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19 August 1934, Stuttgart
My pacing habit has worn a track in the carpet. I’ve started biting my nails again for the first time in over 20 years. I’ve had one foot out the door for the better part of a year and now finally my mind is made up. Hitler has coerced the public into naming him sole Führer. The title is new but his stranglehold on Germany is well established. I’ve been waiting for a definitive sign and this is as clear as I could hope for. This day marks the end of the individual will of the German people. I will not stay to watch my country fall to ruin.
3 September 1934, Over the border
It only took an afternoon to pack my things. I’ve been planning this part for months. Actually doing it felt easy. It was much harder to stay, holding on to shreds of hope and waiting for a good enough reason to give them up. I took a train to a town near the border, figuring it would be safer to walk the last stretch into France. I stuck to dirt roads and farmland. I must have walked 60 km the day I left the last farmstead in Germany. I was too anxious to stop walking until I was well across the border and almost too tired to stand. So far I’ve been camping out in the forest near the road. My plan is to survive off scraps and stolen produce until I feel comfortable getting on a train again. I’ll feel safer once my beard grows out and I can find some new clothes. Maybe I’m paranoid but I want to make sure I can’t be easily tracked. Andreas was able to get me a new passport before I left. I will start my new life in Paris as Peter and leave Wolfgang in Stuttgart. From Paris, who knows. Andreas seemed to think I was crazy, going to such extreme lengths, but I think he’s crazy for being so nonchalant and optimistic. Can’t he see the writing on the wall?
10 September 1934, Northeast France
This part of the country is miles and miles of vineyards. I’m covered head to toe in dust from the road and I’ve nearly run out of water from the last stream. Soon I will need to buy more food and supplies and maybe spend a night in a bed—if I can find a willing (and cheap) host. Even this close to the border, they speak no German. Or they simply pretend not to. Hard to tell with the French.
14 September 1934, a château somewhere in France
At last, a Frenchman has taken pity on me! He speaks fluent German–a welcome surprise. He lives alone in a simple but beautiful château in the center of acres of vineyard. He saw me walking along the road as he pruned his vines and offered me some water and a rest, both of which I gratefully accepted (once the offer had been extended a second time in German). This part of the country is so remote and my host so charming and kindly that I soon had told him the entirety of my plight. He—Gabriel—has offered me what little food he can spare and a rest in the detached and unused servant’s quarters for as long as I’d like. I’ve offered to pay him, but he says he’s simply glad to have the company. Gabriel is much younger than the other vineyard owners in the area and doesn’t seem to have a family nearby. I’d imagine he gets quite lonely.
17 September 1934, Château Gabriel
Gabriel refuses to accept any money for letting me stay with him but has grudgingly agreed to let me help out around the vineyard. Now that he’s taken me through the tasks that need to be done each day to keep the vineyard in good working order, I can hardly believe he’s been able to maintain the place on his own. He must barely have time to eat or sleep! I feel less guilty about intruding now that I see how much he could benefit from my help. I’m happy to work up a sweat as the vineyard pack mule and earn my keep while I contemplate my next move toward Paris and beyond. I’ve already begun to form tan lines at the edges of the linen shirt and pants Gabriel has kindly lent me. Curiously, Gabriel himself isn’t tanned at all. Despite what must be hundreds of hours tending to his acres of land, his skin is pale and youthful—a stark contrast to the sunbaked wrinkles of the other vineyard workers I’ve seen from the road. His hair is a rich, dark color that catches in the light and makes his skin look even lighter. His perfect, accent-less German fools me into forgetting that he’s a Frenchman. Despite that unfortunate defect, I have to admit, he’s really quite beautiful.
28 September 1943, Château Gabriel
Gabriel and I have already fallen into a daily routine. I join him in the kitchen of the main house for breakfast each morning and he tends to broken tools and other miscellaneous tasks as I eat. He always manages to finish eating long before I wake up. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen him eat. Sometimes he hums to himself as he works or, when there are no pliers to mend or shirt holes to patch, he sits in the windowsill and plays his violin. I eat slowly to savor the sound and hope he forgets the day’s work that lies ahead. I could sit and watch him play for hours. But eventually we must get going, as there’s more than enough work for two men to finish before nightfall. We often work alongside each other and chat about our lives and the season and the vineyard. Inquiring about his perfect German, I learned that he grew up in Germany, though he somehow managed to evade telling me where. He’s very kind and easy to talk to but I’ve realized that, despite spending every day together, I know almost nothing about him. I seem to get too distracted to realize when he’s sidestepped a question or redirected the conversation. Maybe it’s his easy smile or his muscular frame or his slightly curled hair. I’m embarrassed by how conscious I am of his presence at all times. I trip over my own feet whenever he touches my arm in friendly conversation. Who am I becoming? When I left Germany, I felt like a soldier, a renegade, a man with a purpose guided by a strong moral compass. Here I feel relaxed and mellow and… settled. I’m supposed to want to move on, to establish myself in Paris and become Peter. But for now, Wolfgang feels weak at the knees whenever Gabriel looks him directly in the eye.
10 October 1934, Château Gabriel
Torrential rains kept me and Gabriel indoors today. I found him in the main house as usual, mending a broken ladder. We’ve never had a day off before so I was excited to spend some time with him without the distraction of hard labor. When I first arrived on the vineyard, I had told Gabriel that I was fleeing Germany and needed a brief refuge before moving on in my journey to Paris. With time, Gabriel and the vineyard have numbed my anxieties and put all of these plans out of my mind. With nothing else to do, I considered my situation for the first time since I had arrived. I decided to share with Gabriel the real reason I had left Germany and, to my surprise, he seemed to have already reached the same conclusions about Hitler and the future of the country; He said he had expected this path of events ever since Hitler rose to power. He predicted Germany would soon be a very different place, and that Hitler’s ambitions would soon extend well beyond Germany’s borders—perhaps even beyond here. He spoke with the solemn conviction of someone who had seen enough of the world to understand the underlying rhythm of societal progression. I was once again struck by how young and beautiful he is. He can’t be more than thirty. I want to know how he knows these things; why such a young, rural wine maker speaks like a wizened world traveler. But I don’t want to pry; I don’t want to jeopardize the bond we’re forming because I still don’t understand it. Something unnamed is growing between us and all I know is that I want desperately to protect it from harm. There will be hard work tomorrow in redirecting the puddles and clearing the mud but while I sat in the kitchen, all I could think about was how beautifully Gabriel’s violin cut through the sound of the rain on the roof. He had his eyes closed and I think he was composing as he played. I decided to lay down on a bench by the table and briefly fell asleep. I woke up just enough to feel Gabriel brushing the hair out of my face and the lightest touch of his finger on my lips. So light I might have imagined it. He traced a finger along my jaw and down my neck and I almost shuddered. It’s a good thing he left quickly because in another moment, the color in my cheeks would have given me away. Stuttgart and Paris seem like distant planets now.
28 October 1934, Château Gabriel
I’ve decided to stay here with Gabriel for as long as he’ll have me. There’s no sense in running blindly into the unknown before I’ve settled on a definitive plan. I feel safe and comfortable here and I’m earning my keep through honest labor. The work suits me, and I’ve already made it out of Germany—my main goal. For all I know, I’m safer here than in Paris, anyway. I can tell I’m convincing myself that this is the right choice but I’m also not trying very hard to resist the pull of quaint vineyard life. And Gabriel. I can no longer ignore the warmth spreading outward from my heart. My fingers long to touch his face and my heart flutters when he walks into a room. But as we grow closer, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s hiding something. But I will not seek it out. Perhaps I am blinded by my feelings, but all I want is for things to stay exactly as they are. I am content to live in easy companionship with Gabriel and continue to pass the days admiring him from a distance. We’ve become so close and comfortable together and spend hours each day side by side. He has obviously grown fond of me over time but I don’t dream his heart longs for anything more than friendship. He was all alone here before I came along and must just be happy to have a companion. Perhaps I’ll spend the rest of my days here on the vineyard with Gabriel. Afterall, what greater purpose could I serve in Paris? What greater happiness could I hope to find? Would it truly be a failure to have escaped Germany and made it no further than Château Gabriel?
15 November 1934, Château Gabriel
I love him. And there’s nothing to be done about it. I must learn how to be content with loving him from a distance. I’ve started to imagine that his hands brush across my shoulders more frequently than required by friendship. I imagine that I see him staring at me out of the corner of my eye when he thinks I’m not looking. I imagine that he makes excuses to lean in closer to me than necessary, like when a wasp stung me on the neck last week and he leaned in so close to inspect it that his lips nearly touched my skin. But whenever I think I see him drawing nearer to me—possibly returning my feelings—he quickly distances himself again. Perhaps he has noticed my own lingering glances but is too polite to properly rebuke me. Perhaps he is uncomfortable in my presence but doesn’t know how to ask me to leave. Perhaps both sides of this theatrical display exist only in my mind and to him, we are the same fortuitous friends and coworkers as always. But I do feel that something is shifting between us. He seems troubled by something—another thing I dare not ask about. I have never been a superstitious man but recently I’ve begun to feel that something will soon come between us. There is some unnamed, unaskable darkness lurking in Gabriel’s past. All I want is to hold him close, but I fear that doing so will only hasten this dark thing in pulling us apart. Perhaps it is simply the darkening days, or homesickness for Stuttgart. I have heard no news since I left my apartment for good (Gabriel doesn’t have a radio). Perhaps love itself is simply driving me insane.
1 December 1934, Château Gabriel
Gabriel seems to grow more somber with each passing day. His mind is elsewhere. Today I accidentally reached out and cupped his face as I asked him if he was alright—something I had previously only done in daydreams. I apologized profusely and must have been red as wine but thankfully Gabriel didn’t seem offended at all. It almost seemed to sadden him further. He smiled at me and assured me he was fine, just thinking. He returned my embarrassing touch by squeezing my shoulder as he left the room. What does this mean? Does he feel the same? Am I somehow the cause of his pain? To ask him directly would be to confess my feelings and likely ruin whatever bond remains between us. I’m not ready to leave Gabriel or our life together on the vineyard. But he looks even paler than usual and his cheek was so cold when I touched him. Perhaps he’s ill? I feel helpless and restless and long to be by his side.
2 January 1935, the vineyard
All the color and warmth seem to have drained from the vineyard. I feel listless and hollow, unable to decide whether to stay or go. I slept fitfully as one year faded into the next, anxious about Gabriel and whatever was troubling him. His mood had only worsened over the past month. My own worries prompted me to offer him comfort in whatever ways I could think of, despite my fear of repulsing him with the true nature of my feelings. The more I reached out, the more distant he seemed to become. In the last few days, he moved through the house mechanically, silently, almost lost in the space we’ve shared for months. He touched the walls as he walked by, as if parting with them for the last time. He could barely look at me and when he did, his eyes seemed to plead for forgiveness. I could tell that whatever darkness I sensed would soon come down between us and I already ached with loss. On New Year’s Eve, I dreamed of Gabriel laughing and smiling as the sun warmed our interlaced fingers. I feel his lips press against mine. By the time I realize I’m no longer dreaming, he is gone. Despite the cold ache already closing in around my heart, I get up and run barefoot to the main house to confirm what I already know. The night is frigid and my lungs burn as I run. I’ve never been beyond the kitchen before. His bedroom is almost completely bare. The bed looks rigid and unused and there are no personal items to indicate that anyone has ever occupied the room. I open closets and drawers and cabinets—all empty. Even his violin is gone. I can barely breath. He’s really gone.
Was he ever really here?