Alsace: Episode One
Stories of War and Wine and the Battles Over Alsace’s Secret Cellars of Priceless of Wine During World War II
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Four waiters stand in the servers station connected to the kitchen of a world-class French restaurant in 1940. None of them speak. They’re in a tense semi-circle, all of them stare dead eyed at the air in front of them. One is perched on the counter, distractedly stirring an espresso with a demi tasse spoon while another habitually folds and unfolds a wine opener in his hand.
The maitre d pushes aside the curtain that separates the dining room from the server station, he stops in front of the group and they all raise their heads to look at him. He raises his eyebrows and opens his hands asking what the problem is with a tilt of his head. The server with the wine opener takes his book of orders from his starch white apron and passes a handwritten chit to the maitre d, who reads it, reads it again, looks up at the four and then reads it one more time. With a small cough, he straightens his back and tucks the order into his breast pocket, simultaneously his other hand pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket which he offers to the group. All four of them lunge forward to grab one. The maitre d lights one for himself and hands it to the nearest server who uses it to light his, they pass it around the circle all lighting their own on the hot embers of the maitre d’s which makes it back into his hand just as he pushes through the swinging double doors and marches into the kitchen.
He raises his hand in greeting to the chefs as he takes a drag but continues past them and exits the kitchen out a back door on to a loading dock. The dock looks out onto a dirt road lined with trees that eventually bends out of sight into a pine tree forest. The night is dense and silent tonight and the first line of trees is just barely visible before a wall of darkness rises up swallowing everything behind it. A worker in a leather apron stands to stare out onto the road. He doesn’t turn as the maitre d comes to stand next to him, but with a grim looks shakes his head when he feels the maitre d’s gaze. The maitre d sighs and reaches into his pocket again to proffer a cigarette to the worker who accepts without a word. They both take one long inhale but before the maitre d can even think of something to say the worker lets out a string of curses with a dragons puff of smoke from his nose and jumps off the loading dock. He grabs a bicycle off the wall of the restaurant, flips on the large headlight attached to the basket on the front and kicks off into the darkness.
The maitre d watches his wavering headlight cut through the pitch forest road until it reaches the curve in the road and disappears from sight. The worker peddles hard and fast and gravel kicks up against his legs as the narrow tires find purchase on the uneven ground. Just as his breathing starts to change to a lower heavier pace like the gear on his bicycle, out of the quiet night the sound of arguing voices reaches his ears. He rounds a sharp bend in the dirt forest road and is met with a spectacular scene.
The headlights from a canvas covered delivery truck stopped in the road cast a glaring light onto the altercation in front of the truck. The two drivers, soldiers in uniforms with guns in hand, brandish their weapons and attempt to scream orders at a young man dressed in the loose and dirty clothes of a farmer. The boy is mounted on the back of a towering horse, a giant black roan at least sixteen hands high. He rides bareback and swings a rather lethal looking gardening tool with a long wooden handle and sharp iron tip at the soldiers' heads with every circle he and the horse make in front of the van. The worker takes this all in without letting up on the peddles, all four of them barely notice as he tears past them breakneck speed, he leaps off the bike letting it skid on its side a few feet into the darkness and inbound has jumped into the back of the canvas covered truck. The truck is full of wooden crates stuffed with straw, he works quickly but efficiently, checking markings and the stamps on every case carefully before moving on, in seconds he finds what he’s searching for and leaps back out of the truck a small bundle wrapped in cloth in his arms. He snatches the bike off the ground, places the parcel carefully in the basket, grabs the handlebars and sprints a few paces before hopping on the bike at speed and taking off back down the road. As he passes he sees the farmer boy has been dragged down by the soldiers and while they aren’t willing to use their guns, they’re working the youth over well with their fists and boots. But the worker as already rounded the sharp bend in the road and left the ordeal in the darkness behind him.
It’s not moments later, just as he realizes his eyes have been so locked on the parcel in his basket that they’re as dry as his back is damp from the adrenaline-fueled sweat that had started as soon as he saw the stopped truck, that he’s already rounded the bend in the road and can see not only the lights of the restaurant but the pinprick glow of the maitre d’s cigarette on the loading dock. The cigarette came milliseconds from falling from the maitre d’s dropped jaw before he snapped to attention, spit the cigarette on the ground, straightens his tie and brushes some ash from his cuff. He stamps on the butt of his half-smoked cigarette with patent leather brogues just as the worker skids to a halt in front of him in a cascade of gravel. Breathing heavily the worker carefully lifts the parcel from the bicycle’s basket with trembling arms and offers it to the maitre d above him.
The maitre d is already halfway through the kitchen the parcel held firmly in one hand as he straightens his tie once more and checks his watch, allowing a small smile as he sees the next few moments unfolding before him in his mind. He lets the parcel’s wrapping drop to the kitchen floor and holds aloft the well-kept bottle of wine that was preserved underneath. He kicks open the swinging kitchen door and marches through the server station, reaching into his breast pocket and pushing the handrwritten order into the chest of the waiter who gave it to him. The four waiters barely have a chance to look up before the maitre d is already stepping on to the floor, he turns around quickly and extends an open hand, without thinking a server throws a wine opener at him. It lands neatly in his palm and he turns into the curtain and is gone.
The worker bursts through the kitchen door and the five of them push and shove each other to peek their heads out of the curtain to watch the maitre d at work.
They all watch as he dances his way through a busy dining room, gracefully ignoring outstretched arms calling for his attention, nodding majestically as he dismisses needy parties, before finally arriving at the premier table of the restaurant. On either side, a small set of stairs leads up to the table which sits on a raised dais above the rest of the dining room. There’s no railing around the platform which allows for a stunning view of the entire restaurant’s floor and politically a small stage for well know figures to appear upon, flouting both their wealth and their status. The maitre d mounts the right-hand set of stairs and arrives at the circular table which holds four of the highest-ranking Nazi officers in the country and their dates. He is flawless. Presenting, opening, charming, chatting, pouring. He pours counterclockwise around the table first for the women, then the men, doing a complete circuit before filling the glass of the officer who has the invaluable boost of social status of paying for such a distinguished table of guests, knowing full well he will be penniless until his next payday. The maitre d serenades the group as he weaves between them, he speaks of how the wineries have been ravaged by the battling armies, French and German forces alike have looted wine cellars across the country like Vikings, drinking, stealing or destroying everything in sight. He notes the dark almost black hues and strong aromas of the wine as he dances between them, describing the history of the vineyard and this particular vintage. Almost certainly the last in existence this mythical bottle comes from a winery not far from the restaurant. At the beginning of the war, the illustrious vitners had hidden this bottle along with hundreds of more priceless vintages to avoid the greedy mouths of young soldiers and the greedy hands of old soldiers. They built sheds and outhouses and barns and insulated the walls with straw and fifty year old cremant d'alsace. But the treasure trove was discovered and this restaurant was graced by the German government as being the recipient of some of those liquid works of art. The table’s guests are captivated by him, some entranced others jealous of how entrancing he is, the maitre d slides the final drop from the bottle with a flourish and a comment that receives a hearty laugh from the table, and with that, he makes a small bow and retreats back to the server station.
The worker opens the curtain for him as he steps through and claps him on the back as he passes by. The maitre d allows a small content smile to reach his lips and holds the empty bottle aloft so he and the servers can inspect the craftsmanship of the glass and the artistry of the label. But just then there’s a commotion from the dining room. It steadily grows louder and individual voices can be heard raised in anger. All four of the servers race onto the floor but the maitre d remains frozen, the bottle still aloft in his hand, his eyes blank and far away staring past the bottle into nothingness.
And not twenty miles away in a low stone farmhouse set on a small slope in the middle of rows and rows of sleeping grape vines, a bruised and battered young farm boy is helped into a chair by his younger brother, his grandfather hands him an empty glass and tenderly touches the boys swollen eye, but the boy smiles and holds his glass out. His father tenderly picks up a recently repurposed bottle of balsamic vinegar and carefully tips a generous pour of delicate ruby red liquid into his glass. His mother picks up her glass and raises it to meet her son’s and says Salut, which her family echos back and to which the young bruised and battered boy responds Prost. And they can barely contain their laughter long enough to sip the wine.
About the Creator
Jimmy O’Brian
Filmmaker writing short stories hoping to be developed into scripts.
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