The Darkest Hour

by Tony Schumacher

  When the German had finally looked up, ten minutes later, Rossett was rocking backward and forward on his heels and looking at the ceiling, his patience with the whole affair long exhausted.

  “Are you in a hurry to leave, Sergeant?”

  “I’ve important work to do, sir.”

  “You do, and you are going to do it with us from now on. Report to the Office of Jewish Affairs at Charing Cross tomorrow at nine.”

  And that was that. No interview, no chance to ask questions, no chance to turn it down: no chance, and no choice.

  When he got back to Wapping, he’d found his desk already cleared and the last of the lads lingering at the station steadfastly avoiding his gaze. He realized that news traveled faster than central London traffic, and he stuck his head into his DI’s office as a courtesy.

  “Come in, Rossett. Take a seat.”

  DI Rimmer had been waiting for him. On the desk had sat two glasses of Scotch, a rare commodity since the invasion, especially the Red Label that sat between them now. Rossett recalled having seen similar bottles being carried into the station evidence store a few days earlier, seized from the docks, if he remembered rightly. He wondered how many were left there.

  “You’ve heard, sir?”

  “We’ve all heard. Within ten minutes of your leaving, they’d cleared your desk. For a moment, I thought you’d been up to something you shouldn’t. Scotch?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “No, of course.” The DI took the bottle from his desk and slowly started to pour Rossett’s glass back into it. The glass rattled slightly as he held it against the top of the bottle, embarrassing them both.

  “I’m moving to the Office of Jewish Affairs, at Charing Cross.”

  “They were Gestapo who turned up here; I thought it best to let them get on with it.” The DI didn’t look at Rossett as he poured. Rossett wondered if the old man was scared, watching his words almost as closely as he watched the whiskey, making sure not to spill too much of either.

  “I’ll reallocate my case files.”

  “It’s already done.” The DI put the now-­empty glass back onto the desk and screwed the top onto the bottle. He licked his finger and finally looked up at Rossett, tapping the same finger against his own glass. “Shame to waste it.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Murder to come by a decent drop now.”

  “Difficult to come by anything decent.”

  “Did you request the move, Rossett?”

  “First I heard was this morning.”

  “Are you . . . do you . . . well, do you know what they’re up to?”

  “I think so.”

  “And are you happy with it?”

  “It’s been awhile since I’ve been happy with anything.”

  “Yes.” Another sip of Scotch. “You are going to be doing a difficult job. One wonders why they chose you.”

  Rossett stared at Rimmer, then shifted his gaze onto the Scotch.

  “Maybe they thought they could trust me?”

  Rimmer followed his eyes and then took the bottle and placed it into his drawer, out of sight of anyone passing the office window.

  “Will you be having a leaving drink with the chaps?”

  “No.”

  “Probably for the best.”

  Rimmer suddenly looked old. Rossett watched as he seemed to shrink into the alcoholic the whole station knew him to be. He’d once been a good boss, respected, until the bottle had gotten hold of him. Now he seldom ventured from his desk. Rossett imagined his panic when the Gestapo had marched in to clear Rossett’s property. He felt sorry for him; retirement was a few years off, if it came at all. Rimmer had the look of someone who wouldn’t hold up long to the new wind that was blowing through the job, and the country.

  “I’d best be off, sir.”

  “Hmm.” Rimmer stared at the glass and waved his hand as if swatting a fly in slow motion.

  Rossett stood and turned to leave. As he reached the door, the old man piped up one last time, “Be careful, Rossett. You’ll be doing a difficult job.”

  “Mostly admin, I expect, sir.”

  “No. They’ll make sure your hands will be dirty.”

  “I don’t think so, sir. I expect they’ll—­”

  The old man raised his hand and finally looked Rossett in the eye, for the first time in a long time.

  “Your hands will get dirty, Sergeant. Take my word for it.”

  Rossett nodded, turned and left the office. The constables’ writing room was deserted. He walked past the empty parade room and along a silent corridor. The busy station had turned into the Mary Celeste, except this time there was no mystery as to where the crew had gone.

  Rossett knew they were choosing to avoid him. He checked his desk, now stripped bare. The only sign he had been there was the dent in the old leather chair he’d sat on for the last few years.

  As he left the station, even the cleaners stared at the floor, polishing as if their lives depended on it.

  Maybe my hands are dirty already, he thought as he dropped the flap on the inquiry desk behind him for the last time.

  Rossett had found himself working under Major Ernst Koehler. Initially, they’d kept their distance, but over time, Rossett had come to like his new boss, with his easy smile and laid-­back charm.

  One night, when they were attending a planning conference in Manchester, Koehler and Rossett had sat and drunk in the hotel bar, and Koehler had told Rossett he’d been involved in the invasion of France.

  “Maybe it was me who chased you across the channel?” Koehler laughed.

  Rossett stared at the beer in front of him, and the German knew enough to let the matter drop. After some time, Koehler leaned across the table and clinked his glass against Rossett’s.

  “War does terrible things to men, John.” Koehler paused, then lifted his glass, and both men drank together.

  “I heard about your wife and son. I’m sorry,” Koehler said, looking toward Rossett but not at him. He fixed his eyes on a distant part of the room, unsure of how the Englishman would react.

  Rossett nodded silent thanks, took out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth, shifting in the chair as he searched for his matches. Koehler slid his across the table. Rossett picked them up, took his time opening them, and finally drew one out and lit it.

  “Do you have family?” Rossett asked, more as a courtesy to break the silence than a genuine inquiry.

  “Yes, back in Germany, Lotte, my wife, and Anja, my daughter. I miss them terribly.” Koehler pulled out his wallet, opened it, and proudly leaned forward so that Rossett could see the picture inside.

  Rossett barely glanced, then twitched a smile and nodded before Koehler leaned back in his seat, suddenly aware that his statement seemed inappropriate in the face of Rossett’s loss.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have,” Koehler said as he closed his wallet.

  “Don’t be sorry. What happened wasn’t your fault; you didn’t plant the bomb.”

  “No, but . . . well, it is thoughtless. It must be difficult enough for you without ­people like me sticking photos under your nose.”

  “Just because I lost my family doesn’t mean everyone else has to forget theirs.” Koehler nodded at the logic and took another drink, then signaled the waitress across the room by holding up two fingers and pointing at his pint. He swallowed and licked his lips before putting down the glass.

  “Do you have photos of your family?”

  “No, they were taken from me in a POW camp.”

  “Maybe I can get them back for you? They’ll be somewhere. I’m sure if I—­”

  “They were ripped up and thrown on the floor.” Rossett stared flatly at Koehler as he spoke, smoke spiraling up from his hand, which rested on the arm of the chair.

  “Why?�
�

  Rossett shrugged. “Because some guard thought it would be funny, I suppose. Like you said, war does terrible things to a man.”

  “They died before you got out, didn’t they?”

  Rossett nodded.

  “I read it in your file, before you came. That bomb, it was—­I don’t know how to say it—­it was . . .” Koehler looked for the word until Rossett filled in the blank.

  “A massacre.”

  “A massacre, it was a massacre.” Koehler paused again, looking for a way to push the conversation on. “What about your other family?”

  “I don’t have any. I lost my father before the war and my mother in the invasion. I’ve a brother in Liverpool, but we don’t speak.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of this.” Rossett tapped the swastika on his lapel and shrugged.

  “You should maybe try speaking to him again. It’s been awhile now. ­People have started to get used to us.”

  “We didn’t have much to say to each other before the war, and we’ve even less now. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone anymore. I just get by on my own.”

  “You should come out in London with me. Maybe we can see a band or a show?”

  Rossett shook his head. “I don’t do that sort of thing. I don’t . . . I don’t do anything anymore. My life is simple.” Rossett shrugged at the simplicity of his statement and then shook his head again. “I’m like a monk.” He managed a half smile at Koehler, who smiled back, somewhat sadly.

  The waitress appeared and placed two full pints in front of them. Rossett ignored her. Koehler flashed her a charming smile that caused her to smile back and tap at her hair with her free hand.

  “Keep the change.” Koehler flashed the smile again and placed some coins on her tray, then watched her walk away from the table. “Is that why you came to work for us?”

  “Is what why?”

  “The resistance bomb, killing your family, is that why you came to us?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you choose to work for us then?”

  “I didn’t. I just did as I was told. I just do my job. If I’m told to work for the Germans I work for the Germans.” Rossett shook his head as if he’d never considered the point before. “I just do my job,” he repeated, as much for his own ears as Koehler’s.

  Koehler slid a pint toward Rossett.

  “Well, John, all I can say is that I’m glad you do. I like working with you—­you do it well. There are not many men in London who could do what you do as well as you. I salute you.” Koehler lifted his full pint and took a drink.

  Rossett watched him, then leaned forward to stub out his cigarette in the half-­full ashtray that sat between them.

  “Why do you do it?” he asked softly. Koehler looked at him over the top of the pint glass. “You’re a soldier. This isn’t fighting—­this is management, dealing with a problem. Why do you do it?”

  Koehler finished his gulp and then placed the pint down on the table. He leaned forward and wiped a hand across his top lip to remove a line of froth that had settled there. The German realized that he was slightly drunk, so he paused before speaking and breathed deeply, considering his words.

  “I fought in France, like I said, then across the rest of fucking Europe. I made it as far as Moscow.”

  “I know, the Knight’s Cross.” Rossett pointed at his own throat to signify where Koehler wore his medal when in dress uniform.

  “Knight’s Cross with oak leaves,” Koehler corrected with mock seriousness, wagging his finger at Rossett, who smiled in return.

  “With oak leaves,” Rossett parroted, picking up his pint.

  “I made it to Moscow. It was crazy there, John; you haven’t seen anything like it. Winter was setting in, the whole city had broken down, ­people were eating corpses they found in the street. Can you believe it? Corpses in the street? Animals, they are fucking animals.”

  “Maybe they were desperate?”

  “Nobody knew what they were doing. We’d charged halfway across Russia and ended up stuck in this shithole waiting for the weather to get better, when one day I get told to start rounding up Jews. I think they were just looking for a job to give us. The men were bored, no fighting, no training. You know what soldiers are like if they haven’t got something to do?”

  Rossett nodded.

  “Well, I set up teams, started dragging in rabbis plus Russian community leaders and civil servants.” Koehler leaned forward as he spoke, warming to the subject. “I realized, sooner than wander around the city rounding up two or three Jews, I could, with a little organization, get the bastards to walk into the fucking hotel we were staying in and hand themselves over to us. And to make matters certain, I told the Russians to let it be known that I would give a bag of potatoes and a loaf of bread for each Jew someone handed in. The next day the line was around the block. Half the fucking Jews the Russians brought me were dead already, but I didn’t care. It kept my men busy and the bosses off my back.”

  “You did well.” Rossett nodded as he took a drink.

  “I did brilliantly,” Koehler replied as he pulled a cigarette out of Rossett’s pack. He put the cigarette in his mouth and the tip bobbed up and down as he continued to speak. “I did so fucking brilliantly I got pulled out of Moscow and sent back to Berlin. ­People notice good work, John. You should know that, you got the Victoria Cross.” Koehler lit his cigarette and gasped as the smoke went down. He watched his exhalation a moment and then continued through squinting eyes. “Next thing I know I’m in an office being told I’m coming to London to ‘continue my great work with the Jewish Question.’ I couldn’t believe my luck. I swear to God, I nearly shit when I was told Himmler himself had taken notice of what I’d managed in Moscow. Apparently, my unit had rounded up five times more than the nearest unit. I got a promotion and this job, and to cap it all, I got to work with you, my friend.” Koehler beamed across the table at Rossett, who found himself smiling back.

  “Lucky me.”

  “So, just make sure you remember”—­Koehler leaned forward again and picked up his pint—­“if you fuck up and I get sent back to Russia, I’ll kill you before I go, Victoria Cross or no Victoria Cross, understand?” Koehler winked and Rossett smiled back.

  IT WAS KOEHLER who had convinced Rossett to join the British Nazi Party. At first, Rossett had refused, telling his boss that he had no interest in politics, that he didn’t see how it would make any difference in his work. But Koehler had quietly sat at his desk one afternoon and explained that if he wished to remain with the Office of Jewish Affairs, it was best that he joined.

  “If you don’t, things may become difficult. You may have to leave here. You may have to leave the police. If you have no job, you’ll be forced to join the National Labor Ser­vice—­poor money, poor food, and always the chance that you’ll be sent out east to work on the defenses against the Russians. Just sign the papers, Rossett, don’t be a fool.”

  “I don’t have to be in the party to stay in the police? I can change departments.”

  “Nobody will have you. You’ll be out, especially after doing this job. Your hands are dirty now. Just sign the papers, it’s only a formality.”

  Your hands are dirty, thought Rossett. The phrase seemed to crop up more and more but mean less and less the dirtier they got.

  And so he’d signed, and a week later he’d stood in front of the Southeast Area Commander of the SS as he’d pinned the tiny swastika onto his lapel and handed him his party membership card. When the German had raised his arm and said “Heil Hitler!” Rossett had stiffened, but then did the same, embarrassed to hear the medals on his suit banging together as he did so.

  Once he was in the party, things had changed—­ever so slightly, but change they had. He started to find that sometimes when he shopped, his ration tickets weren’t ripped out by the shop
keeper. One day, the butcher had slyly winked and passed his money back. Rossett had returned later that evening to pay for the goods and to explain that such favors would not be accepted.

  “But Mr. Rossett, if I can make you happy with little things, well, you know . . . we can make each other happy, look after each other, you know what I mean?”

  The butcher had tapped his nose and slid something wrapped in paper toward Rossett, who noted the blood soaking through and leaving a trail on the counter. He quietly shook his head and whispered, “I am the law. I live by the law. I do what’s right. Mark my words and remember them.”

  He had then turned on his heel and left the shop, not sure if what he had said was true or not.

  That night, he’d not slept a wink, and it was that night he’d opened the Scotch again.

  Other things had changed. He was given the Austin and enough fuel to allow for some personal use. Occasionally, he would drive out to Southend and stare at the sea. One afternoon, he had taken Mrs. Ward, his landlady, and they’d sat on the beach drinking tea from a thermos.

  After some time, he’d noticed he was crying and that she was holding his hand.

  They never spoke of it again, nor had they ever again taken that drive out to the sea. It was forgotten, like so many other things.

  “SERGEANT ROSSETT, GOOD morning.” Koehler reached across and shook Rossett’s hand, then gestured to the other man who had stepped out of the Mercedes. “This is Schmitt of the Gestapo, just arrived from Paris. I’ve brought him along to see how we do things here. He’ll be working with us for a while.”

  Rossett nodded to Schmitt, who ignored him and peered around the corner of the still-­silent street.

  “How many are in the building?” Schmitt asked, his thick German accent contrasting sharply with Koehler’s excellent English.

  “About eighty,” Rossett replied.

  “About?” Schmitt turned and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know exactly?”

  “Eighty-­four. I’ve every birthdate, set of fingerprints, and photo in the car, plus all the relevant documentation, if you would like to see it.”