The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  ‘Encourage him how?’ Suddenly her courage failed her, and she felt like a child again. She had spent her life in a convent and she knew nothing about men – if you didn't count creepy Mr Kingston. ‘I don’t even know what sort of woman he likes. What if he has a girl already? Or several?’

  ‘I don't think he has. He doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the local collaborateurs horizontales.’

  Catriona winced at her uncle’s description of those women who had sexual relations with the Germans, often for money. ‘I don't want to be seen as one of them…’

  Gaston looked aghast. ‘I’m not suggesting… Look, Frederik Schroeder is an educated man. He often speaks of music – Beethoven and Mozart in particular. And he reads. So seducing him might be a more intellectual task than a physical one.’

  ‘I’ll try that then.’ Her voice quavered.

  Her uncle embraced her tightly, and kissed the top of her head. ‘Ah, Catriona. You look so much like my little sister and she was brave like you. Nobody wanted her to marry your father – he wasn’t the right stock shall we say – but she did it anyway. And he turned out to be a very fine man, and someone I was privileged to call a friend. I commend you, Catriona. Your mother would be so very proud of you, as am I. Now, go. If you are away from the other workers much longer, questions may be asked.’

  He led her through the shadowy cellars to the steps that mounted to the lawn. When she was nearly at the door, he called to her from below. ‘Do you see that weather vane near the lily pond?’

  She could, through the open door – a small very old metal cockerel on a pole, only head height, throwing a long shadow across the grass in the lowering sun. It had been there for as long as she could remember.

  ‘Yes?’ she called softly, to where Gaston stood in the shadows.

  ‘He’s too rusty to move in the wind now. But if you need me, twist his head towards Jean-Claude’s place, a quarter turn to the west, and then let yourself into the cellar. The spare key is...’

  ‘In the knot hole under the lowest branch of the lilac tree,’ she finished. She remembered Loic showing her, a lifetime ago when they were young.

  ‘Good. Then come down here and wait for me. I’ll get to you as soon as I can.’

  She nodded and tried to remain composed. This was really happening. She stepped out into the pink sunset glow.

  Chapter 7

  August, 1941. Bordeaux

  Wearing a cream silk robe, Catriona stood looking down out of the bay window at the Place de la Bourse. She was sipping a cup of rich dark Arabica, and eating a ripe peach. Real coffee beans, good food and fine clothes were but a distant memory for the French population trying to go about their business on the streets below, yet Catriona had everything she wanted. Frederik didn’t live ostentatiously – unlike the other German officers, he refused to rob those sent to camps – but still his apartment was in the nicest part of the city, overlooking the elegant Pont de Pierre and the dome of Basilique Saint Michel.

  Unsurprisingly, the locals resented Catriona’s perceived good fortune. Just yesterday, a girl in a shop had been very rude to her when she and Frederik had been browsing, and Catriona was sure she’d heard the girl mutter ‘collaborator horizontales’ under her breath when Frederik was out of earshot.

  Catriona had performed well on the night of the dinner party, three months earlier. Frederik was the only guest, and she had managed to accidentally on purpose spill wine on his linen napkin, for which she apologised very sweetly in German. Later, when she was serving coffee on the balcony, Gaston and Marie-Clare managed to get ‘called away’ leaving Frederik and Catriona to chat for several minutes about the Beethoven symphony that Marie-Clare had left playing on the gramophone in the background. Catriona had had to dredge up all she learned from Soeur Rosarie, her old music teacher, to keep up with Frederik’s knowledge of the composer, but he still seemed to find her fascinating.

  That night, as she helped Frederik into his coat, she caught Gaston’s eye and saw the pain there. She could imagine how he felt, seeing her in danger like this. But maybe nothing would come of it…

  The following day Frederik called around and asked to take her out. She feigned reluctance at first.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I know it’s not good for nice French girls like you to be seen with us, but I promise we can be very discreet. I’m not like the others, I swear to you. I just want to talk, I haven’t had a real conversation since I got here, and I miss it. Please Emilie, we can do whatever you want.’

  Finally, she had agreed to meet him two days later.

  She had no experience with men, and could never picture herself as the Femme Fatale type, but neither she nor Frederik were very experienced. He told her he’d had a few girlfriends at university but nothing serious, and certainly nothing like this. He said the women who went with his fellow officers, with their elaborate hair and makeup, and their flirtatious ways, kind of intimidated him.

  After only three weeks, Frederik told her he was being transferred to Bordeaux and suggested she leave her work and move in with him. She was almost paralysed with terror, yet somehow she steeled herself to say yes. And here in Bordeaux, she had begun to feel oddly safe around him. He was funny and interesting and so kind to her. The only time he scared her was when he spoke mockingly about his colleagues behind their backs. She feared then that he was laying a trap for her, and took care never to mock them herself. Instead, she treated his colleagues with great respect. When they came round to for dinner, she cooked, served cocktails and offered them cigarettes.

  Two officers in particular were regular visitors: Otto Schmidt was sanctimonious and full of himself; Karl Fischer was lecherous and a dedicated Nazi. They drank a lot, and were careless in their talk, and when they were, she listened carefully. It surprised her that they were so indiscreet around her – maybe it was because Frederik so obviously trusted his Belgian mistress. Not only did he let her sit in on their after-dinner conversations, he had also given her a rather expensive camera for her (pretended) birthday, with which she took pictures of them all.

  One photo of the three of them, smiling with raised glasses on the balcony, captured the moment when Karl had just announced the latest decree from Berlin, which was that anyone suspected of helping the Resistance in any way at all should be shot on sight.

  This decree – and everything else of importance, including the film from the camera – she passed on to Fabien, who worked as a waiter in the café on the corner of the Rue Ste Catherine.

  A message came back to her from Gaston, via Fabien, telling her she was doing wonderfully and that she was right to make Frederik trust her before attempting to draw him in. The photographs she had taken, not just of German officers but also of documents she came across around the apartment were of particular use to the Résistance. She made sure to have separate rolls, ones she gave to Frederik to have developed, no such luxury was available to ordinary French people anymore, and the ones she passed on to Gaston. Oddly, the praise made her feel a twinge of guilt for deceiving the Oberleutnant. On the one hand, he might be the man who had betrayed her father, but on the other…well, that was irrelevant, he was now her lover and she had a job to do.

  They had so much in common it almost troubled her. He too had a French mother, and had spent his childhood summers in France. He complimented her on her German, though he smiled at some of her Belgian phrases. A week ago – after too much wine – he had told her how lonely he was, how he hated this war and how much of an imposter he felt when his father told everyone that his son was a good German. ‘I don't feel like a good German,’ he confessed.

  They were sitting on the balcony, the lights of Bordeaux glittering beneath them. She turned her empty glass in her hand, heart fluttering. ‘But you are German.’

  ‘I am. And I love the Germany of my childhood. But it is Hitler’s Germany now…’

  ‘You're an officer in Hitler’s army.’

  He shrugged. The wine loosening
his tongue, perhaps. ‘I follow my orders, but not zealously. I am guilty of turning a blind eye to goods being traded on the black market, or Jewish children being passed off as true French…’

  ‘But you do support Hitler?’

  He hesitated. ‘Look. I understand why he is popular. The Treaty of Versailles brought Germany to its knees, and then Hitler arrives and says we won’t put up with it anymore, we won’t be dictated to by the English or French or Americans, and you can see why people worship him for that. But the reality of what he is doing in Germany and in every country that he invades… The deportations… I feel…’. He stopped and refilled her glass, then said hotly: ‘Just last week they opened a huge internment camp in Drancy outside Paris. More will be rounded up, sent there, or worse. Pétain has established military courts on his own people. My mother must be turning in her…’ But then he stopped and shrugged carelessly, and said, ‘I’m boring you with politics, darling. Let’s talk about music, and gaze at the stars.’ And he raised his glass to the night sky that glittered above them.

  At that moment, she wondered if she should tell him who she was and ask him what he knew about her father. She was sure Frederik loved her, and that he was by no means a committed Nazi. Yet still some fearful instinct told her no, and Kieran had always warned her to trust her gut. Frederik Schroeder had been promoted from Saint-Émilion to Bordeaux, so someone high up in the Nazi Party clearly trusted him to do his job. So perhaps the Oberleutnant was only pretending to appear sympathetic to the French; perhaps he was trying to trick her into revealing herself? It was so hard to know how to move forward.

  In the meantime, what she was doing was far from useless – she was passing on valuable information and members of the Resistance were being forewarned and lives saved by her actions. Maybe she should keep on doing just that and hope that Frederik let something slip about Kieran by accident.

  And then, two days ago, as they were going for a drive in the countryside, she had seen the sign for Chateau Kirwan with its welcome written in the Irish language.

  ‘Céad Míle Fáilte – “a hundred thousand welcomes”!’ she exclaimed in surprise, pointing at the inscription under the family name before she realised what she’d done.

  ‘How do you know that?’ he asked, glancing sidelong at her, bemused.

  ‘Oh…’ She thought quickly. ‘There was an Irish girl in my class at boarding school and she taught me a little of her language and history. Did you know France tried to liberate the Irish from the English in 1798? They landed in Mayo, but got defeated…’ She stopped speaking suddenly, worried he would make some cynical joke about the French army having been recently defeated by the Germans.

  Instead, he merely nodded. ‘Interesting. I’d like to go to Ireland someday. I’ve been told that it’s beautiful. Or at least according to this Irish fellow I knew...’ His voice trailed off suddenly.

  Catriona sat staring straight ahead, gripping her knees. Her heart pounded; it was hard to breathe normally. ‘Irishman?’ She mustn’t sound too interested.

  He was smiling as he drove. ‘Yes. Nice chap.’

  ‘I’d love to meet him. Is he still around?’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  Luckily, he was too busy taking a corner to notice the shake in her voice. ‘Went back to Ireland, I assume. The last I heard of him, he was boarding a train for Paris. Karl mentioned seeing him at the station.’

  Her heart throbbed with hope. ‘And Karl was sure it was him?’

  This time, he glanced oddly at her. ‘What has you so interested in my Irishman?’

  She turned her head away to hide the shine in her eyes. ‘I don't know. I got the feeling you liked him.’

  ‘Mm. That’s true. Maybe I’ll chase him up, after the war. Donnerwetter!’ A cat dashed in front of the car, causing Frederik to swerve. Later, she tried to return to the subject but he no longer wanted to talk about it – the moment was gone.

  Now, two days later, she was standing at the bay window, sipping coffee and still trying to work out if Kieran McCarthy had really got on a train and gone to Paris before he disappeared. Or if her Nazi lover was telling her outright lies.

  The next moment, Frederik’s strong arms circled her waist and his warm lips kissed her neck. ‘Mein liebling! Come back to bed, it’s still early.’

  She said absently, her mind still on her father, ‘No, I’m wide awake now.’

  ‘Exactly. Come back to bed with me for an hour. We might not have that much longer together, if I’m sent to the Russian front.’

  ‘To Russia?’ She stiffened in his arms, shocked. ‘Is that likely?’

  He seemed gratified to have troubled her; he turned her to face him and ran his hand through her silk blonde hair. ‘Have I upset you? I’m glad.’

  ‘Of course I’m upset.’ Her voice was shaking and she realised, to her dismay that she actually meant what she’d said – she was upset. Did she have real feelings for him? No, no, that couldn't be… It was just that she hadn't yet completed her mission. She asked, ‘Have you received new orders?’

  ‘Not yet. But Karl and Otto are coming over later. They’ve heard a rumour that we are having a visit from German military intelligence, and they think I would be wise to falsify a few reports. My catch and kill rate is insufficient when it comes to the Resistance, apparently. I confess I’ve been slack with the deportations, as well. If the Abwehr – or whichever branch of intelligence this is – thinks I’m dragging my feet, it will be off to Russia with me. This French occupation is seen in Berlin as a very cushy way to spend the war, so there are many who would love to see the whole lot of us packed off to the eastern front.’

  ‘But I don't want them to send you to Russia…’

  He sighed and pulled her closer to him. ‘Then let’s just keep hoping for the best, shall we? It’s all we can do. Everything around us is so uncertain, so there’s no point in looking ahead. Only when all of this is over, can we start planning our life together. I’d love to stay here, with you, in France.’

  It struck her suddenly, how innocent he was – so young and full of unreasonable hope. His blond hair was cut short in the military style but somehow it didn’t manage to make him look austere, only boyish. With an unexpected rush of tenderness, she wound her arms around his neck. ‘It’s going to be a long fight, I think.’

  ‘Yes. And maybe our enemies will prevail,’ he said quietly, his voice barely audible.

  ‘Do you think so?’ She prayed her face gave nothing away.

  ‘Things are really heating up. Whatever deal Ribbentrop and Molotov did two years ago, it’s well and truly dismantled now. Hitler is determined to smash Stalin, he has always hated him. It’s a miracle the truce held as long as it did. Britain still hasn't surrendered, so Germany will be fighting on two fronts. That’s what finished the Kaiser in the last war – no army can be overstretched to that extent. Whatever hope Germany has of winning on the western front, the Russians... Let’s just say, they are a whole other prospect.’

  ‘You're saying you think that Germany could…’ She stopped speaking. She daren’t say ‘lose’. He might be a more humane man than his grosser colleagues, but he was still a Nazi in every way that mattered.

  He glanced around the room as if he feared the walls had ears, then lowered his voice even further. ‘I could be shot for saying this. But, yes – I think Germany could lose. And I don't even know what I feel about that.’

  His admission hung between them. Catriona rested her cheek on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his arms around her. Her heart was pounding. Now was her chance – but what should she say? How much should she reveal?

  ‘Is there anything you can do...’ she began.

  He looked down at her for a long, long moment. Then smiled a flicker of a smile, and said, ‘Yes – I can take you back to bed and discuss my love for you at great length.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her mind still spinning, she followed him back into the
bedroom.

  Afterwards she lay in his arms, lost in thought. It was so hard to tell what he was thinking. Did he really hope Germany might lose the war? In which case, why didn't he just come out and say it? But maybe he was like her – maybe he feared that she would betray him. Should she just take the risk, and tell him who she was? But if she was wrong… She wished that she could consult with Gaston, right then and there.

  Reaching across her, Frederik picked up his watch from the bedside locker and groaned. ‘I’d better get dressed I suppose. They could be here at any moment.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Karl and Otto. They’re anxious about themselves as well as me, though their rates of success are admittedly much better than mine. Even so, for all of us it’s embarrassing here at the moment. The Resistance are growing stronger around Bordeaux and the surrounding Department and we’re supposed to be stamping down on them. But they are impossible to detect. It’s like trying to catch smoke.’

  Turning onto her front, she smothered a smile in the pillow. She knew she had saved a lot of lives, by listening to Frederik’s drunken friends. She couldn't help saying, ‘You can’t blame them though, can you? The French are proud people, and it’s humiliating to be occupied.’

  He swung his legs out of bed and sat on the edge, saying calmly, ‘Blame them? Of course I don’t. If I was French, I would most likely be one of them. But I’m not, and so I have to make an effort to capture a few of them, or at least pretend that I have. Look, I’ll try to get this matter over within a few hours, and we can have some of the evening together.’ He disappeared into the bathroom off their bedroom, calling back to her: ‘Do you want to go anywhere? I can have the car brought around to take you for a drive?’