The field was quiet. The conscripts still slept somewhere in the attic or at the neighbors’. But we were there. Marguerite gave the instructions, André checked the tools, and me, the little one—I had my feet tucked into an old sneaker. Not in the cellar, but in the field, between two rows of vines. The juice was cold, sticky, strange. I laughed, the grown-ups too, but softly—like you laugh when the day begins.

The work moved forward in silence. The shears clipped, the baskets filled, and gestures passed from hand to hand without a word. It was serious, yes, but never sad. We worked hard, but we worked together. And that changes everything.

Around ten, the conscripts arrived. Hair tousled, voices too loud, pockets full of jokes. They carried the baskets while singing, cut the grapes while daring each other, and turned each row of vines into a playground. But they worked—with heart, with pride. Because they knew that this wine, it was the one we’d drink when they came home.

In the cellar, carved into stone, the old press waited. When the juice began to flow, thick and red, André placed his hand on the wood and closed his eyes. He said nothing, but we knew: this was the moment. The wine was born, and with it, memory.

In the evening, we set the table beneath the linden tree. Planks on trestles, checkered cloths, mismatched plates. Children ran between legs, the grown-ups laughed loudly, and Marguerite brought the soup in her cast-iron pot, like an offering.

The conscripts sang: “Just one more little glass of wine, Just one more little glass of nothing…” And everyone joined in, even those who’d forgotten the words. Bread passed from hand to hand, pineau swirled in the glasses, and stories were traded like seeds.

Working together—that was it. It was becoming one with the land, with your people, with memory. It was turning effort into celebration, and wine into remembrance.