The Darkest Hour

by Tony Schumacher

  The room was square, brick walls with a brick ceiling and a flagstone floor, probably in the same warehouse as the dark cellar where he’d just been.

  As he looked around, Rossett’s head throbbed. They’d given him a good beating. He flexed his face and it felt numb. He squinted and tried to wiggle his nose, which didn’t feel broken although it was blocked. He guessed it had bled, and when he looked down at his raincoat his guess was confirmed. A fat, damp streak of thick black blood was down the front of the coat, with some on his suit and shirt. It must have been leaking out while he was knocked out and sitting in the chair.

  He traced his tongue across his teeth feeling for a gap. There wasn’t one, although he did find a sore spot that must have been a split in his lip.

  Those fellas had given him a good beating.

  He tried to guess how long he had been out for, but realized he didn’t have any reference other than the pain in his wrists from the cuffs he’d been straining against, which wasn’t too bad, so he hadn’t been out long.

  He looked back at the door and wondered if they were watching him. He tried to hop the chair around a little bit to see if there was anything on the wall behind him, but gave up when his ribs cried out for him to stop.

  Maybe a few were cracked, after all?

  He sighed and breathed in deeply, feeling the pain rise up from his right side. Yes, at least one was cracked. It felt like a knife was being twisted, and he sighed and hung his head. Maybe he hadn’t won the first round, after all.

  The sound of the door opening caused him to lift his head again.

  A docker entered the room carrying a small wooden table. He glanced at Rossett but didn’t speak, merely set the table down in front of Rossett and then walked around the chair and tugged on the handcuffs, checking that they were still tight.

  He walked out of the room and closed the door, leaving Rossett to study the table in front of him. It was made of rough wood, bare except for a steel U-­bolt that had been placed through the center, almost like a four-­seater café table, marked with stains he didn’t like the look of.

  Rossett sat in silence for a while, staring at the table, trying to imagine what was going to happen next. He guessed they were making him wait in an effort to confuse him, to unsettle him, to weaken him.

  The only reason they would be going through this process was to question him, and that was the puzzle. What would they ask him? They must have known he was just a low-­ranking copper. What could he offer them other than information they probably already knew?

  Whatever they wanted to know, Rossett was sure of one thing: he wouldn’t be leaving the warehouse alive if they had their way. They would view him as a collaborator, and that was a death sentence unless he could escape or convince them otherwise. He looked around the room again and realized he didn’t hold out much hope of either.

  The door opened and three of the dockers walked in. Rossett recognized one of them as the one he’d head-­butted. The man had a split in his top lip about half an inch long, and Rossett thought he spotted a gap behind it where a tooth had once been.

  He expected another beating, but the men merely stared at him for a moment until one of them produced a Browning pistol from his pocket, cocked it, and rested it against Rossett’s bruised left temple.

  “Don’t try anything else or I’ll kill you. Understood?”

  Rossett nodded silently as the pressure of the pistol increased fractionally against his head.

  The other two men walked behind him, and Rossett stared at the table as he felt the handcuffs being unfastened. His right wrist remained shackled, and he meekly allowed it to be pulled around in front of him and secured to the U-­bolt that was fastened through the table.

  He held his other wrist behind his back, aware of the gun and not wanting to do anything unless he was told. Once the handcuff was clicked shut around the bolt, the pressure of the muzzle decreased and the three men stepped back toward the door. Rossett allowed his free hand to drop to his side in an effort to let the blood flow again. The small room was suddenly claustrophobic as Rossett felt the eyes of the dockers bore into him.

  He slowly lifted his gaze to the men, who stared blankly back. Even the one with the split lip seemed disinterested. They were obviously waiting for someone or something. Rossett felt uneasy. The men he had taken for rough dockers now had the appearance of disciplined guards. He risked another look, then lifted his hand to his handcuffed wrist and rubbed it.

  “I’m sorry about the lip,” he said to the guard with the split lip, who simply ignored him, staring straight ahead. “Do any of you want to tell me what is going on?” Again, none of the men looked at him, so Rossett sat back in his chair and stared at them.

  For a moment, he considered picking up his chair and throwing it, but he decided he didn’t want another kicking, and even though the table wasn’t that big, it was too unwieldy to serve as a weapon. The room fell silent except for the nasal breathing of the man with the split lip. Rossett gingerly touched his nose looking for a break, but all he found was dried blood and soreness. For a moment, he thought one of the men smirked, so he smirked back.

  A good five minutes of silence passed before the door opened again and Leigh entered, smoking a cigarette and carrying a mug of tea, which he placed in front of Rossett.

  “Cup of char, old man. No sugar, I’m afraid,” Leigh said warmly and smiled as he slid the mug across.

  It was the first time Rossett had seen the resistance man since he’d been dragged out of the Austin and had a bag shoved over his head when they arrived at the docks.

  Rossett picked up the tea with his free hand and took a drink, happy to take whatever he was offered as a means to sustain him.

  “Not worried we’ve drugged it?”

  “It wouldn’t matter if you had. I’ve got nothing to hide, and if you were going to kill me you already would have,” Rossett replied, still holding the mug close to his face.

  Leigh smiled and remained standing as one of the guards briefly left the room and then returned carrying another chair, which he set down on the other side of the table from Rossett.

  This is it, thought Rossett. This is where they torture me. He took another drink in an effort to ready himself.

  Leigh still didn’t sit; he simply took out some cigarettes and placed them on the table with a lighter.

  “Help yourself.”

  Rossett looked at the smokes and then back at Leigh.

  “I know what you are doing.”

  “I’m not doing anything, old man, I’m not that sophisticated. If I had my way you’d be dead in the river by now. I’m just following orders.”

  Leigh smoked his cigarette in an effete manner, wafting it in front of his face as he spoke, his other hand resting on his hip.

  Rossett took it all in.

  “So you’re not the boss? Who is?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough, old man. Patience. Just drink your tea, there’s a good fellow.”

  Rossett glanced at the three dockers, who stood impassively, unmoving behind Leigh. They were definitely military men, disciplined, and Rossett wondered if they were some of the commandos he’d heard rumors about. Wild men dropped in from Canada, operating independently and causing havoc wherever they could.

  Some ­people saw them as heroes, but Rossett had also heard stories of entire villages being executed after raids on local garrisons of Germans. Innocent ­people just trying to get by, innocent ­people dragged into a futile fight with the Germans and then executed while the ones who caused the trouble got away scot-­free.

  Suddenly the tea tasted bitter, and he put the cup down.

  “Are you lot commandos?” he asked, but got no reply. They just stared straight ahead, only Leigh giving the merest of hints by raising an eyebrow. “I’ve heard your lot have caused hundreds of civilians to be executed wi
th your little games.”

  One of the dockers glanced at Rossett, then resumed staring at the far wall.

  “I thought so. Cowards, the lot of you. Hit and run and let others bear the consequences. Too scared to stand and fight. Was it you lot who bombed King’s Cross? Murdered women and children? Blundering around with rucksacks full of explosives in the hope of killing someone who mattered?”

  “We’re fucking freedom fighters, mate,” blurted one of the dockers, breaking ranks before Leigh could silence him.

  Rossett flexed on the handcuff, causing it to crack loudly against the U-­bolt.

  “My fucking wife and son, you bastard, my fucking wife and son!”

  Rossett rose out of the chair as far as the handcuff would allow, and the two dockers took half a pace forward toward him. Leigh didn’t move except to raise his hand to stop the dockers from advancing any farther.

  “Sergeant, please, sit down, have a cigarette, and calm yourself.” Leigh gestured to the seat and nodded sympathetically at Rossett. “Please, take a seat.”

  Rossett looked first at Leigh and then at the dockers before slowly sinking back down to his seat. He reached for the cigarettes without taking his eyes off the dockers, took one out, and lit it.

  “How do you sleep?” Rossett finally asked Leigh.

  “I might ask you the same. They call you the Jew catcher, don’t they?”

  “I don’t kill women and children.”

  “Don’t you, dear boy? Hmm, interesting.” Leigh stared at Rossett over his cigarette, his casual words barely making up for the dead eyes that fixed Rossett’s. “That’s not what I heard.”

  Rossett flicked his cigarette straight into Leigh’s face, causing the other man to flinch and turn away. Rossett started to rise from his chair again, but before he could reach over the table, the dockers had descended on him and pushed him facedown onto the wood, restraining him with such force that Rossett was certain his arms were about to break.

  “Gentlemen, please!” Leigh called over the din of the struggle. “Please, at ease, come on, at ease.”

  Rossett felt the weight lifting from his back and arms, and he looked up from the tabletop at Leigh.

  “Sergeant, can we be civilized for a moment?” Leigh asked, and Rossett found himself nodding in agreement.

  Leigh waved his hands to the dockers and they finally stood back from Rossett, who raised his head off the table, wiped his mouth, and inspected his fingers for blood. He glanced at the dockers and then looked back at Leigh.

  “Three of you with a handcuffed man?” Rossett spat onto the floor and then wiped his mouth and checked his fingers again. “Take these cuffs off and I’ll break your fucking necks.”

  “Don’t rise to the bait, gentlemen; the sergeant is trying to provoke a reaction.” Leigh turned to Rossett and smiled again. “Do be quiet, old man, there’s a good fellow.”

  “Fuck off, you ponce,” Rossett replied. “I’ve seen your kind when I was doing some proper fighting, all airs and graces on the surface, but as soon as it gets nasty you’re nowhere to be found. There were enough of you lot in France, and you all made sure you got home before me and my mates.”

  Leigh theatrically rolled his eyes.

  “Now, now, there is no call for that, is there?” was all he said before taking another drag on the cigarette.

  Rossett could see that, although Leigh was affecting the casual air, his words had stung him. He was about to launch another volley when the door opened again and an older man entered, dressed in black tie, almost as if he’d come from a night at the opera. The new man carried a brown leather bag that had the look of a doctor’s case in one hand and a handkerchief in his other.

  He nodded and then sat in the waiting chair opposite Rossett. He placed the case on his lap, popped open the catches on the top, and peered into it, only once looking up at Rossett and nodding before returning to his search.

  Rossett wondered what the man was looking for, and briefly imagined some extreme torture device, but all that emerged was a thermos flask and a brown paper folder containing some files and documents.

  The man nodded to Rossett as he placed the bag on the floor and then opened the thermos. Into the metal cup that acted as a lid, he poured a misty hot liquid that sat steaming on the table.

  “Do we need all these men in here, Leigh?” The man’s voice sounded heavy, much heavier than Rossett thought it should. Leigh nodded and two of the men left the room, leaving just one, who resumed his position by the wall.

  “You will call me Windsor,” the man said to Rossett as if addressing a child. Rossett didn’t reply. “It isn’t my real name, before you ask.” He wiped his nose with the handkerchief and opened the folder in front of him.

  “I wasn’t going to ask,” Rossett said quietly, but Windsor ignored him and carried on.

  “You are John Henry Rossett, ex–Coldstream Guards, where you attained the rank of sergeant. Military medal, Distinguished Ser­vice Cross, and the Victoria Cross. I should salute you, or rather your medal, but I’m afraid I could never salute a traitor to the king.” Windsor read from the file, only looking up at the end of his statement. “You joined the Guards in 1939 at the outbreak of war, leaving the Metropolitan Police to do so. You served with the BEF in Belgium and then France and finally England during the invasion. You were taken prisoner of war in 1941 and interned in France for three years before being released to take up your old job with the Met. You were married and had one son. Both your son and wife were killed in the King’s Cross explosion of 1942.”

  Windsor studied the papers, flicking back and forth between the sheets before glancing up.

  “Did you get to meet your son? I’m looking at the dates here, and it seems . . .”

  Rossett didn’t reply.

  “Hmm, unfortunate.” Windsor studied him for a moment, then returned to the papers. “On your release, you returned to Wapping to work as a Police Sergeant, from which you were seconded to the Office of Jewish Affairs. You joined the Nazi Party in early 1945 and you hold an honorary rank in that organization.”

  Windsor looked up again, then wiped his nose once more.

  “Is anything I’ve said thus far inaccurate, Sergeant?”

  Rossett still didn’t reply. He just took a sip of tea from the mug he was still holding. Windsor sniffed and wiped his nose again before taking a sip of his own drink.

  “Hot lemon, best thing for a cold,” he said to Rossett as he placed the tin cup back on the table. “Damned London is always so damp this time of the year, gets me every time.”

  Windsor wiped his nose again and then studied the files in silence before looking up. “It says here that the Germans think very highly of you, Rossett. They see you as being loyal to the cause.”

  Rossett lit a cigarette.

  “Seems they are intending giving you an Iron Cross. Congratulations.” Windsor didn’t smile as he spoke. He was matter-­of-­fact, like a civil servant relaying facts about a planning matter. Rossett found it disconcerting and spoke for the first time, then cursed himself for breaking his silence.

  “First I’ve heard.”

  “Yes, well, it was to be a surprise that your friend Koehler has arranged. I expect he thinks it’ll be good for propaganda, you getting a medal from the king and then one from the Führer. It’ll look good in the Daily Mail, you setting an example.”

  Rossett took a drag of the cigarette and swallowed the smoke, breathing it out through his bloodied nose with a whistle. He stared at Windsor a moment, then shrugged.

  “What’s this about?”

  “All in good time. Now, let me see . . .” Windsor ran his finger along the pages before glancing up again. “It says here you have personally supervised the removal of over six thousand Jews from London in the last two years or so and have helped facilitate the removal of many more around the country
by assisting other forces in the setting up of their own Jewish offices. It appears you are a very thorough man, Sergeant Rossett, no stone unturned.”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “Doing it rather well?”

  Rossett shrugged and felt his cheeks burn. When the facts were read so coldly they made hard listening.

  “Where do you think these Jews are going?” Windsor picked up his cup again. “Have you ever asked?”

  Rossett shook his head.

  “Best not to, eh?” Windsor took a sip and placed the cup down on the table before turning another page and leaning forward to study the text. “I’ve a copy of your bank statement here. You don’t appear to be well rewarded for your dirty deeds.”

  Rossett looked down at the document and was surprised to see it was an up-­to-­date statement of his account. His surprise must have registered on his face, because he noticed Leigh chuckle behind his boss and wink.

  Windsor looked up from the papers.

  “Many of your colleagues get a bounty from the Nazis for carrying out such an unsavory role, yet you don’t. Why is that?”

  Rossett shrugged again.

  “Is it because you enjoy what you do?”

  “I just do my job.”

  “Do you not like Jews?”

  “I just do my job. I do as I’m told.”

  “Do you not like them?” Windsor asked again, this time placing the papers down. “I’m curious, because I can’t imagine sending that many ­people to their deaths without hating them.”

  “I don’t send them to their deaths. They go to France.”

  Windsor smiled and shook his head.

  “You don’t actually believe that, do you? That they just go to France to live happily ever after?”

  “I just do my job.”

  “They are murdered, all of them. Shot, stabbed, gassed, or starved, but all of them—­men, women and children—­die.”

  Windsor stared at Rossett, who swallowed and then shook his head.

  “That’s all bollocks, propaganda spread by you lot.”

  “I don’t think so, and I don’t think you believe that either, not when you really think about it,” said Windsor softly.