Her Darkest Hour: Beautiful and heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction

by Sharon Maas

  ‘Then I must ring Tante Margaux. She’ll know how to find him.’

  ‘But nobody else must know, Juliette. It has to be utterly secret. I am only telling you because you are his sister but otherwise it is too dangerous. I am going to ask his help.’

  ‘I think he’d help you. And, Nathan, I’ll help too. You know that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Juliette, I’m so sorry for involving you in this. Because I’m putting you –and Jacques – at risk and that’s the last thing I want to do.’

  ‘There’s no question. I know Jacques will help, and I will too.’

  He squeezed her hand in gratitude. ‘You see, Jacques and I talked of this before. I know he would understand, he would help. Years ago, before the war, when we were at school, he and I spoke of it, what we would do. Even then, the spectre of war hung in the air and people were speculating that the Boche would invade any day and Alsace would be put under German rule yet again. And most of the boys just shrugged and said, so what? Alsace has been German before and if it becomes German again, so what? – it would mean we are kept out of any war.

  ‘Jacques was the only one who said no. He predicted that Germany would want Alsace above all else and he swore he would never accept that. He swore he would fight the Boche to the death. And I listened to him back then, and I said, moi aussi. I too would fight them. And that is what I have to do now, Juliette. Fight, not flee! I have to! But now that they are sending Jews away, it is precarious. My parents expect me to flee with them but I cannot. I need to find a solution before tomorrow. I’ve thought about it long and hard. I need to find safety for my parents. And then – Juliette, this is my home, my homeland. I must fight. I must go underground and fight this thing. That is why I must see Jacques. I remember the fire in his eyes. I remember his passion. And I want to be a part of that.’

  At those words he ran out of breath. Now it was Juliette’s turn to squeeze his hands.

  ‘Oh, Nathan!’ she breathed. And then, ‘I will find out where he is, and I will take you to him.’

  And then, after a pause, ‘Moi aussi. I want to be a part of it too. I want to fight this thing too.’

  Five

  Victoire

  ‘No, chérie. Decidedly no. I will not allow it.’

  Margaux slammed the lump of dough onto the kitchen table, turning it upside down as she did so. She had managed to procure some precious flour from the Ribeauvillé baker, Monsieur Martin, yesterday, in exchange for a fine bottle of vin crémant, sparkling wine. She pressed down into the dough with strong gnarled hands, kneading it, stretching it with her knuckles, folding it, kneading it again, stretching and folding it again.

  Tonight, there would be bread for supper, along with fresh eggs from the hens scratching in the backyard and goats’ milk butter she had made herself, from the goats romping in the fields behind the house. Rationing might be ever more severe in these hard times, but they were lucky here at the chateau. Bread, butter, eggs, not to mention crates of apples and pears from their own trees, potatoes, carrots, turnips and cabbage from their own garden, from the greenhouse. Not to mention wine; an endless supply.

  Enough, not only for them but to share with some of the villagers, those with no farms of their own, no man to provide for them. Old women, young women; old widows and war widows, single mothers whose menfolk had gone away to fight a war they could never win, been captured by the Boche and were still prisoners of war somewhere in Germany. Margaux was lucky: both of her sons had been captured, not killed, like so many of their friends and comrades. Yes, they were prisoners in Germany, but at least they were alive. Hopefully unscathed by the experience except for the trauma of having fought for their lives, escaped death by a hair’s breadth. Yes, she was fortunate. Her children were all alive, and two of them were at home and sitting at her table. But both of them nagged, for one reason or another. It was exasperating. This one, for example, right here at the table and doing nothing useful.

  ‘But, Maman…’

  ‘No buts about it, Victoire. You are not going to join Jacques. Absolument non. That is my last word and there’s no use bringing it up again tomorrow and the next day and the next. I am sick of your nagging. Now get your useless little backside off that chair and fetch a bucket of apples from the cellar. There is enough flour to make an apple pie as well as bread. I will send one to Madame Flaubert – the poor woman, she is still grieving for her fallen husband and she has those three small children. And then you will chop the apples to prepare. And then you can take it over yourself, later on, when it is finished. That’s the way you can help. None of this underground nonsense.’

  Victoire sighed and stood up. There was no use arguing with Maman; she was always right, and never gave in. She made her way to the door, but stopped in her tracks as a telephone rang. Not the usual telephone; this was the private one, connected only to the gatehouse, and it was not in the hallway but fixed to the wall above the sideboard, and it had a different ring: strident, somehow, urgent, demanding. It had never rung before.

  Margaux immediately stopped her kneading. Victoire stood still in her tracks. But only for an instant.

  ‘It’s Papa, from the gatehouse!’ gasped Margaux as she dashed from the breadboard to the sideboard, wiping her floury hands on her apron during her sprint. She grabbed the receiver.

  ‘’Allo, Papa? What is it?’

  She listened. And then; ‘D’accord.’ She replaced the receiver, turned to Victoire and said, ‘You’re quicker than me. Run upstairs; Leah’s doing the rooms. She must hurry, down to the hideout. Vite, vite. She and Estelle. They must hide. The Boche is here.’

  ‘Merde!’ yelped Victoire as she sprang out the door – a forbidden word, forgivable in the circumstances. Margaux herself ran to the front room, to the window overlooking the front of the property. There, a hundred metres away, a soldier in the grey-green uniform of the German Wehrmacht was getting into a jeep; he had obviously just opened the gate, the gate that was now always kept shut for just such an eventuality – a delaying tactic. Next to the gate was the lodge, the little gate-cottage occupied by Margaux’s father. He himself stood outside the cottage door, watching.

  Margaux’s heart began to pound. Breathlessly, she ran back to the kitchen, to the window above the sink, just in time to see Victoire, Leah and little Estelle vanish into the barn behind the house, across the cobbled farmyard. They had been quick; the plan was working. Now it was up to her. She returned to the kitchen table, coated her hands once more with flour and began her kneading again. And then it was no longer her heart that was pounding but a demanding fist on the front door.

  She took a deep breath. Walked leisurely across the kitchen, down the hall to the front door, stood behind it.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called. A voice called back:

  ‘Machen Sie auf. Deutsche Wehrmacht.’ Open! German Wehrmacht!

  Though the command came as no surprise, it was Margaux’s term to utter ‘Merde!’, but under her breath. This was it, the moment she had been anticipating ever since the day the Nazis had marched into Colmar. Expected, but worthy of an expletive nevertheless, and ones far more explicit than merde. She had practised for this moment; the most important thing was to stay cool, relaxed, not to get hot and flustered. She took another deep breath, walked to the front door as slowly as she could, taking her time to once again wipe her white-dusted hands on her apron.

  ‘One moment, please!’ she called through the door. Only then did she twist the latch that would unlock the door, and open it. Two smartly attired officers stood before her, both wearing the slate-grey jodhpurs and shiny black knee-high boots she had seen in photos in the daily newspapers, and both with swastika armbands. One was older, maybe in his mid-fifties, with a slightly egg-shaped head and portly figure: the other young, tall, square-jawed.

  The older and obviously more senior of the two, his lapels and collar decorated with a plethora of medals and obscure insignia, clicked his heels and, strangely, inappropriately, Margaux
thought, smiled. It wasn’t a proper smile. It was a stretching of the lips; there was something slimy, almost sinister about it. Margaux had been dealing with smiles all of her adult life; she received them often and judged them always. She automatically sorted them into smiles that were a true expression of a person’s smiling soul, and those that were pasted on. This one was decidedly the latter. She did not return it. His eyes bulged, by dint of which they seemed to contradict his lips, so thin as to be simply lines beneath a pencil moustache, a combination that set off an itch of irritation in Margaux’s mind. It was instant antipathy.

  The officer now removed his black-visored cap and gave a slight bow. In German, he said, ‘Good morning, gnädige Frau. I am SS-Ortsgruppenleiter Otto Grötzinger, 19th Division, Kommandant in the Haut-Rhin region of Alsace. I am responsible for the supervision and organisation of the Colmar region of Alsace, and as such, I have arrived to inspect your property, make an inventory of your wine cellars and record all members of your household, both family and staff. I am here to request an immediate interview with the head of the household.’

  Margaux, who spoke three languages, understood every word, but simply stared blankly and smiled sweetly. She said in French: ‘My apologies, sir. I do not speak or understand German.’

  Grötzinger looked up at his companion, nodded, smiled again and said in an oily voice that set Margaux’s teeth on edge, again in German, ‘If you have language comprehension difficulties, my companion, SS-Obersharführer Mendes, speaks fluent French and will translate.’

  The officer at his side translated simultaneously and exactly; at the words SS-Obersharführer Mendes, he pointed to himself, as if to make it clear that there was not a third officer, yet invisible, perhaps hiding in the bushes next to the door. Grötzinger continued, in German, Mendes translating:

  ‘May I request that you very quickly acquaint yourself with the German language, as it is to be the official language in Alsace henceforth. I shall make allowances today but regrettably, this will have to change. In future, speaking French will incur a penalty of five Reichmarks. German from now on is the compulsory language of Alsace. You understand?’

  Margaux nodded. Grötzinger flicked his tongue over his lips and bowed slightly, obsequiously. He pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket, looked at it and said, with Mendes again translating: ‘Very well. Now down to business. This vineyard is registered under the names of Jean-Pierre Laroche and Margaux Gauthier-Laroche. Is that correct?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘Surely at least you know the German word for yes. Ja?’

  She nodded slightly. ‘Ja.’

  ‘I thought so. I’m afraid, gnädige Frau, your previous reply, in French, leads me to believe that you are being deliberately obstinate? If so, I would remind you that it is in your best interests to comply with my instructions; I do not want to have to fine you or, indeed, arrest you for non-compliance, which I am authorised to do. I am, as you can tell, addressing you in a perfectly polite and civil manner and I would request that you respond in kind. Now, to business. We cannot stand here on the doorstep all day. I request entry into the house.’

  Margaux stood aside and waved the two men in with an exaggerated bow and sweep of her hand. Now, they all stood in the hallway in a small cluster with Margaux slightly apart from the two officers. Grötzinger said, looking around, ‘A very imposing chateau you have here. Nevertheless, we must proceed; we have already wasted too much time. As I said earlier, I am here to conduct an immediate interview with the head of the household. I request that you summon him.’

  Margaux said, ‘I am the head of this household.’

  He looked at his notebook again. ‘No. Jean-Pierre Laroche – he is your husband?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘Is he at home? My interview must be with the head of the household.’

  ‘I told you I am the head of this household.’

  ‘No – it says here…’ tapping the notebook, ‘Jean-Pierre Laroche. Your husband.’

  ‘Yes, my husband. We are joint owners of the vineyard but I am the head of the household. This is my house. My house alone.’

  Grötzinger looked flummoxed. He scratched his forehead and licked his lips once more.

  ‘But where is your husband? I want to speak to him. I understand this is a wine business. Where is at least the manager?’

  ‘That would be me, sir.’

  ‘So you are manager of the business as well as owner of the house?’ His eyes practically boggled. ‘How can that be? Where is your husband? I need to speak to him.’

  Margaux straightened her back. ‘My husband lives in Paris. Indeed, I am the head of the household and the manager of the business, as well as its joint owner,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You? A woman?’

  The officer looked at her, slowly letting his eyes wander down from her unruly hair tied back with a faded headscarf to the stained apron, the still-floury hands and arms, the scuffed boots she always wore, whether inside the house or outside it. He looked more uncomfortable than ever, like a man in his smartest suit finding himself up to the knees in a swamp. Margaux decided on the spot to play into his discomfiture.

  ‘Indeed. And I would be happy to talk to you. Oh dear, where is my hospitality, keeping you standing here in the hallway like this – do come into the salon. Can I offer you a cup of tea? A glass of wine?’

  Instead of translating, Mendes snapped: ‘This is not a social visit! We require chairs and a table to write on.’ He turned to his superior and translated that into German. Grötzinger nodded approval.

  ‘Then do come into the salon. You may sit at the dining table.’

  She opened one of the doors leading from the hallway and, once again with an exaggerated gesture, ushered them into the salon, the room set aside for formal entertainment, part dining room, part sitting room; unheated, and quite chilly. Grötzinger sat himself down at the head of the table and his partner took a seat beside him. At a gesture from Grötzinger Mendes handed over a smart leather briefcase. Grötzinger opened it and removed some files and a heap of papers.

  Margaux pulled out a chair and sat herself further down the table. She interlinked her fingers, placed them on the table before her. She had left the door to the hallway open; with some relief she heard the back door open and close again. Victoire had returned. Good. Leah and Estelle were safe.

  Grötzinger shuffled his papers, removed a black fountain pen from a pocket in the briefcase, laid a clean sheet of paper on the table before him and started with his inquisition.

  ‘I will need some details. You said earlier that you are joint owner of this vineyard?’

  Margaux nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it is called the Château Gauthier-Laroche?’

  She nodded again. ‘Indeed, that is the name of the domaine.’

  Mendes barked, ‘Confine your replies to the words ja or nein, which you can say in German, if such are required, or to direct answers of the questions. I do not need opinions or explanations.’

  He looked at Grötzinger for approval, which was given with a curt nod.

  Margaux said, ‘Very well.’

  ‘Now, I need a list of all persons currently living in this household, including servants and other employees. Starting with yourself and your husband. You said earlier that your husband is currently in Paris. Is this a permanent or temporary sojourn?’

  Margaux shrugged. ‘That is entirely up to you Germans, sir. We have been told that all non-Alsatians must leave the province. My husband is a non-Alsatian. He is originally from Paris and he spends much of his time there.’

  ‘I see. Children?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Their names and dates of birth?’

  Grötzinger wrote down the names and birthdates as Margaux slowly dictated them. She could see, from her position lower down the table, that he wrote solely and meticulously in the jagged and rather ugly German Sütterlin script.

  ‘The occupation
s of these children?’

  ‘Leon and Lucien are prisoners of war in Germany. Marie-Claire works at the Colmar Mairie. I mean she worked there, past tense. You Germans have taken over the Mairie, so evidently, she has lost her job; she has been told to report there tomorrow and I assume she will be dismissed along with all the other staff. Tant pis. Never mind. Today she went into Colmar to look for a new job. Victoire still attends school – she is only fifteen. However, the school is going through a readjustment period and has temporarily closed, except for a few essential classes.’

  ‘Ah yes, indeed. All schools in Alsace are going through the readjustment process from French to German; no doubt they will soon reopen with the required German teachers and German curriculum. French teachers must be re-educated in Germany.’

  Margaux shrugged. ‘So we have been told.’

  ‘So what is Victoire doing for an occupation?’

  ‘She stays home with me and helps on the farm.’

  ‘You have a farm? I thought this was a vineyard.’

  ‘A small farm. A few goats and fowls. And a cow and a pig. We grow our own vegetables – we have a greenhouse. Victoire looks after it.’

  ‘You will show me afterwards. All farm produce and livestock must be listed separately; it will be assessed for requisition.’

  ‘What? You can’t just—’

  ‘Silence, please.’ Grötzinger bestowed on her another oily smile. ‘Your opinion is not required, gnädige Frau. Let us proceed. How many employees are working for you on this farm?’

  ‘None. I do all my work myself, in the house and on the farm. At present with Victoire’s assistance.’

  ‘So you are now alone in the house?’

  ‘Alone, with Victoire. I believe she is in the kitchen. I was making bread when you interrupted me; hopefully she will finish it or the precious flour will be wasted.’