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

by Sharon Maas

  ‘You look twenty years older, Marie-Claire!’ said Klara. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve made my decision,’ said Marie-Claire. ‘He might be a catch but I don’t want him. You all can have him – I don’t care. Like I said, the bet is off.’

  ‘So then, what will you do if it turns out he still wants you?’

  She shrugged as she reached for the coffee pot.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll just discourage him.’

  After breakfast they all walked over to the Mairie together, arms linked, in twos and threes along the pavement, a brisk fifteen-minute march. The security guards put up their usual little flirtation game; the girls flirted back, winked and blew kisses, entered the building, made their way to the secretarial office, removed coats and hats and slung them over the coat-stand, hung their handbags on the backs of chairs or set them on the floor, hiked up their skirts to sit down at their desks, removed the covers on their typewriters. The clatter of typewriter keys soon replaced the buzz of early-morning chatter as everyone set to work. Marie placed three sheets of clean paper, two sheets of carbon between them, and opened her notebook, and soon her fingers danced over the keys as she translated the shorthand symbols into a clean typewritten report. But at the back of her mind lurked disquiet – when would he summon her? What would she say, and do, should he be as familiar today as he was yesterday?

  But it did not happen. She was not summoned, and soon the rumour reached them that the Kreisleiter had gone to Strasbourg for talks and would be there for a week or two. Marie-Claire relaxed, but her respite was brief. At the end of that week a shipment of a hundred copies of Mein Kampf arrived. Mayor Grötzinger summoned her to his office.

  ‘You’re to begin work immediately – those are the instructions. I’ve already given orders for a list of all couples who have married in the last three months to be compiled. Fräulein Bock from the Bürgeramt will have it ready for you. Your work is to start immediately. Today.’

  * * *

  ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Marie-Claire!’

  Marie-Claire bowed her head. She was ashamed of herself, but it was a shame she needed to keep hidden, for her own self-respect. She raised her chin defiantly, and looked her former classmate, Michelle Perreau, in the eye. In German, she said:

  ‘That’s Fräulein Gauss, if you please. I am Margarethe Gauss now. Do not use my old name. And you should be addressing me in German, not in French. I’ll let it pass this time, but it’s the last time. And, Fräulein Pelzer—’

  ‘Don’t call me that! I’m still Michelle Perreau! I will never submit to your nasty Nazi rules!’

  ‘I’m going to have to report you for speaking French again, after you have been warned. It’s not a joke.’

  She changed her tone, dropping the brisk and bossy tenor. She continued, in German, in a more conciliatory, pleading even, timbre: ‘You must speak German, Martina. You must use your new name. You must get used to the changes! Trust me, it’s for the best and easier in the long run. The Germans are here to stay. Alsace is German now and the sooner we adapt, the better. Please. I’m asking this in your own interest. Refusing to do so will only mean trouble for you down the line. And, read the book. Please. I’m telling you, confidentially, that perhaps someone from the Mairie will come along to test you, and it’s vital that you toe the line.’

  ‘Never! I will never toe the Nazi line! The book is going straight into the rubbish, or rather, into the fireplace, to give us some warmth at least. I will never speak German to a Frenchwoman, to an Alsatian – and that’s what you are, Marie-Claire! I don’t know what’s come over you. I used to like you. I don’t like this person you’ve become, a Nazi pawn.’

  ‘Well, I tried my best.’ Marie-Claire tapped the book she’d laid on the sideboard. ‘I’m leaving this here. Please read it, for your own good. And ask your husband to read it. Congratulations, by the way. I always liked Eugène— I mean, Eugen. I wish you a happy marriage. Please, consider what I told you and try to adapt. I won’t report you after all. I know how difficult it is to switch to German in everything, but you must, and eventually, you will. Germany is winning this war, Martina, and the sooner you accept that reality, the better. Alsace is already part of Germany, part of Baden. Sooner or later, you must comply.’

  ‘Never! Jamais!’ cried Michelle as Marie-Claire slipped the backpack onto her shoulders and stepped out into the street.

  Marie-Claire ignored her. Adjusted the weight of the backpack – it held three more volumes of Mein Kampf – and strode away. Three more newly-wed couples to visit in Colmar. And then it would be out into the villages. And everywhere, up to now, the reception had been the same. Some of the women – it was always the wives, the husbands being out at work – knew her from school, or through her mother, and always they threw insults at her, rebuked her for her ‘disgusting collaboration’.

  But it wasn’t collaboration, was it? It was just a job, like any other. This was the reality, and they would all accept it in time. One had to be pragmatic in times of major societal change. Resistance was futile. There was nothing to discuss: this was the new reality. Marie-Claire shouldered the animosity just as she did the backpack, with stoicism. They would all come round in the end. She stopped, looked at her list and crossed the road.

  Forty

  Marie-Claire

  Three weeks had passed. She had not seen Kurtz in that time but then, she was mostly out of the office, trundling through the Alsace countryside on old buses that huffed and puffed their way up and downhill, into the villages. She had in those three weeks delivered fourteen copies of Mein Kampf to newly married couples, as well as to couples about to be married. Each time, she had attempted to put on an enthusiastic face for the work – it was, after all, just work – smiling and encouraging the couples to read it; it would make life so much easier! But each attempt to push the Führer’s doctrine down unwilling throats was met with resistance, if not blank hostility, and she had long started to hate the task, long started to dread the lonely excursions into the more remote villages, knowing full well the reception that invariably awaited her. Marie-Claire, accustomed to reaping admiration and/or envy from other females, did not at all relish this new role of public enemy, a lightning rod for furious wives who had no intention of ever reading the book, and who no doubt, like Michelle Perreau, used its pages as kindling.

  But it kept her away from the office, away from him. That was the one good thing about it. However, the backlog of newly-weds from the last three months was coming to an end, and henceforth there would be fewer trips to be made and, as a consequence, more time spent in the office. Time she dreaded. The last time she’d seen him, there was no mistaking the simultaneously calculating and covetous look in his eyes. He wanted her. She could tell. She’d seen that look in many a man’s eye in the past, and had prided herself on her ability to keep them at arm’s length even while basking in the glow of undeclared yearning; it was good to be wanted. Just not to be wanted by him.

  Her new-found friends could not understand it, and loud was their rebuke. She must, they advised and admonished her, get over her antipathy. A woman’s ultimate power lay in exactly this: the power to weaken the defences of a powerful man. This placed her above him. She should rejoice, and be glad: ‘Play him for all you’re worth. He’s your ticket to Paris. Paris is what you always wanted, isn’t it? Never mind his character. Once you’ve got him you’ll be able to wrap him round your little finger. Especially after you’ve had a child or two.’

  That was their reasoning. Hers was simpler: she did not love him. She hardly liked him. She couldn’t bear the thought of him even touching her, much less of making babies with him.

  ‘Pffft!’ said Klara. ‘Just close your eyes and do it, like most women in history. He’s your ticket to the world you always dreamed of, we all dream of. I can just see you swanning down the rue de Rivoli, in furs. Once the war’s over, of course; as it will be soon. We’re winning, and then you’ll win. But if y
ou really don’t want him…’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Then send him to me.’

  Ursula, more sensitive and insightful than the others, placed a hand on hers. ‘Who is this fellow you’ve set your heart on, Margarethe? Why couldn’t you get him? Is he married or something?’

  Her reply was instantaneous:

  ‘There’s no one!’

  But Ursula only shook her head and smiled enigmatically. ‘Well, I think I detect something there. But it’s obviously not possible, whoever it is, so I suggest you just close your eyes, as Klara said, and get on with it.’

  ‘He’ll soon lose interest anyway, once you’ve had a baby or two and lost your figure,’ put in Ursula. ‘That’s what men are like. He’ll be after the latest model, quite literally, if you’re over in Paris, and leave you in peace.’

  ‘You can even have a lover of your own,’ said Klara. ‘Isn’t that what French women do? They all have lovers.’

  ‘How could you say such a thing!’ Ursula’s rebuke was sharp. ‘That’s not the behaviour of a good wife. What would the Führer say if he heard you! Even if he were to take a lover, Margarethe, you must remain faithful, a good and loyal wife.’

  ‘Ah yes, you and your What would the Führer say? motto. I can imagine it even inscribed on your gravestone, Ursula: “The Führer said I was a worthy woman”. I’m afraid I’m not so beholden.’

  ‘If you ask me, all I care about is that she doesn’t forget us, once she’s sitting in her posh maison in Paris! You will remember us, won’t you, Margarethe, and invite us over? Remember, it’s thanks to us you—’

  ‘Oh, just shut up!’ cried Marie-Claire, and fled the kitchen. She’d had enough – it was always like this, the teasing, the encouragement, the pronouncements, the advice, the predictions. It was a slow manipulation of her psyche, a tedious breaking down of her resolutions, almost a brainwashing, and there was no one there to talk it through with. No one to back her up. Sometimes she held imaginary conversations with her mother. She knew exactly what Margaux would say. Her horror would be off the scale; and it was only through such mental gymnastics that she was able to stay the course.

  But tomorrow – tomorrow she’d be seeing him. There was no way around it, no excuse: he’d be there, and he had asked her, through a private note in an envelope, to be present at three in the afternoon in his office. He had never done this before. All her instincts told her that this was not for a simple shorthand session. There was something deeply personal in the flourish of his signature.

  Dietrich Kurtz. He had signed with his full name. He never, ever, did that.

  * * *

  Is awkwardness contagious? As she walked up the stairs to Kurtz’s office Marie-Claire wondered if it had started with him or with her. Surely not with him. Kurtz was the most dominant, domineering almost, man she’d ever met. The moment he walked into a room the people in it stiffened, jumped to attention, watched him. Awkwardness did not at all suit him, yet it was there. And yes, she was used to self-assured men behaving like sycophantic lumps of jelly when it came to making intelligent conversation with her. They simply didn’t know what to say, because their brains seemed to melt. Turn to mush. It was a power she’d always enjoyed but never exploited – she liked keeping them at a distance while at the same time allowing them to hope, to dream, and until recently, until last Christmas, it had worked well.

  She’d never actually regarded Kurtz as a man in the normal, human, sense, certainly not as someone to test her charms on. He was an SS representative of the highest order, a man who had probably even hobnobbed with the Führer, and so belonged to an entirely different stratum of humankind – more a robot with human attributes, a distant relative to what one would normally think of as a living, breathing human. And yes, he had his weaknesses: his smoking habit – definitely an addiction – and his propensity for uncouth, or inappropriate, language, words that fell just short of being vulgar, blurted out when on the phone with his obnoxious adversary. Das ist ja Unsinn! What nonsense! being a favourite of his, or, Verdammt noch mal! Damn it! Once, he’d blurted out Leck mich am Arsch! Lick my ass! But it must have been inadvertent, because he’d immediately looked at her and turned red, and she’d also blushed, in embarrassment for him.

  She had no idea who this person was he seemed to be perpetually in heated dialogue with. It was obviously always the same person, because the belligerent, annoyed tone was always the same; the person seemed to be perpetually delivering bad news to him, the details of which remained obscure to her. He still engaged in furious typing sessions. She was certain that, had she been still spying for Jacques, she’d have been able to deliver gold. He’d certainly been pleased with the three spools she’d sent to him before the Christmas fiasco. Sometimes, she was tempted to continue; to once again check the progress of the ribbon, observe how full it was, remove it, pass it to Madame Guyon – but no. That episode was over.

  Now, her feet dragged as she walked up the stairs. It was all so embarrassing. He was Nazi top brass – he should not be susceptible to female allure. She did not want or need it; she had accepted Klara’s challenge, really, as a joke, not for one moment believing she had a chance. She’d have laughed at the end of it and said to the girls, in a charming display of sportsmanship: well, you can’t win them all! That man’s made of stone! It had been a bloody game. But he had pre-empted her, revealed a weakness, and she had no idea how to deal with it.

  Reluctantly, she knocked on the door, waited for his bark of herein!, pressed the handle, pushed it open and walked in.

  There he was at his desk, pen in hand, writing in that eternal ledger. He looked up as she entered. He never used to do this, and it unnerved her. It was far too familiar. She longed for the early days when a barrier of sheer awe, issuing from her to him, kept the appropriate distance between them in place. Now, he even smiled. She preferred not to smile back, but she couldn’t afford to be rude; yet she didn’t want to encourage him. The whole situation flummoxed her.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Fräulein Gauss.’ He looked at his watch; she knew she was five minutes late. It was deliberate. Just as, now and then, she allowed spelling and grammar mistakes to creep into her work. Perhaps, with some luck, he’d have had enough of her flaws soon and would exchange her for Erika. Or Klara. Both of whom were pretty and willing and eager for his attentions. But her lack of punctuality seemed not to bother him.

  Instead, he seemed to stumble into a pit of indecision, fumbling for the right words, hemming and hawing. ‘Aaaaahhh, Fräulein Gauss, I was wondering if… I’ve had a bit of news of late – good news, in fact, and – well, we work so well together, you and I – you’ve been an excellent assistant and I’m very pleased with you… I thought that perhaps you might consider…’

  She couldn’t bear it. She lowered her eyes and stared at the floor while he stuttered and stammered, hearing without listening. She could not meet his eyes. It was awful.

  This discombobulation went on for a good five minutes; he spoke without actually saying anything. He asked her to take a seat, and she did, still not looking at him. She fidgeted, prepared her notebook and her pencil, rose up when he still didn’t find the point he was trying to say and threw a log onto the fire. And then he did find the point.

  ‘Fräulein Gauss, I’ve just received news of a promotion, to Strasbourg. It’s an important post and I intend to accept it. I am hoping you will accompany me as my personal secretary. We work well as a team and I see no reason to discontinue what is, in effect, a positive and extremely beneficial – aaaah – collaboration.’

  Now she looked at him, mouth agape. It wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting. She thought he’d proposition her in some way – invite her to the cinema, or a restaurant, or both. That was the way of most men, and surely… had she perhaps misjudged him? Had her vanity run away with her? Was he really only interested in her as an efficient – though slightly sloppy of late – personal secretary? But no. The glaze that sometimes flickered in his eyes: she had not imag
ined that. Perhaps this was his simply his method. A long, drawn-out collaboration, which would one day lead to more? She’d have to talk to the girls about it.

  Now, she closed her mouth, opened it again. Words came out, the first words she could think of.

  ‘I-I’m sorry, it’s all so sudden – I don’t know – I need time to think – a lot to think about… Please, let me consider…’

  ‘Certainly. Of course you must think about it. However, I do require an answer by tomorrow. And now, let’s get down to work.’ It was as if he’d flicked an internal switch – now he was all efficiency, diligence and level-headed dispassion. He had donned his armour again. She much preferred him this way.

  But he had placed a problem before her, and she had no idea how to solve it.

  He didn’t give her the promised time to solve it. He solved it for her.

  Forty-One

  A sudden letter that had to be dictated, today, after work, when everyone else was about to go home. She’d put away her notepad and had crouched before the fireplace to put out the last glowing embers. She picked up the poker and thrust it into the hearth, nudging the embers apart, burying them in ashes. He, for some reason, was still at his desk, fiddling in its drawers as if searching for some obscure item. That in itself was unusual. And what on earth had been so very important about that letter? It had been a perfectly routine one, one that could very well have been done the following day, the following week. She was aware of his presence at the desk as a sort of itching at the nape of her neck, a need to watch her back, look behind her.

  The embers now buried in ash, the tiles before the hearth swept, Marie-Claire stood up, eager to flee the room so filled with the presence of Kurtz. She glanced at the clock; the entire building, by now, would be empty. She was quite alone with him, and that realisation made her want to hurry yet more, escape the room, race down the stairs, grab her coat and hat and bolt from the building as fast as her legs could carry her.