The Darkest Hour

by Tony Schumacher

  “Of course, but you will call me as well, won’t you?” She smiled and Rossett felt himself blush. He looked across the road and was dismayed to see the Gestapo walking toward him; they must have realized he was about to leave.

  “Of course, soon.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes.” Another glance to the Gestapo.

  “What is your first name? Everyone just calls you Rossett; I don’t know your first name.”

  “I have to go.” Rossett looked at her blue eyes and found that was all he could say. He started to push his way forward to get to Jacob to take him back to the car, looking back to Kate with a smile of apology, already regretting leaving the conversation on such an awkward note. Kate looked confused, and she tilted her head and looked past his shoulder to where Jacob was standing. Rossett followed her gaze and saw the secretary and Jacob being spoken to by the Gestapo. Rossett approached them and produced his warrant card.

  “Is there a problem?” he said as the first Gestapo officer looked at the card and then turned back to the secretary, dismissing him without a word.

  “Sie haben einen Jude hierher gebracht?” “You’ve brought a Jew here?”

  The secretary looked surprised and then a little frightened. Rossett leaned in to try to take Jacob.

  “Ich wusste nicht, daß er Jude war.” The girl seemed panicked, and her hand withdrew from Jacob’s shoulder in a flash, as if the boy was suddenly hot to the touch.

  Rossett understood what she was saying in her clumsy English-­accented German: “I didn’t know he was a Jew.”

  The secret policeman pulled Jacob toward him and pointed at the star of David on his breast pocket.

  “Sind Sie blind? Haben Sie nicht sehen?” “Are you blind? Did you not see?” The Gestapo man jabbed his finger into the star and Jacob looked scared, almost close to tears. The secretary looked across to Rossett and pointed.

  “Er hat ihn gebracht, hat mit mir nichts zu tun!” “He brought him; it is nothing to do with me!” Rossett could barely understand her broken German.

  The small crowd, who were watching the incident with more interest than they were giving the band, turned toward Rossett, who took another step forward to put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder, pulling the boy toward him defensively. He showed his warrant card again with his other hand, like a matador attempting to distract a bull.

  “Wer zum Teufel sind Sie?” “Who the devil are you?”

  The other man pulled back at Jacob, yanking the child from Rossett’s grasp. Jacob cried out and looked at Rossett with frightened eyes. Rossett found himself taking another step forward. He gripped the Gestapo officer’s coat lapel and started to ease him back, with his fist pushing firmly into the other man’s collarbone. Rossett’s other hand twisted into Jacob’s duffel coat hood, and he almost lifted the boy off his feet as he pulled him away from the Gestapo officer’s grasp.

  “He’s with me, nothing to do with you. He’s my prisoner,” Rossett said flatly, sounding matter-­of-­fact even though his mind was racing.

  The German tried to pull away from Rossett but was unable to. He yanked on Rossett’s forearm but found it to be like an iron bar, unbending and ensuring that he couldn’t reach the boy. The German then tried to reach with his right hand into his pocket. Rossett, seeing this, yanked down on the leather collar of the coat, forcing the German to fold sideways and fumble, off balance, reaching for Rossett’s arm again. The second Gestapo officer tried to move around his colleague to reach Rossett but struggled to get past, mostly because of Rossett’s pulling and twisting the first German as a shield, in much the same way a rugby player would use a defender to push his way through a maul.

  “Lassen Sie mich los!” “Let go of me!” the German shouted as Rossett took a few more steps backward, trying to get through the crowd and back to the railings, Jacob still held in his other hand.

  The ­people on the pavement seemed to part as he moved. Rossett heard raised voices and a woman’s scream as he dragged the struggling Gestapo officer along. Rossett’s face remained calm, a policeman’s professionalism masking the creeping realization that he had hold of a Gestapo collar in front of SS headquarters.

  This day was getting worse and worse, and Rossett wasn’t expecting the situation to improve in the near future.

  It didn’t; the air swooshed out of his lungs as the German sentry he’d spoken to earlier smashed a rifle butt into his kidneys from behind. Rossett’s brain started to shut down as he tried to turn to face the source of the blow to his back and also keep hold of the Gestapo man.

  Bang!

  The rifle butt slammed in again, and this time his legs crumpled and he sank to his knees. The Gestapo officer pulled free and produced a pistol from his pocket, which he leveled at Rossett’s head. The thought crossed Rossett’s mind for the briefest of moments that he was about to be shot as around him the crowd were yelping and pushing each other to get as far away as they could.

  He realized he’d lost his grip on Jacob, and he searched, head spinning, tunnel vision setting in, trying to rise up from where he crouched on all fours on the pavement, trying to swallow down the pain in his kidneys, and, most important, trying not to get shot.

  He looked back to the Gestapo man, who was regaining some composure now that he had a pistol in his hand.

  “Nehmen Sie diesen Mann fest.”

  “I don’t speak German.” Rossett was blowing hard, the air slowly returning to his lungs. “I’m fucking English, you Kraut.”

  Chapter 10

  THE INTERVIEW ROOM had hardly changed in the ten or twelve years since Rossett had last visited. The only thing different, as far as he could tell, was the shade of nicotine yellow the ceiling had turned. It wasn’t lost on him that last time he had been there he’d been sitting on the other side of the table, where now an empty seat waited for whoever was going to ask him some questions.

  Rossett imagined himself sitting there all those years ago, fresh faced, except for the bloodied dressing, and still in uniform. He’d arrested a man who’d stabbed a bookie on the Old Kent Road one night after a dispute about some winnings. He thought back to the chase that had taken place after he’d come across the two fighting. He’d had to run for almost a mile and a half through midnight streets before finally catching the bloke and disarming him, but not before he had his face sliced open by a well-­handled shiv.

  He touched his cheek and ran his finger along the scar, remembering how the girls in the dance halls used to love it, the air of danger and excitement it implied, the bad boy chasing them around the dance floor.

  He thought about Lucy, his wife. He saw her eyes again, playfully smiling at him from across the dance floor the first time, holding his gaze and making his stomach flip and the scar redden even more as his cheeks flushed.

  He wondered what Lucy would say to him now.

  He wondered what that young bobby would say to him now.

  Then he remembered that they were both dead.

  The door opening dragged him back from the past and into the room. It was with no small amount of relief that he saw Koehler enter. The German was in full dress uniform, Rossett guessed for the parade; it struck him that he’d never seen Koehler in uniform before. Rossett sat back in the chair away from the table and stared at Koehler, who closed the door behind him and leaned against it, sticking his hands in his trouser pockets.

  “What were you thinking?” Koehler spoke softly, shaking his head.

  “He’s just a child. I didn’t want the Gestapo getting involved.”

  “He’s just a Jew. You could have been shot.”

  “Those bastards would have thrown him in a cell.”

  “What did you bring him here for? To listen to the band?” Koehler tilted his head. Rossett sighed and ran his hand through his hair.

  “Yeah, fair enough. You’re right,” he said
by way of surrender. “I was stupid. I’m sorry.”

  Koehler stepped away from the door and took the seat opposite Rossett.

  “Stupid Englishman, give me a cigarette.”

  Rossett fumbled in his coat, produced a pack, and slid them across with some matches. Koehler lit up and blew smoke out of his nose as he waved the match out. He slid the cigarettes back and stared at Rossett for a moment before speaking.

  “I’ll speak with Schmitt, explain about the good work you do for us.”

  “Schmitt?”

  “You met him this morning; he’s the new head of Gestapo. We’ll put down this incident to a misunderstanding about a prisoner. I’ll tell him you didn’t know who they were and that you thought they were trying to take your prisoner away, to rescue him.”

  “Where is Jacob?”

  “You need to stop worrying about the Jew and you need to listen to me. You have to remember, Rossett, that you have been chosen to do a very important job for the Reich. A job which you have been doing very well, until today, of course. I warn you, another day like today would go very badly for you. Upsetting the Gestapo never goes well for anybody. Do you understand?”

  Rossett nodded.

  “You will need to write a letter to apologize to Schmitt, and maybe one to the station commandant as well, just to smooth things over. He wasn’t best pleased that the band stopped playing to watch you get dragged up the steps of the station, even if the rest of us were.”

  Rossett smiled, despite himself, and was relieved to see Koehler smile back.

  “I’ll write them as soon as I get back to the office.”

  “No, you take the rest of the afternoon off. In fact, take tomorrow, as well.”

  “I’ve too much to do. I can’t.”

  “You can. You have to. It’s an order. You’re working too hard, Rossett. This is a tough job. For some ­people it’s easier than others. But for you? Well, I think it’s starting to catch up. You need a break. When did you last have some time off?”

  Rossett shrugged his shoulders. It seemed that he worked every day and that he had been doing so for months. Maybe Koehler was right; maybe he did need a break. Rossett leaned forward and, placing his elbows on the table, rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He suddenly felt very tired and needed a drink.

  “Are you all right?”

  Rossett nodded and placed his hands on the table palm down. “Before you came in I was thinking about when I was in uniform.” He looked up at Koehler.

  “In France?”

  Rossett smiled and sadly shook his head.

  “No, before that, when I first joined the police, before the war.” He lowered his head at the memory and stared at the back of his hands again. “I just wanted to be a copper, lock up bad ­people. Ever since I was a little boy that’s all I wanted to do. Maybe I should go back to it?”

  Rossett looked up at Koehler, who silently shook his head.

  “No, I thought not.”

  “None of us can go back to before the war, especially you. The world is a different place. You just need to make a space for yourself in it. Soon your work for us will be finished and we will look after you. Maybe a promotion, a nice job at Scotland Yard, maybe some sort of liaison role, propaganda. We’ll look after you, remember the work you’ve done for us. You are our friend.”

  Rossett let out another sigh.

  “What?” Koehler tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “You can’t change direction, you’re too far down the line now.”

  “Like those trains we put the Jews on?”

  Koehler didn’t reply. He chose instead to look at the still-­smoking cigarette butt on the floor, then ground it out with his polished boot before looking back to Rossett, who hadn’t taken his eyes from the German.

  “Where do they go to? Is it true what ­people say about the camps?” Rossett pushed, for maybe the first time. Koehler linked his fingers on the table like a bank manager who was about to give him some bad news, tilted his head again, and considered Rossett for a moment. The two men faced off across the table like chess players who had no board but had decided to play anyway.

  “They go to Poland, most of them anyway.”

  “And what happens to them there?”

  “What do you think happens to them?”

  “Do they work?”

  “Some of them.”

  “I hear rumors.”

  “Who from?”

  “Different ­people. They say that the Jews are killed when they get to Europe. Is it true?”

  “We aren’t animals, John.”

  “I saw Germans killing unarmed ­people in France. It does happen.”

  “You of all ­people should know that was war. Now it is different.”

  Rossett sat silently looking at Koehler, who calmly stared back.

  “Are we friends, Ernst?”

  The German smiled, like a father to a child.

  “I think so, yes. Why?”

  “Would you tell me the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to know if I am killing these ­people.”

  “You are putting them on trains, John, making sure things run smoothly, doing your job and following orders.”

  “If I put them on the train and the train takes them to their death, that means I am killing them, just the same as if I shot them myself, doesn’t it?”

  The German leaned across for another cigarette as Rossett spoke and then took his time lighting it, letting the silence and the smoke float to the ceiling before answering.

  “You do a job for the Reich. If you did not do the job, someone else would do it. The job you do brings you a car, extra pay, and, most importantly, security in troubled times. You need to worry less about what you do, and just get on with doing it. They are only Jews, Rossett. Young or old, that is all they are. I’ve worked you too hard. I can see that now and I am sorry. You must take a few days off, I insist. Being around those ­people drains you. They suck the life out of you when they get under your skin, even the children. Some time off and we will start again on Monday, fresh and new. Yes?”

  Rossett nodded silently, and Koehler stood and moved to the door, beckoning for him to follow.

  “Come now, I will see you out, so you don’t get into any more trouble.”

  Rossett picked up his cigarettes and stood wearily. He was tired. His head hung heavy and his back hurt from the rifle butt as he shrugged on his raincoat. He followed Koehler down the short corridor to the old custody desk, where Rossett had handed in his prisoner all those years ago. A ­couple of German soldiers were hanging around, and they sprang to attention and saluted as Koehler passed them. Rossett was aware that a few eyed him silently as he followed. He guessed news of his “Kraut” comment had gotten around the building, and he doubted it had gone down well. They walked past the cellblock, where a lone, overweight, and somewhat untidy guard was writing on a chalkboard. The guard stiffened and then fumbled with some keys to open the iron gate that led to the exit of the jail. As the guard nervously rattled the lock, Rossett glanced at the board and read down the list of names it held. At the bottom he saw:

  Zelle 14: Galkoff: Jude (Koehler: Sonderzuge oder Ausführung)

  Rossett heard the keys in the lock and the groan as the gate pulled open. Koehler thanked the guard and stepped through the gate while Rossett stared at the board, softly mouthing the words he’d read there.

  “Ausführung . . . ausführung . . .” His mind searched for the meaning of the words next to Jacob’s name.

  “Rossett, come on, I have work to do.”

  Rossett finally passed through the gate and followed Koehler along another corridor to the stairs that led into the main building. As they climbed he repeated the word, silently this time, over and over. He could hear Koehler talking to him about a party functi
on he had to attend that night, complaining about having to wear his uniform all day and then all night, but the German’s small talk grew ever more distant as the words on the chalkboard fell into place.

  They passed through another door and found themselves back in the main entrance of the old police station. It was busy with ­people coming and going, and the old inquiry desk was now manned by two Home Defense Troops and one female SS officer. Koehler led Rossett past the desk, and they stopped by the heavy doors that led back out onto the street—­the doors that Rossett had been carried through an hour or so earlier.

  Koehler held out his hand and Rossett took it to shake.

  “Go home. Leave everything to me for a ­couple of days. Try to rest,” Koehler said as he shook; Rossett felt the firm grip of the German and noted that it felt sincere, like his eye contact.

  “The board, in the jail,” Rossett heard himself asking,

  “What board?”

  “I saw Jacob’s name, and next to it was written ‘special train or execution,’ with your name.”

  Koehler stopped shaking his hand but continued to hold it. The two men faced each other and Rossett saw a flash of something he hadn’t seen before pass behind the eyes of the German. He felt Koehler’s grip tighten and became suddenly aware that several of the cells below ground had been empty and that if he found himself in one, nobody would come looking for him.

  “I just wondered what it meant, that’s all.”

  Koehler’s face softened. He released Rossett’s hand, walked back to the desk, and spoke to the female. She rummaged under the counter and passed him a book, which he signed and then tore a page from. Koehler walked back to Rossett and passed him the piece of paper.

  “This is for petrol; fill up that old car from the pump in the courtyard and then tomorrow take that landlady of yours with the comfortable arse down to that freezing beach you both like to sit at. Buy her some tea and ice cream and then take her into the sand and fuck her. It’ll do the both of you good. Now get out of my sight, I don’t want to see you till next week at the earliest.”