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

by Sharon Maas

  She walked back to the bed, picked up the book as if it were covered in filth, gingerly at the end of its spine, opened her wardrobe and threw it in. There. Done. Discarded.

  She took the stairs down to the ground floor slowly, dreading whatever confrontation was waiting for her, gathering the courage needed to face them all, look them in the eye, if need be, with defiance. I am Marie-Claire. I have chosen this path, and nobody can pull me down. She repeated the words to herself, silently, and with each repetition the courage gathered within her. She was prepared.

  Just as she reached the bottom step, the kitchen door opened and Victoire emerged. Marie-Claire stiffened, prepared for a new onslaught of abuse. Instead, Victoire rushed forward, arms open, eyes alight.

  ‘Marie-Claire! There you are at last! It’s almost midday and I was wondering if I should—’ She broke off, having reached Marie-Claire. Stretched out her arms, grasped both of her sister’s hands in her own.

  ‘Oh Marie-Claire, I’m so sorry, so sorry for the scene I made last night. For thinking the worst of you, for not listening to your explanation. For judging you! I hardly slept a wink, I felt so terrible! It was such an emotional reaction, and I’m sorry and I beg your forgiveness. I’m sure you can explain. Please, please forgive me and let’s be friends!’

  Marie-Claire lifted her chin and slowly withdrew her hands from Victoire’s loose grasp.

  ‘Have you told anyone?’

  ‘No! No, of course not! I went straight to bed. Maman and the Sipps and Uncle Max were still downstairs, I could hear them laughing and talking, so I did not go back down. You know what Maman is like after a glass too many! So I went to my room and thought about it all and felt immediately sorry. I overreacted. Now come, come with me and have some breakfast. I will make you some good coffee and I baked some fresh bread today, Maman has real flour! And strawberry jam from the garden, also made by me. You must eat, come.’

  And Marie-Claire let herself be drawn into the kitchen, let herself be seated at the table and served, and allowed the process of slowly melting into the comforts of home to be continued. It was Christmas Eve. Not even the spectre of Mein Kampf, and the threat it contained, could spoil the sense of goodwill that every year, on this day, seeped magically into the atmosphere and laid its embrace around them all.

  One thing Victoire had said last night plucked at her heartstrings like a persistent tune longing to be heard.

  Jacques was coming. Tonight.

  Twenty-Four

  The day had edged past, and Marie-Claire had cautiously manoeuvred herself through it, avoiding her mother when at all possible, making strained conversation with Victoire and, all the time, every moment, waiting, waiting. She hoped to catch him alone, before the others flung themselves at him, claiming him for themselves. Jacques was far too well-loved, more popular than was good for him; it forced him to be polite and friendly to all, and gave her little opportunity to have him for herself, for just a few minutes. Add to that the fact that he thought her as shallow as a crêpe-pan – well, it made things difficult.

  She didn’t understand it. He was a man; why did he not react to her as other men did, even the horrible Nazis she worked with, from the security guards right up to – well, not to the Kreisleiter, but he was immune to feminine charms for his own probably nazified reasons. She had learned to easily recognise the spark that leapt up into a man’s eyes when he laid eyes on her. It was instinct.

  But not Jacques. Jacques had said that it was because they had grown up as siblings, but that couldn’t be everything – surely not. She was a woman now, not a child. She wondered, as she had done many times, if Jacques was turned ‘the other way’. He was so different, so aloof from ordinary humans, and, after all, now that he was in the Resistance, he knew only men, and perhaps that was the cause. He preferred men to women. In the past his indifference had irked her, offended her, humiliated her, even – but now, now, it goaded her. At their last meeting he’d been different, because she’d been different, offering herself up as a major spy in the Mairie. Perhaps that would be the chink in Jacques’ armour. Crack him open.

  All these thoughts ran through her head as she prepared for dinner. She had not yet decided what she’d wear. It had to be special; it was a pity that the other women in the family – that would be her mother, her sister and Tatie – would all be dowdier than ever, even on Christmas Eve, because none of them had anything festive to wear – that she knew from previous festivities. They just didn’t care. It was as if they weren’t women at all, but half-men, clothes regarded as nothing more than coverings for nakedness and cold. That was the kind of thing that gave the impression that she alone was shallow, because she alone cared, knowing that people judged each other according to their appearance.

  She judged them and they judged her; but because this was rural France, the back of beyond, she was the one dismissed as shallow. In Paris it would be quite different. There, the right clothes would secure one’s position in society. They were all so backward here… And yet she knew, whether others were conscious of it or not, a well-turned-out woman always won the room. Won the men. She would win Jacques. She could not let the previous humiliation stand. She’d been drunk, immature, at the time; this was different. Marie-Claire had matured into a sophisticated young woman. She knew what she was doing, and she’d finally won Jacques’ approval. The time was right.

  Her skin still moist and warm and glowing from the long bath she’d indulged in followed by expensive body-cream she’d gently massaged into her body with slow, sweeping motions. She stood, naked beneath a warm woollen housecoat, before her open wardrobe. A dozen dresses hung shimmering before her, silk and satin in a variety of colours, sent to her over the years by her father from Paris. There had been no new dresses over the past year. The war had come between her and couture. Yet here it made no difference because, there being little opportunity for evening wear, they were all practically new, new to her, new to everyone.

  She removed them, one by one, from their hangers, regarded each one, assessing it, remembering the joy she’d felt when first unpacking it, and the disappointment of knowing the lack of opportunity she’d have to actually wear it publicly. Now, she had to make a choice. As she held each one up, placed it against her body, swung it back and forth, frowned, assessed, she imagined herself in it, making an entrance into the sitting room – she’d plan it so that she was, indeed, the last to appear – slender and slinky, walking in with just the right amount of je ne sais quoi. A woman. Shallow as a crêpe-pan. She gave a wry chuckle. Deep inside, they’d all be either envious or desiring. Juliette and her grandmother would be there tonight, as always at Christmas; they’d be well-dressed, as always, but with traditional sophistication rather than allure. She was different.

  She wished there’d be more men. Men who would demonstrate to Jacques how a man should react to a beautiful woman. There was just his father, Uncle Maxence, who did know this, who would, as ever, whistle under his breath, compliment her, act the gallant swain; but Uncle Maxence was old, and everyone knew that he was actually in love with her mother, for all her frumpy looks. It was aggravating but couldn’t be helped. She gave a grunt of annoyance as she made her choice – a red silky sheath – slammed the wardrobe door shut, flung the dress across the bed and dug into her lingerie drawer for suitable but useless and unappreciated underclothes. There would be, tonight, only one man she wanted to impress, as ever. And he would not be impressed. What a waste of a lovely dress.

  Twenty-Five

  Victoire

  The kitchen door opened, and Jacques walked in. Victoire gave a scream of delight and flung herself at him.

  ‘You came! I don’t believe it! I was certain you’d ring to say you couldn’t make it!’

  He laughed, and pulled her arms from round his neck. Her hands and forearms were covered in flour – she was making her mother’s traditional tarte flambée, with mostly substitute ingredients, but at least they’d managed to get hold of flour – b
ut she’d kept them aloft, embracing him round the head with her elbows. He kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘I’m here, my little Victoire, and I’ve brought a guest. I hope there’s enough for one more!’

  ‘Any friend of yours is a friend of ours, Jacques! Welcome!’

  She turned to the man who’d entered the kitchen behind him, and blinked.

  He was not what she’d expected. Or rather, she hadn’t had time to expect anyone in particular, but a young man hardly older than herself was not typical of those who, in the past, had swirled in Jacques’ entourage: they were usually older fellows, slightly dishevelled, mostly, with beards, and smelling of stale sweat. Jacques brought them for a bath and a clean-up and a good meal – sometimes they hadn’t eaten properly for weeks, and Margaux’s doors were always open for such. As long as they were fighting for France, they were welcome. Baths and food and a bed for a night, and some clean clothes. Every maquisard had such needs from time to time. But this was not a man. He was a boy, with a milky face that had never been touched by a razor.

  ‘This is Eric,’ said Jacques. ‘He recently joined us and I thought I’d bring him along. He has nowhere to go for Christmas.’

  Victoire smiled, and held out her hand. ‘Welcome to our home, Eric! Sit down, both of you! Can I offer you some tea? No coffee at the moment, tant pis.’

  ‘I feel bad, barging in on your Christmas festivities,’ said Eric as they shook hands. ‘I didn’t want to come, but Jacques—’

  ‘I insisted,’ said Jacques. ‘As I said, he has nowhere to go. His family is from Lorraine and they have all been evacuated down to Poitiers. He did not go with them as he wants to fight for France, here in Alsace. He’s a good lad. I thought you and he might get on, Victoire; you’re about the same age.’

  ‘Yes? You are only fifteen?’

  ‘Sixteen, actually,’ said Eric. ‘And I’m sorry, very sorry. Jacques, you should not have brought me here, this is a family home, family time – Christmas – let me go again!’

  ‘Go – where, exactly?’

  ‘Back to Strasbourg. I do not need to celebrate Christmas.’

  ‘But you will be just twiddling your thumbs in Strasbourg because everyone is on a Christmas break for the next few days.’

  ‘But the family – they will not want a stranger…’

  Victoire said: ‘I said you are welcome and I mean it. Nobody who fights for France is a stranger. Everyone who resists the Nazis is a friend, a family member. Now stop objecting and take a seat and I will make you both some tea. And then you will both go upstairs and have a bath – you stink! Put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket and Aimee will deal with them tomorrow. Jacques will find you clean clothes from Leon and Lucien – I’m sure something will fit. Isn’t that right, Maman?’

  Margaux had just entered the kitchen, bearing a basket full of apples.

  ‘Is what right?’

  Victoire introduced Eric, and told her mother why he would be their dinner guest tonight. Margaux smiled at him, set the basket on the table and held out her hand.

  ‘Welcome, Eric, and of course you must join us for Christmas! Any friend of Jacques is a friend of ours. You say your parents were evacuated?’

  Eric nodded. ‘All Metz residents were sent down to Poitiers after the invasion. But I fled to Alsace because I wanted to help fight and I heard there were boys in Strasbourg who were organising.’

  Jacques nodded. ‘They call themselves the Black Hand. They are very brave; I’m friends with their leader, Marcel Weinum. I took Eric under my wing as he has no family in the city. And I think I have a job for him to do, right here in Ribeauvillé.’

  ‘Really? What job?’

  ‘Victoire, this is not the time to be discussing jobs. Have you finished that pastry yet? No? Then get on with it. Come, Eric, I will take you upstairs and run you water for a bath and find some clothes for you. You too, Jacques – follow me. You can share Leon’s room tonight.’

  Margaux hustled Eric and Jacques out of the kitchen. Victoire sighed, and plunged her hands back into the pastry bowl. Jacques’ words itched within her. It sounded as if Eric was already a legitimate maquisard in his own right. And he was only sixteen. He must have started when he was fifteen, like her. Yet Jacques had constantly rejected her for the Maquis. Because she was a girl, too fragile for Resistance work. Too precious, Jacques corrected her again and again whenever she argued for more involvement. Women are precious. We cannot risk their lives with dangerous work. Your role is a different one, and just as essential.

  And so here she was, kneading pastry, when Eric, not much older than her, had been singled out for some no doubt vital role in the Resistance, right here in Ribeauvillé. A role that she could have had.

  Twenty-Six

  Marie-Claire

  She turned before the full-length mirror – the only one in the house – looked over her shoulder to see just how the smooth silk of the dress wrapped around her behind. Turned back for a final frontal critique, hands on hips, chin up. Her hair was in an elegant chignon, her maquillage perfect, considering the meagre collection of powders, crèmes and pastes she had to work with. Her favourite lipstick, just a left-over knob of an expensive brand her father had managed to salvage from the woman she suspected was his mistress, matched her dress perfectly; a seductive red, not bright enough to be considered vulgar, and yet strong, vigorous, providing the perfect contrast to the porcelain-white of her face. She smiled at herself. She was ready.

  No. Just one final touch… She stepped across to the vanity table, littered with the detritus of the last hour, picked up a small perfume bottle. L’Heure Bleue by Guerlain. Her favourite. Another salvage from her father’s mistress, sent to her more than two years ago and used sparingly, on special occasions like this one. Just a fingertip behind the ears and in the crease of her elbow was enough. The perfume was elegant and mysterious all in one, capturing that precious moment of dusk, the bluish hour before the first stars make their appearance in the sky, a celebration of dusk, when a woman is at her most seductive. Now she was ready.

  The fire in the hearth of her room was slowly dying, so there was a slight chill in the air, but nothing like the icy blast that greeted her as she stepped out into the upstairs hall. She wrapped the woollen shawl she’d selected earlier tightly around her shoulders, moved as quickly as her admittedly uncomfortable shoes would allow her (another salvage from her father) and scuttled down the stairs. Reaching the sitting room door, she paused, took a deep breath, let the shawl fall to her elbows, pressed the handle and made her entrance.

  She’d timed it perfectly: they were all gathered, and she saw him immediately, standing next to the fabulous Kachelowa. Tonight, as at every Christmas, the Kachelowa was, quite literally, the imposing centrepiece of the home. An object of antique beauty, it was a tiled ceramic stove typical of the region; here, in the salon, it was a massive object, ceiling-to-floor, protruding from the wall and entirely covered in embossed tiles, alternately concave and flat, a rich, dark green in colour, each tile a square edged with an intricate abstract pattern and a similar, larger design in its centre. Hot air circulating behind the tiles heated the entire construction, top to bottom, and radiated into the air, emitting a cosy warmth that filled the entire room and spread through the open doors to the dining area.

  Through its back, where the kiln had its entrance door, it heated the kitchen as well, and provided space for dishes and plates to be kept warm. This magnificent structure was only heated for special occasions in winter; even though it was economical in the burning of wood – one load of wood burning for hours – the family had never seen the need to heat the entire downstairs; the kitchen was heated by a smaller cast-iron stove, and that was sufficient. This was not a family that had the leisure to sit around all day in a warm room, reading books (with the glaring exception of Marie-Claire) or playing the piano or entertaining guests. This was a working family, and the kitchen was its hub. But not at Christmas.

 
; There they all were. Gathered around it like worshippers around the altar of a benevolent god: Maman and Victoire sitting on the wooden bench that surrounded it, their backs soaking in its delicious warmth, Grandpère and Tante Sophie and Juliette’s grandmother, Tante Hélène, sitting in comfortable fauteuils facing it, Uncle Max standing behind them, a pipe in his hand. Jacques, standing to one side, smoking. Jacques…

  Jacques had cleaned himself up. This was not the vagabond Jacques she had last seen in Tante Sophie’s kitchen, his beard so unkempt she couldn’t even see his lips, his hair long and greasy, his clothes partly grime-encrusted, partly torn, wholly smelly. (How could she, so meticulous about every aspect of her appearance, even begin to love such a man? How was she not repelled, appalled, by his outward appearance? But you cannot help whom you love. You just do. You just love.)

  Now, though, as she could tell at a glance, he had shaved off his beard, cut and washed his hair. Not as neatly or stylishly as she would have done it, had he asked her – this was probably Victoire’s work – but at least it was clean, and short. His clothes (Leon’s, actually) were not new (nobody but she wore new clothes these days), but were at least fresh, and though they were not well-fitting, for Jacques had grown painfully thin, they emphasised his loose-limbed lankiness. There he stood. One hand was spread against a flat green tile as if plugged in and drawing heat from it, his weight pressed against it. A cigarette hung between the fingers of the other hand.