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

by Sharon Maas

  ‘And then, afterwards, can we go for a walk?’

  ‘I have to chop wood for the ovens.’

  ‘I’ll help you, if you come for a walk with me.’

  Their eyes met. And then she shrugged again. ‘D’accord.’

  Thirty-Two

  Marie-Claire

  Max shoved his spade into a snowdrift and walked over to the gate, grinning broadly.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Marie-Claire! I didn’t know you were such an early riser!’

  Reaching the gate, he kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘I didn’t sleep well last night so I decided to go for a walk and somehow I ended up here.’

  ‘Well, would you like to come in? Have you had breakfast yet? I haven’t quite finished here’ – he gestured at the several metres of un-shovelled snow behind the gate – ‘but there’s no hurry; I’m not expecting visitors. Work can wait – I’d much rather entertain a beautiful woman! Maman is having a long lie-in – yesterday was exhausting for her.’

  She had already opened the latch, and was pushing the gate open. ‘I’d love to, Max! Thanks. It’s true I haven’t had breakfast, and walking has made me hungry.’

  ‘Then come in. I haven’t got much, just the usual bread and cheese. And an egg. I’ll fry it for you. And coffee. War coffee. Sorry about that.’

  ‘I’m used to it by now. Though I can’t wait for the war to be over and for my first cup of real coffee!’

  ‘You said it. Real coffee, real everything. Real life.’

  They walked side by side back to the house, the two dogs dancing around them. Reaching the kitchen door, Max opened it and gestured for her to enter.

  ‘Ooh, lovely and warm!’ She walked over to the cast-iron stove and held her hands out above it, absorbing its radiance. And then she turned round.

  ‘Max,’ she said. Her voice was serious now, the bantering tone abandoned. ‘There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Of course. Have a seat. Just a minute…’

  He cleared the kitchen table, which was cluttered with various items: a basket of apples, a pile of crockery and, incongruously, a skein of wool, with two knitting needles stuck into it, and two inches of what looked like a very badly knitted scarf.

  ‘Maman’s teaching me to knit,’ he said, as if to excuse the latter. ‘She says men need to learn to knit and sew and take care of themselves, especially men who live alone. Like me. And Jacques.’

  ‘I saw Jacques when I came out,’ said Marie-Claire. She wasn’t quite sure how to start, and felt suddenly shy. ‘He’s shovelling snow over at the chateau.’

  ‘Ah, yes, he would. He always loved outdoor work, since he was a boy. But – you were saying, you wanted to discuss something? You sounded so serious.’ He pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit. She did so.

  ‘Max,’ she said, once she was seated. Max continued to move around the kitchen. He placed a breadboard and a knife on the table, and a knob of bread, and a slab of cheese. She wished he would sit still – his activity made her nervous.

  ‘It’s not much,’ he said, ‘but help yourself. I’ll make you a fried egg. Those hens are a godsend – so generous with their eggs!’

  Marie-Claire nodded, but did not touch the food. ‘Max!’ she said again, more firmly.

  He turned round. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Max – last night, when I came into the salon. You remember?’

  ‘Of course I do! Lovely as a picture, you were! As if you had stepped off a Hollywood film! You have a slight resemblance to Greta Garbo, you know! Something about the lips…’

  ‘Thank you. But your son doesn’t seem to agree.’

  ‘Jacques?’ He chuckled and shook his head as if perplexed. ‘Jacques wouldn’t recognise a beautiful woman if she turned up naked in his bed.’

  ‘I was wondering about that. Is he – perhaps – you know, the other way?’

  He frowned. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Because – well, it’s a bit awkward and embarrassing, but, you know, Jacques is such an old friend and I was just wondering why he never had a girlfriend?’

  ‘Oh, that. I wouldn’t bother about that. He’s just obsessed about the war and the Nazis. Most young men are obsessed about women, but it’s hard to hold two obsessions in your head at once. Jacques is normal, Marie-Claire. A normal red-blooded man. Once the war is over and we have chased out the Nazis, he’ll find himself a nice girl and settle down. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘And you, Max? You’ve been a widower for so long and you never seem to have a girlfriend.’

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘A girlfriend? Which girl would even look at an old codger like me?’

  ‘Well, then, a woman.’

  ‘Not much chance of meeting a woman, an old hermit like me. I tend to keep to myself. How am I to go out and find myself a girlfriend?’

  ‘But you obviously have an eye for women. The way you looked at me last night – I almost thought, for one minute, that you were, you know, flirting!’

  ‘Marie-Claire, what’s going on? Why are you talking about these things? It’s a bit, you know, inappropriate? Of course I looked at you in an appreciative way. Women like that. Some women, at least. You liked that, I could tell. It’s fun, it’s a game between the sexes, I like to play it. What of it?’

  ‘Well, yes, I did like it. But I was wondering, Max – you know. I mean, where there’s heat there’s fire, isn’t there? You’ve got fire, I’ve got fire. Everyone else around here seems so, so very, what’s the word? Boring. Sans passion. But you and me, now…’

  ‘Marie-Claire! Now you really are being ridiculous. What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Why does it have to be a game, Max? Yes, I like being appreciated, by men, by you. I think that’s normal, and natural. And I think that if there’s this attraction, then why not…’ She reached out and took his hand.

  ‘Max, I’m a woman, and I enjoy being attractive. It’s a natural thing, and I think you’re the only man around here who can understand. I wanted you to know that I like you, and to me, you’re not an old codger at all. You’re a very attractive man, mature and experienced. You can appreciate a woman. I just wanted you to know that I don’t mind if you want to take it further.’

  She pushed back her chair and stood up.

  ‘Max.’ Her voice was soft, seductive, almost a croon. ‘I like you, I really do. I…’ She took a step closer to him.

  Max, initially speechless with shock, almost leapt away.

  ‘Marie-Claire!’ he yelped. ‘Stop this! Stop it at once! How could you! How could you even think, that I, that we…’ He shook his head as if trying to shake off something particularly nasty. ‘You’re like a daughter to me! I’ve known you since you were a child… I – Marie-Claire, you’d better go. I’m sorry, but this-this is just ridiculous and so very wrong, inappropriate. Just go, please. I’m truly sorry – it was a-a misunderstanding.’ He blushed tomato red and turned away.

  Marie-Claire gasped. She saw his face, distorted with anger and embarrassment and even revulsion. She let out an agonised cry of deep humiliation, and swung round and rushed out the kitchen door, back out into the white wilderness, back the way she’d come. For the second time that day running away from a man who had rejected her, brought her shame, she plunged back down the road towards the chateau, as fast as the thick crunching snow would allow, and as she ran she felt something dying within her, engulfed by a red-hot sense of humiliation and embarrassment and complete mortification.

  Thirty-Three

  Victoire

  It might have been the worst Christmas of her life from a political point of view, not to mention from the culinary perspective, but for Victoire it was the best, the happiest.

  She was not a pretty girl. Of this she was convinced. Marie-Claire had always been acknowledged to be a beauty, and she was. She looked like a Vogue model or, some said, Greta Garbo, and had times been different, she surely would have had such a career, in magazines or on
screen. Victoire had always accepted her place in her sister’s shadow. It didn’t matter. She was not in the least interested in clothes or shoes, and how would a pretty face have helped her enjoy the things she did enjoy: animals, and walking through the forest, camping out with Jacques and fishing in streams? Jacques had taught her to use a slingshot, and she had once missed a rabbit by a hair’s breadth.

  And her favourite time of year had never been Christmas, but the vendange – the wine harvest, that time of year when the skies are vivid blue and the grapes are plump and bursting with nectar, bathed in golden sunshine, and everyone from the surrounding villages and even from further afield, tramps out and into the fields and moves up and down the stocks with their scissors and baskets, and the baskets fill up and are carried piggy-back to be loaded onto the waggons; and the heart sings and every day is a celebration. THAT was Victoire’s favourite time of year.

  This year, the second harvest since war had been declared, it had all been subdued; many of the younger men were still prisoners of war in Germany, so that there had been a shortage of picking hands, not to mention the grief for those young men who had been killed fighting for the French army, and the mourning of families and friends and communities. A grey cloud of angst had hovered over the event. There had been no celebration; this year, it had been only duty, and then came the invasion of Colmar and the grey cloud had sunk lower and infiltrated hearts and minds, and the boys, their boys, were still in captivity.

  So Christmas, this year, had promised to be a subdued thing, a matter of tradition rather than rejoicing. But then Leon and Lucien had returned, and then, today, there was this: Eric.

  Because she was not (in her own eyes) pretty, because of her rather masculine tastes in clothes and pre-war activities (after all, which self-respecting girl would spend her weekends camping in the forests, catching fish!), Victoire had not enjoyed what was seen as a normal adolescence and coming-of-age. Where other girls in her school class and from the village primped and preened themselves, and side-eyed boys, and were side-eyed in return, Victoire had found herself walking alone; not exactly excluded from the groups of girls who had been her childhood friends – for she was a friendly girl, liked and even loved by everyone – but unable to join in their conversations, lacking the necessary interests and enthusiasm. She had often wished she was more like Marie-Claire, more feminine; but on the other hand, she didn’t wish it, because it all seemed such a foreign world. But there it was: she had few close friends, and her extracurricular activities had been farm and garden work. She knew that one day she’d probably marry some neighbour’s son and have children of her own, but it wasn’t a future she thought about at all, because, after all, for now she was just a plain freckled farm-girl with a wild, tangled mop of hair.

  But today, there was Eric. Eric, a handsome young man just a year older than herself, rugged and strong and brave – he had walked to Alsace, over the mountains, all the way from Metz! Hiding from Nazis all the way! And had joined the Black Hand, those daring Resistance boys of Strasbourg – and a friend of Jacques besides, which was saying something, because Jacques did not befriend just anybody.

  And this Eric had not only called her pretty (he must be blind, or just kind), he had helped her with the most boring domestic duties, clearing the kitchen and washing dishes, and then they had gone for a long walk together, and they had talked and laughed as if they had known each other all their lives. It was extraordinary, a miracle.

  And then they had returned to the chateau and chopped wood together, and brought it in and stoked all the fires so that the house stayed warm and inviting for everyone; and she and Eric had sat together in the window-seat in the salon and, just as they had been doing all day, talked and laughed and teased each other, and, yes, flirted. Victoire had never known that she even knew how to flirt, but there she was, doing it, and he was flirting back, and she could tell; and her heart was full to bursting and this was the best Christmas of her life. And maybe, just maybe, she couldn’t be sure, she was falling in love. And maybe – she was even less sure about this, but that thing shining in his eyes – almost a voice, it was, and she thought she could read it, but didn’t want to presume anything – just maybe, she dared hardly think it, he too was falling in love. With her.

  It was too good to be true. A Christmas miracle.

  Thirty-Four

  Marie-Claire

  Marie-Claire came home, and went straight to her room. She could not bear to meet anyone, and luckily, she did not have to. As she slipped down the hallway she could hear voices in the kitchen and in the salon. Everyone seemed to be having a jolly time, soaking in the Christmas spirit that had always evaded her. She had not seen Jacques on the way back; if she had, she’d have found a way to avoid him. He had finished shovelling the snow, though. The road up from the village was still snow-covered, so it seemed a useless endeavour to have shovelled up to the gate and then left it. Usually everyone would pitch in with a shovel so that the way down to the village was clear – but not today.

  Up in her room, she collapsed onto her bed, pulled a blanket over herself against the chill and sank into the deep swamp of self-recrimination, blame-assignment, reproach. Why had she made a fool of herself? Twice today, in a matter of hours. Before breakfast. Twice, thrown herself at men who categorically rejected her. Rejected her. How was that even possible? Rejection was hers to dole out. It was the prerogative of a beautiful woman to be desired and courted; how could she have been so stupid, been so overconfident she had failed to read the signs?

  But then, surely it was their fault. Something must be very wrong with Jacques. She did not accept the ‘I see you as my sister’ excuse. He was surely hiding something. Did he have a secret lover, perhaps? But even then, no real man would reject the opportunity she had offered. It was a rejection not only of her body but of her entire self.

  And then Max. Max, the ultimate ladies’ man. Yes, Max was a bit rough around the edges, but she had a soft spot for that rugged masculinity he exuded; it was the very thing she liked about Jacques, in fact. Sophisticated men were a dime a dozen, even in Colmar, and they were easy to wrap round one’s finger. They bored her. But Max – why on earth would an older man like him (he was surely approaching fifty now, like her mother) not jump at the chance of a young and beautiful woman offering herself on a plate? Her cheeks turned hot at the memory. Oh, the humiliation! The degradation!

  How could she ever live this down? How could she ever face either of them ever again? What if they spoke of it to each other, or to others in the family, laughed at her, mocked her? She buried her face in her hands and gave out a low, long moan of utter vexation and mortification. How could she ever, ever recover her dignity after today? Hold her head up high?

  She threw back the blanket and stood up. Paced the room, her hands tucked into her armpits for warmth. She had to think, do something to recover that lost pride. She could not live with such a humiliating defeat. It was a vital necessity that she recover her self-worth, find validation. Now, immediately. She could not live with this gnawing sense of having been spurned, not only by the man she loved (had once loved, for she would now expunge that feeling from her heart, come what may; dig it out, tear it to pieces, never let it take root again!), but by a man of the stature of Max Dolch.

  She needed to take action. Today. That lost self-possession had to be regained – she had no way of continuing otherwise. She could not live a single day longer with this sense of having been torn into rags. The only way to put this defeat behind her and stand up straight again was to turn it into a victory. Right now. With someone else.

  There were three more men in the house: her two brothers and that boy, Eric. He was very handsome, with his dark hair falling over his forehead, and was in possession of that male ruggedness that had always attracted her. Had she been a few years younger, he a few years older, she would certainly have regarded Eric as worthy of her attention. Not overtly, of course – a clever woman was never overt. But s
he would have played with him, deployed this little feminine wile or that, to elicit his devotion.

  Obviously, he was too young for her, more in Victoire’s area, but Victoire obviously had nothing to offer, with her wild, unkempt hair, freckles, too-wide mouth and badly-fitting men’s clothes. Eric would be a pushover. Young men were hungry for older women, beautiful older women. Such liaisons raised them up. It would be too easy, really, but in the state she was in, he’d have to do – she didn’t have much choice. She had to take what was available. A little harmless flirt, that spark of admiration in a man’s eyes. That would be enough to recover, just a little, from this morning’s disaster. The rest would be set in motion once she returned to Colmar. In Colmar, men were falling over themselves to court her, and she held all the cards. But in today’s emergency, Eric would have to do. A plaster on a bleeding wound.

  Apart from that, she was feeling the pangs of hunger. She would go down to the kitchen, see what there was to eat (hopefully, Victoire would be around to fry her a fresh egg or two, and maybe even make her a pancake, if there was any flour left over), and then go off in search of Eric.

  It was a plan, and it immediately bolstered her flagging pride. She sought the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face to remove the tear-trails and to return the colour to her cheeks. She regarded herself in the mirror over the bathroom sink: she’d need a lick of make-up. Returning to her bedroom, she fixed her face, changed into a less crumpled set of clothes, tidied her hair and made her way to the stairs. It was amazing how a bit of lipstick and rouge could entirely restore a woman’s poise. Miraculous.

  * * *

  The old ladies – Aunts Hélène and Sophie – were in the kitchen when she finally came down, sitting at the central table and laughing at something Maman, standing at the stove, stirring a pot, had just said. They all looked round and smiled at her as she entered. Christmas greetings and kisses were exchanged, questions asked about sleep-ins and hunger and desire for coffee. Marie-Claire behaved as expected, smiled and kissed with the requisite serenity and indicated her desire for coffee. It was as ever: a warm cosy kitchen, good cheer, hospitality, everyone relaxed and without a care in the world – if one put aside that one overriding care, the war, of course, a taboo subject today.