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

by Sharon Maas

  * * *

  From bad to worse. In August of that year of despair, Gauleiter Wagner declared it official: since Alsace was an integral part of Germany, its men, like all German men, were to be conscripted into the Wehrmacht, to take effect immediately. Over the rest of the year some 100,000 young Alsatians were drafted by force into the German armed forces.

  Leon and Lucien were among them.

  Many of the new conscripts ran away to join the Resistance; Jacques was able to recruit several of these. But those men who refused conscription saw their entire family deported after they refused to serve. Leon and Lucien went willingly for this reason.

  ‘To hell with this conscription!’ fumed Margaux. ‘I won’t see my sons fighting on the German side! We will cope. Don’t worry about us. I will bribe them all. I will bribe the Gauleiter. I’ll offer him my entire cellar of prime wine.’

  But her sons were loyal. They joined the host of Alsatian conscripts known as the Malgré-nous, the ‘in-spite-of-us’ forced into the German army. Like most of the Malgré-nous, they were sent off to the Eastern Front to avoid a conflict of interest.

  Jacques was not called up. His father had had the prescience, before the war, to hand over the legal reins of his business to his son. Jacques was a winemaker, a protected trade. But he no longer practised; his maquisard troupe, augmented by the new horde of young men refusing conscription, needed a strong leader. This was more important than wine.

  Of Margaux’s four children, only one, Victoire, remained at home.

  Of Maxence’s two, not one remained.

  * * *

  Christmas that year was again not celebrated at the chateau, beyond the obligatory Midnight Mass, whatever spark of hope they had still nurtured the previous year now completely extinguished. War might not yet have arrived in Alsace, but its shadow had sunk into every heart and its heaviness was hard to bear.

  Yet still, they all survived and, one day at a time, struggled on, devoid of hope and faith, merely going through the motions of survival. With Leon and Lucien fighting on the front line in Poland, Jacques as a Resistance fighter with his own life on the line and Juliette in the hands of the enemy, even prayer could not keep hope alive.

  Victoire alone held up her chin. ‘As long as there is breath in my body, I will not give up,’ she said. And: ‘Juliette is out there somewhere. I know it.’

  In Strasbourg, Marie-Claire had another miscarriage. It happened during a visit to her friend Silke’s house, so Silke was on hand to comfort and console Marie-Claire, folding her into her arms and allowing her to weep.

  ‘Come, dear, it will be all right. This happens sometimes. You must mourn this lost child, but soon you will be pregnant again and one day you will hold a baby in your arms.’

  ‘But I wanted this one! I did! It was the last hope I had! The only thing I could live for!’

  ‘Nonsense! You have so much to live for. One day this silly war will be at an end and you will be happy with a brood of children around you. You must be strong and carry on.’

  ‘But I can’t! I just can’t!’ wailed Marie-Claire. ‘I can’t go on! I can’t bear it! I hate my life! I hate him!’

  Silke’s eyes opened wide. ‘You mean, your husband?’

  ‘Yes! Him! He’ll want to make another baby but I just can’t do it any more! I can’t do that thing! I can’t make any more babies!’

  ‘Oh, my dear, you say that now but soon you will feel better about everything.’

  ‘No, I won’t, I can’t! Oh, Silke, it’s not just about the baby I lost. It’s about him! It’s about everything! It’s about living life with a man who is evil.’

  Silke pulled away. Her brow knitted. ‘What do you mean, evil?’

  Marie-Claire could hold it in no longer. ‘He is, Silke, he is! I don’t know what he does in that cursed camp but I know, I just know, whatever it is, it’s not good. It’s a place of… of something really terrible. I can feel it, sense it when he comes home on Fridays. It’s like this whole layer of rot that surrounds him. I can’t describe it.’

  Silke said, ‘You should not be saying these things, Margarethe. You should not. You should be supportive of your husband. At least try to be.’

  ‘How can I be supportive if I don’t even know what he is doing? How can I be supportive of a bad man? What about you, Silke? Do you support your husband?’

  Caught unawares by the question, Silke stuttered a reply. ‘Well, um – yes, yes, of course, I mean, what else can I do? I mean, I try. I try to be a good wife and support him in every way.’

  ‘But does he support you? Does he care for you, love you? I feel so lonely, Silke. My husband only married me because he had to be married and to have someone to screw at the weekend.’

  ‘Margarethe! You should not talk like that!’

  ‘I’m sick of not saying what I really think. Sick of it all. Sick of this war. Sick of Hitler and his damned Nationalsozialismus! It’s terrible, terrible, and I don’t know how any sane person can believe in it! This whole war, Silke, is being fought for the sake of a single madman. Hitler is mad, off his head. Have you read Mein Kampf?’

  The question came like a shot, catching Silke unawares. ‘Well, yes, yes, of course I have.’

  ‘What did you think of it, honestly? What do you think of Hitler? Of Nazism?’

  ‘Margarethe, please! We should not be talking of such things. It’s disloyal. If anyone heard you…’

  ‘I just don’t care any more. And someone is hearing me – you are. Are you going to report me, turn me in for the heresy of saying what I think?’

  ‘N-n-n-no, of course I won’t turn you in, Margarethe. I do understand, in a way – I know what you mean. It’s hard for me, too, and deep inside I do sometimes wonder…’

  ‘I think we are all brainwashed. I think it’s all humbug. I think it’s dangerous humbug and people are being killed and Europe is one big slaughterhouse because of this one man. That’s what I truly, deeply think. And I think you know it too. You’re a good woman, Silke, you must know, you must feel, it’s not right.’

  Silke said nothing. She hung her head. After a while she whispered, ‘Margarethe, I-I do know what you mean, in a way I know, but I-I can’t ever say it out loud. I can’t, I just… can’t. Klaus would kill me if he knew some of my thoughts. I don’t want to think them but they are there, and I can’t help it, it’s just these doubts, these questions, is it really true what they say, is it a good thing what we are doing, is it Christian?’

  Marie-Claire snatched at Silke’s hands, squeezed them, until at last the other woman raised her head and looked her in the eye. Marie-Claire saw reflected in those eyes the very same anguish she herself felt. ‘No! No, it’s not Christian at all and yet we all go to church on Sundays, and yet we support this horrible thing! Silke, you must not be afraid of your own thoughts. I think we know it’s not right. I think we should be able to talk about it, about our misgivings. It’s all just wrong. The camp is wrong, the war is wrong, our husbands are wrong, Hitler is wrong. We must be able to say these things, to each other, if not aloud!’

  Silke pulled her hands away. She looked down again, and said nothing. Then she looked up, and whispered, ‘Perhaps you’re right. But it’s not safe to even think these thoughts, Margarethe. Let’s not talk about it any more.’

  And they never again brought up the subject.

  * * *

  But a few weeks after this conversation, Marie-Claire rang Silke and asked her to come over. When she opened the door, Silke gasped in horror.

  ‘What happened! Who did that to you?’ Marie-Claire’s right eye was surrounded by a smudge of dark purple.

  ‘I told you he was evil, Silke. This is not the first time he’s hit me. Smack in the face, because I had the temerity to fight back at… at night, when he rapes me.’

  ‘But, Margarethe, he is your husband! It’s not rape! It’s your duty! You cannot call it rape!’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it and I choose to call it rap
e. Of course, it’s easier if I don’t resist but sometimes I just can’t help myself and-and this is the result. I then just hide myself away for a few days so that it goes away. But I wanted you to see. To know. This is not a good man, Silke. And I have decided to call it rape. And I wanted you to see for yourself.’

  Fifty-Two

  1943

  The fourth year of the decade was the turning point. The good news was that the war, like a huge ocean liner sluggishly changing course to return whence it came, slowly turned on its axle. Slowly, slowly, hope grew in the hearts of all those beneath the Nazi boot that the war could be won, the war would be won, this brutal Goliath was not invincible.

  On the Eastern Front, the bloody Battle of Stalingrad, which had seen some of the fiercest combats of the war, came to an end over the winter, due to dwindling food and medical supplies. The last of the German troops there surrendered on 31 January. For the Nazis it was all downhill from then on.

  But in Alsace there was no respite, and for the Gauthier and Dolch families, no news of loved ones; quite the opposite. Leon had been killed in Poland. Lucien was still fighting the lost cause on the Eastern Front, and they could only cling to hope for his survival.

  And Juliette was still in Nazi hands, leaving a gaping hole in the joint family’s heart. Certainly, they were all worried sick over Lucien; that he too might fall, any day. But at least they knew where Lucien was, what he was doing. For someone to be missing, to be gouged out of their midst with no hint of where they might be and what might have happened, whether they were dead or alive – that was the worst.

  Just before the wine harvest, Jacques called another meeting at his father’s house. Victoire’s heart raced like a jackhammer – it seemed to her it must surely break. News, Jacques had said. News of Juliette? She could only imagine what it must be like for Maxence.

  Over the past year the two of them, father and daughter, had forged a new closeness, a slow and tender readjustment of their relationship. For Victoire, it was a strange thing, knowing that the man who had, for most of her life, played a father’s role really was her father, and she was, at first, awkward, reticent, towards him. But he had trod carefully, sensitively, and over time the initial discomfort had melted away, added to which the shared anxiety over Juliette had built an unshakeable bond.

  Now, she sat next to him on the sofa in the salon, her hand clasped within his. He placed an arm round her and pulled her close; both knew that Jacques had new information, and that it could possibly be the worst.

  Once they were all together – Margaux, Victoire, Maxence and Hélène – Jacques began.

  ‘One of the Natzweiler prisoners was able to escape,’ said Jacques . ‘He was working on the quarry and managed it, somehow. He hid in the forest and was eventually found by one of my men keeping an eye on the area. I brought him to the Free French intelligence services I’m in contact with. They passed some information on to me.’

  He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and looked up, and then away again – the pain was hard to take, the pain etched into the faces of those who waited for his words, the pleading pain of the eyes fixed on his, begging for release. Begging for some titbit of hope. Because hope was not his to give.

  ‘First of all, let me get this out of the way. I have no news of Juliette.’

  An audible sigh went through the room as everyone breathed out, the sigh of hope escaping. Jacques continued: ‘This escaped prisoner has not seen her. There are no women in the camp, he says. It’s all men, political prisoners, mostly, some criminals. Not many Jews, and the Jews that are there are also there for political reasons. Nathan was there. And he knew Nathan. And…’ Jacques gulped audibly. ‘…and Nathan is dead.’

  Gasps, moans, groans filled the room. Victoire’s face fell into her hands and she sobbed aloud. Maxence, next to her, pulled her close, stroked her hair. Margaux and Hélène, too, arms round each other, drew closer still and wept.

  Nathan was not a family member; they hardly knew him. But he was the love of Juliette’s life and they, too, had learned to love him that Christmas season of 1941; they had learned to love his earnest reticence, the depth of his arduous determination to fight the Nazi scourge, the might of his love for Juliette.

  ‘What happened?’ whispered Margaux. Jacques, obviously struggling with emotion himself, continued.

  ‘We’ve learned so much, now, of what goes on within that camp. It’s a terrible, awful place. The men work in the quarry nearby, but are so malnourished they can hardly walk; once they are too weak to work they are executed. Every day there are executions, on the top terrace of the camp. Everyone is forced to watch. By the time a man is ready for execution he’s a living skeleton, and that was Nathan’s case. He could hardly walk up the terraces: to climb the terrace steps, he had to reach down and lift his thighs, one at a time. Our man knew him. He had shared one of the barracks with him. He was killed in April of this year.’

  By this time, all the women in the room were openly weeping, and Maxence too visibly fighting his own tears. Jacques spoke with tears in his voice, faltering, sniffing as he spoke, but speaking nevertheless.

  ‘I know it’s hard to take but I still want you to know. I want you to know the worst of it so that we all know what exactly we are fighting. We cannot hide from this knowledge.’

  He paused, took a deep breath, and continued.

  ‘There’s a building, right at the bottom of the complex, with a tall chimney poking out of the roof. It’s a crematorium. It’s where all the dead bodies are burned. It’s where they took Nathan’s body. Our man was a witness. Other prisoners have to do the work of carrying the bodies to the crematorium. You can see the smoke coming out of the chimney. You can smell it. The stench is everywhere.’

  ‘And… and Juliette? Is there really no news at all about her?’

  ‘Not a word,’ said Jacques. ‘As I said, there are no women in Struthof, or at least no female permanent prisoners. It’s a transit camp, so some prisoners move on to other camps in the east, and occasionally a woman passes through. But there is no news at all of Juliette. I’m sorry. But at least we know about Nathan. The thing is…’

  Jacques turned to Victoire. ‘Can’t you try again, with Marie-Claire? I know she refused to help when you tried last year but she’s our most valuable link. I’ve tried everything to find out more, but it’s all been in vain. If only she wanted to help, I’m sure she could.’

  Victoire wiped her eyes on her sleeve, sniffed and said, ‘Marie-Claire is as stubborn as she always was. She’s unhappy in her marriage – desperately unhappy. But she won’t help. She says she can’t. She says she can’t possibly approach her husband. She doesn’t dare.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, why doesn’t the foolish girl just come home?’

  ‘Maman, it’s not as simple as that. She says her husband is dangerous. If she were to leave him to come home she’d bring that danger to all of us.’

  ‘So what? We’re family, aren’t we? We should face this together.’

  Jacques shook his head. ‘Empty bravado isn’t going to help. Her husband is Dietrich Kurtz. He’s the Schutzhaftlagerführer. He’s directly responsible for order in the camp. He assigns prisoners to the outside work details. And he assigns prisoners due for execution. He is, most likely, the one who ordered Nathan’s execution. In the camp, they call him Doctor Death. That’s who we’re dealing with. That’s Marie-Claire’s husband.’

  Victoire whimpered. ‘Poor, poor Marie-Claire! No wonder she’s so frantic, so terrified of him! But what can we do, Jacques? I bet he knows exactly what happened to Juliette – she was captured in Natzwiller village. Surely they brought her to him, and he knows? He must know!’

  ‘I’m sure he knows. But I’m not sure Marie-Claire can help, if she’s so terrified of him.’

  Victoire nodded in acknowledgement. ‘That’s what she said. He doesn’t bring his work home, and he won’t talk about it to her. And – and she’s terrified of him. He’s a bea
st, and now I know who he really is – who my sister is living with – there must be a way, surely? I have to do something!’

  It was a wail. Victoire, unable to contain her grief and her anxiety, stood up, casting off Maxence’s comforting arms. ‘You’re right, Jacques. I have to try again. I’m going back to Marie-Claire. She must help. I can’t believe we’re so close, and yet so far! I’ll find a way. I swear it. I made a huge mistake the last time. I was so concerned about Juliette I failed to acknowledge Marie-Claire and her own plight. Marie-Claire was right: I was using her. We’re all using her, and that’s not right. Especially you, Jacques.’

  ‘I’m not…’

  ‘Yes, you are. Jacques, you are. She loved you and you used her – oh yes, you didn’t use her for personal gratification, but you used her all the same, for your political ends, and that’s just as bad. You didn’t really see her, and realise that she’s in trouble up to her neck. And when she wouldn’t be used any more you didn’t care, did you? You thought you were better than her. You think you’re the brave important freedom fighter and Marie-Claire is just a silly vain little girl who wouldn’t do what you wanted, wouldn’t spy for you. And because she wouldn’t, you turned your back on her. And even when I told you about her husband, what did you say? Marie-Claire made her bed, and now she has to lie in it.

  ‘Maybe if we’d all talked to her more in the past, held her close, she wouldn’t be in this horrible situation. And the very first time in her life Marie-Claire opened up to me, reached out to me, I failed her. Anyway, it’s not too late. I’m going to talk to her again. I’m going to ring her – tomorrow! And I’m going to let her know I’m there for her. I’m going, not to ask her a favour, but because she needs me, needs her family. She needs all of us, but we’ve failed her. And continue to fail her: we see her only as a means to an end, that end being Juliette. But first and foremost, Marie-Claire needs us. And that’s why I’ll go back to her and try to make amends. I’ve left it far too long.