The Darkest Hour: A Novel

by Tony Schumacher

  Schmitt stared hard at Koehler, then leaned back in his chair and looked up at a painting of the Führer on the office wall. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth as silk.

  “Sir, may I remind you that one of my men was attacked by an Englishman outside the area HQ, in full sight of many witnesses, both German and English.” Schmitt turned from the painting and looked at Koehler. “He was attacked by a man who was harboring a Jew, a Jew who had evaded an authorized eviction that very morning, a Jew you had eaten breakfast with the selfsame morning and yet decided not to detain, and, no less, a Jew who was tapping his foot to the fucking SS garrison band while the commander of occupied England stood not less than forty feet away.”

  This time the swear word wasn’t said with anger; this time it slipped out like a snake’s tongue, full of menace. Koehler looked at the teacup for a moment and then placed it carefully on the table, buying time. He was beginning to regret leaving the boots on the table but now didn’t want to lose face by moving them. He shifted position in his chair to allow himself to maintain eye contact with Schmitt, who stared back, unblinking.

  “As I said earlier, I believe the matter to be a misunderstanding. Detective Sergeant Rossett has told me that he will be apologizing to you and the area commander by letter as soon as he returns from his leave. I realize that this has caused you some embarrassment, and for that I am also sorry. But, you have to understand, Rossett fulfills an important role for us here in England, not just in London. The sergeant gives a certain . . . respectability to what my department is doing here.” Koehler sipped some more tea, aware that he was walking in a verbal minefield and being careful as to where he placed his stockinged feet.

  “So, just because Churchill told the old king to give him a medal, we allow him to punch Germans?”

  “He didn’t get a medal, Schmitt. He got the Victoria Cross, which is much more than a medal.”

  Schmitt waved his hand dismissively at Koehler.

  “I don’t buy this ‘British Lion’ bullshit. He hid in Dunkirk for a few weeks and then made a stand in some shithole in England, so what? We should have shot him when we caught him, not given him a fucking job.”

  Koehler smiled and took some more tea before speaking.

  “He held up half a Panzer brigade on his own for almost a week, managed to get into a German port and capture a torpedo boat and its crew, then made them sail down the coast to pick up fifteen injured colleagues and sail across the channel. And if that wasn’t enough, he brought the boat back across to France to pick up a dozen more and took them home as well. Churchill called him the British Lion for a reason, Schmitt, and if you had been in combat you’d know what that reason was.”

  The two men sat in silence. Schmitt bridled at the dig but decided not to dignify it by answering, while Koehler was reluctant to push the knife any farther home. After a moment, Koehler removed his boots from the desk and leaned forward, placing his elbows on its polished surface.

  “Look, I’m genuinely sorry for what happened today. Rossett was wrong to do what he did and he knows it. I’ve been pushing him too hard; what happened is as much my fault as his. I can assure you no such thing will take place again. If you wish, I can tell people he is suspended while he takes a few days away from his desk. Would that help?”

  Schmitt waved a hand of acceptance, some dignity restored. He turned his head to look back up at the Führer. Koehler thought that with his blond hair and blue eyes, the Gestapo man looked like he was posing for a propaganda picture.

  “Sir, I apologize for my outburst. It was wrong of me to act in such a manner.” Schmitt spoke to the painting as much as to Koehler. Eventually, he turned back to Koehler, who in turn waved his hand, dismissing the incident as already forgotten. “But . . .”

  Koehler grimaced and suddenly wished he’d left the boots where they’d been.

  “I feel that you may have missed my point. Some people in this building have suggested that you and the Englishman have got a little too close. It is suggested in certain quarters that your fondness for Earl Grey, Savile Row, brown shoes, and, if I may say, English secretaries, has clouded your judgment while you have been stationed in London. This may be one of the reasons for my posting here. To help you”—Schmitt looked around for the words before allowing his eyes to fall back on Koehler—“retain a sense of your role.”

  Schmitt smiled at Koehler, who curled his toes under the desk, then smiled back.

  “I can assure you, my work here has been of the highest standard. The operation I am in charge of has been commended at the highest level for its efficiency.”

  “I’m merely relating what I have heard and what my, or rather our, superior officers have told me. I mention it just so you are aware of what people are saying. I wouldn’t want you to become complacent in your relationships or, God forbid, your role.”

  “My relationship with the sergeant is far from complacent.” Koehler opened a drawer on the desk and tossed a manila file onto the tabletop. On the top corner was a photo of Rossett. “Sergeant Rossett is as closely monitored as any other British member of this department. But what you have to understand is that we have to be delicate in our handling of the sergeant. This is a man of whom the Führer himself has spoken.”

  “Yes, yes. ‘Give me a thousand men like the British Lion and we’d have crushed Russia by Christmas.’ I read the newspapers. Your point is?” Schmitt sighed.

  “My point is, this man is an important tool for the Fatherland, this man follows orders, this man does his duty, and most important, this man sets an example. When the British surrendered, did Rossett run off to Canada like Churchill and the king? No. They wanted him to go and he stayed. He laid down his arms and carried on his service to his country. When he was interned with the rest of the army, did he cause problems? No. When he was released he quietly rejoined the police and got on with the job he was doing before the war. Even after his wife and son were blown up by the resistance bomb at King’s Cross, he didn’t complain.”

  Koehler picked up the file and held it in his right hand, using it to point at Schmitt.

  “I manage Rossett, I nurse him, I make his life as good as I can without his knowing it. And it isn’t easy. He isn’t the sort of man who will accept a big office and a cushy job. I can’t bribe him with a new flat and a pay raise: he wouldn’t take it. He’s like a monk, Schmitt. He needs his hair shirt. It reminds him he is alive.”

  Schmitt shook his head, then stood up as Koehler put the file back into the open desk drawer.

  “These are confusing times, Major.”

  Koehler closed the drawer and stared up at Schmitt while he made a silent decision.

  “The Führer wants to give Rossett an Iron Cross when he comes to London next year.”

  “An Iron Cross?” Schmitt couldn’t hide his amazement.

  “For services to the Reich in relation to the Jewish question. It’ll be a major propaganda benefit to the occupation. They are planning a whole series of articles on Rossett to be featured in the press, about his wife and son being killed by the resistance, his commitment to the cause, how much he loves the new Britain, all of that shit. He’ll have to go on a tour around the country, fly the flag for us, meet the king, slap Mosley on the back and look like he is enjoying it while the newsreel and Daily Mail cameras follow him around.”

  “But . . . but he’s not committed to the cause. He’s just a flatfoot who thinks he is doing his job.”

  “We know that, Schmitt, but the British people don’t. They will see a handsome war hero who has embraced the Reich shaking the hand of his grateful Führer. And today, for five minutes in a London street while a military band played out of tune, an idiot Gestapo officer and a snotnosed Jewish kid nearly caused the lot of us to end up in a concentration camp.”

  “Does Rossett know any of this?”

  “Of course he doesn’t know. He’
ll know when I think the time is right. And he will do as he is told, just as he always does. The Führer thinks very highly of Detective Sergeant Rossett, and for as long as he does, we will too.”

  “So this idiot gets an Iron Cross while brave soldiers are dying on the Eastern Front? It’s a disgrace.”

  “You may think that, Schmitt, but say it outside of this office and you’ll be digging trenches with those brave fools in the ice. Do you understand?”

  Schmitt swallowed hard and nodded silently. Koehler picked up his pen and opened a folder on his desk, and Schmitt took his cue to leave the office, exiting without another word.

  ONCE OUTSIDE, SCHMITT picked his way through the outer office and the secretaries it contained. Kate gave him the smallest of smiles, which Schmitt returned with a scowl, muttering, “The British Lion my arse,” as he pushed the outer door open and went off to ruin somebody else’s day.

  Chapter 14

  THE BRITISH LION was hiding from a sixty-two-year-old cleaning lady by sitting in a toilet cubicle with his trousers around his ankles.

  Rossett had arrived back at the Wapping station ten minutes before, slipping inside via the back door that opened onto the garage. He’d passed through the late afternoon’s nearly deserted station like a wraith, most of its occupants having left for the day, and trotted up the stairs on his toes so as not to make a sound. He’d been pleased with his progress right up until he had exited the stairwell onto the floor that his office was on. It was then that he had seen Edna’s backside, like some lumbering elephant backing toward him, swiping a mop this way and that like a trunk with every step. He’d ducked into the toilet to avoid her and the bone-crushing boredom that would come with the gossip the woman endlessly emitted whenever she had an audience.

  It was only when he entered the toilets that he realized he was trapped. He couldn’t risk going back outside where she might spot him. Just ignoring her wasn’t an option either; Edna could block a corridor with a mop and bucket better than a fallen tree could block a country lane. The last thing Rossett wanted was to be stuck with her if Brewer turned up. He didn’t want to meet his boss in case he’d heard about the trouble at Charing Cross. The thought of Brewer’s raising his voice again made him shudder. Not through fear of the inspector, but fear that he might just snap and end up killing his boss with a mop.

  Rossett opened a cubicle door and sat down. He stared at the toilet exit and heard the clang of the mop bucket as it moved ever closer, like some sort of galvanized glacier. He sighed, leaned back, pushed the cubicle door closed, and dropped his trousers, letting them sit around his ankles.

  Even Edna wouldn’t disturb a man at one with his toilet. Rossett remembered his father crossing the backyard with a copy of the Daily Mirror, heading for the privy. He smiled at the memory; it seemed as if he was watching someone else’s life. He could see the kitchen table, hear his mother singing and watch his father through the distorted glass of the back window. Another life, another lifetime ago.

  The toilet door opened and Rossett tensed. He looked at the back of his cubicle door as if he could see through it and coughed the universal cough of the engaged.

  “You going to be long, Mister Rossett?” Edna called, her voice as shrill as a cockney mynah bird.

  Rossett clenched his fist to his forehead and grimaced before answering in a voice that he hoped sounded more relaxed than he felt.

  “Just a minute.”

  “Cor, you’ve had a day an’ a half, ain’t yer?” called Edna, foot jammed in the door and Woodbine bobbing. “I ’eard about you ’avin a little kiddy with you and then gettin’ into a fight with some Germans. Is that true?”

  Rossett closed his eyes and leaned back, disbelief flooding his battered brain.

  “You don’t ’alf like fightin’ them Germans, don’t you? I wonder sometimes why they give you a job in the first place, what with you killin’ so many of ’em during the war. My ’Arry reckons it’s so they can keep an eye on you, so you don’t go round killin’ another load of ’em. My ’Arry bagged a few in the first war, not as many as . . .”

  Rossett stepped out and went through the motions of washing his hands. He’d flung the cubicle door open with such force that Edna broke off from her rambling and let the exit door close an inch or two before shouldering it open again.

  “I was just saying, my ’Arry bagged a few, but not as many as you. Mind, he never got no medal for it, what with ’im deserting when ’e was on leave. I told ’im, I said, ‘You get your arse back there and fight,’ but . . .”

  Rossett dried his hands and pulled the exit door, causing Edna to sway slightly as the weight lifted off her. Rossett stopped and stared at her for a moment before making a decision.

  “Edna?”

  “Yes, Mr. Rossett?”

  “Do you ever shut up?”

  Edna raised a hand to her mouth and stared at him for a moment before taking up the mop and turning toward the toilets. Rossett watched her go and for a moment considered apologizing but then decided against it. Upsetting her was a price worth paying for some peace and quiet.

  He walked to his office, quickly closing the door behind him and sitting down at his desk. He listened for a moment and stared at the frosted glass of the door in case Edna found her voice again and burst in looking for a fight. Once he was certain he was going to be left alone, he unlocked the drawer and saw that the red velvet pouch was still there, just as he had left it.

  He carefully held it over the drawer, so that he could drop it back inside if disturbed, opened it, and slid three fingers in, pulling out some of the coins.

  Three bright gold sovereigns looked up at him, and they felt warm to the touch. The afternoon light was fading as the fog descended, so Rossett clicked on the small desk lamp and held the coins close to the bulb.

  This pouch could change my life, he thought. There must be over a hundred of these things in here.

  His office door opened, and Rossett simultaneously clenched his fist around the coins and dropped the pouch into the drawer as he looked up to see who was coming in without knocking.

  Brewer stood in the doorway. He had his overcoat on and looked to be heading home.

  “What are you doing here? I was told you’d gone on leave.” Brewer looked around the small office as if seeing it for the first time.

  “I had a few things to sort out before I went, couple of files to be signed off.”

  The two men looked at each other, unsure of what to say. Rossett felt uneasy, not because he was holding three gold sovereigns tightly in his fist either. There was something about Brewer that seemed strange; he hadn’t expected Rossett to be there when he’d opened the door. That meant he was coming into the office for another reason. Rossett’s nerves twitched again as he thought of the pouch that lay in the open drawer inches from his right hand. He willed himself not to look down at it or close the drawer.

  “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

  Brewer looked unsure for moment. He looked out into the corridor and then back into the office, buying time, thought Rossett. Maybe he wasn’t going home, maybe he had come back to the station to check on Rossett?

  “Koehler called. He told me you had some bother up at Charing Cross. Is that right?”

  “It’s all sorted now.”

  “What happened?”

  “A misunderstanding, nothing for you to worry about.”

  “He said you got rid of that Jew.”

  “He’s heading out on the Sunday train, sir.”

  “Good, that could have been embarrassing.” Brewer turned to walk away, then stopped and looked back at Rossett.

  “What Sunday train?”

  “Major Koehler said there was a train arranged?”

  “Not as far as I’m aware. I have to sign off the schedules and I’ve not seen one.” Brewer shrugged. “Anyway, not
to worry. It’s not our problem now.”

  Rossett felt his stomach shift and suddenly the coins felt heavy in his hand. It was his turn to look around the office.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Rossett?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re clenching your fist so hard I can see the whites of your knuckles, man. You need to relax.”

  Rossett glanced down at his fist, then eased his hold on the coins but kept them in his hand. He forced himself to look back up at Brewer and smile.

  “I’m okay, sir, I just need a bit of a holiday. Few days off will sort me out.”

  “Get along then. Leave what you have to do until you come back.”

  Brewer pushed the office door open and stepped back, flicking his head as an invitation for Rossett to leave.

  “I’ll only be a minute, sir, just a couple of signatures.”

  “Leave them. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  Rossett felt his heart speeding up. He was certain Koehler had told Brewer to check his office. Had he also asked him to search it? He couldn’t leave the coins there, just as he couldn’t suddenly mention them out of the blue.

  But Koehler didn’t know about the coins. Maybe he was just being paranoid?

  The coins seemed to heat up in his fist.

  “Honestly, sir, I’ll just be a minute.”

  Brewer was about to speak when Edna appeared at his shoulder. She glared at Rossett before jabbing the inspector in the ribs with the end of her mop.

  “ ’E’s a bleedin’ disgrace to this station and you proper police! I’ve never bin so insulted. When my ’Arry finds out what ’e’s said ’e’ll be down ’ere to knock ’is bleedin’ block off!”

  Brewer tried to shield his ribs as the old cleaner jabbed him again. He turned to Edna, and as he did Rossett reached down, snatched the pouch out of the drawer, and slipped it into his raincoat pocket in one movement. Relief flooded through him and he almost cried out with delight.

  Brewer grabbed the end of Edna’s mop.

  “Stop jabbing me, woman! What are you on about?”