despite the window opened to the early
afternoon air. The sharp smell of chicken manure came from the yard outside, and
she fought an unladylike urge to sneeze.

"I wish I knew why you were being so stubborn. I can't imagine why someone
like you--a city girl, I mean." He slanted a look at her, then smiled charmingly as if
he hadn't meant that comment at all, "--would want to sully her hands with such
work anyway. I'd give you a fair price. You could reestablish yourself in San
Francisco, and perhaps--marry again."

"It's too soon." Alice shook her head, patting her lips with the linen napkin, her
heartbeat quickening until she could feel each heavy beat in the tips of her fingers
against the cloth. She didn't care about being married again, but she did
not
want to return to San Francisco. And she would die before she revealed to anyone
in Sonoma County the reason why.

"It's been over a year since Bill--" Hugh's mouth set in a stubborn line, an
expression she had seen only occasionally on her young husband's face. Bill had
always smiled and joked to fend off any unpleasantness. Sometimes she
wondered, when she couldn't help herself, if Bill's good humor had survived the
rigors of the Western Front, if he had been smiling and jesting with his men, until--

Alice bit her lip, and Hugh, obviously realizing he had pushed too hard,
relented in his attack. He poured gracefully from the bottle of wine she had brought
to serve with lunch and remained silent as they both sipped at the delicate
Gundlach-Bundschu Traminer.

The wine was delicious, dry and fragrant, but Alice grimaced inwardly,
remembering the failures of this last year. Bill had only been the first loss.
Montclair's vintner, hired by Bill's grandfather at the winery's inception, had
succumbed to the Spanish Influenza before they finished crush last fall. Alice had
done the best she could, but the Traminer had all spoiled in transit to the East
Coast. Park and Tilford, her distributors, had refused to pay for the vintage, and
had, in fact, billed her for shipping costs and damages.

She hoped that her new vintner would know how to avoid spoilage this year.
She
had
to turn a profit. She just had to hang on until harvest.

Truce over, Hugh set his glass down, and leaned forward. "I worry about you,
all alone out there. You can't take care of that property with only field hands."

"Surely you're not calling Mrs. Verdacchia a
fieldhand
, Hugh," Alice
laughed, determined to dispel the adversarial mood. "You never refuse an
invitation to dinner if Maria's cooking! Really, it's good of you to be interested, but I
believe I have a buyer for this year's wine."

"Montclair's profits were always in champagne, but you won't make
champagne, will you, dear?"

"It's too much effort," Alice protested. "And I don't want to make wines just for
the liquor trade--"

Hugh pushed his chair away from the table. "You don't seriously believe you
could obtain a sacramental wine license, Alice!
You
?" Hugh laughed
unkindly. "So, the Archbishop is a family friend?"

"I'm sorry, but I really must return to Sonoma." Alice spoke through gritted
teeth as she stood up. She picked up her long-handled suede handbag and said
with imitation cheerfulness. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I won't be quite alone
this summer. Your cousin has arrived from Europe and I promised your
grandmother I would hire him."

"What cousin? You don't mean Siegfried? Coming here? He's got some gall."
Hugh's long face turned an ugly red. "It was bad enough that Aunt Betty married
that foreigner--"