The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  She stood in front of the mirror. Was she the same girl that had left the nuns nearly three years ago, knowing nothing of the world? She tried hard to remember that carefree, cheeky schoolgirl, always up to some kind of mischief. Was she gone for good? She had no idea, but the hardened person she was now was nothing like her old self.

  Still, she’d managed to look young and fresh. She wore a red dress that cinched in at the waist and flared into a full skirt, and revealed a lot more cleavage than the ones she usually wore – but her job was to charm the visitors into relaxing. Her blonde hair had been coiffed in the hair salon this morning, into soft waves that framed her face, and her dark brown eyes were round and clear.

  She took a deep breath and said a silent prayer.

  ‘Dear God, and Maman and Kieran if you’re up there, please look after us tonight, and let us get out of here alive. I’m not sorry for what I’m about to do though I know to take another life is a mortal sin, but I’m doing it so innocent lives might be spared. If you can, please watch over us. I love you.’

  It was time.

  Frederik was already serving the punch when she appeared on the balcony. Otto and Karl greeted her warmly – Karl’s eyes being drawn to her cleavage as she’d expected. He had a wife back in Dusseldorf but she was never mentioned, unlike Otto who never stopped going on about his own wife Cristiana and his children. Their apartment in Berlin had taken a direct hit last week. As he’d confided in Catriona during one of his almost daily visits, ‘being bombed by the British was one thing, but the Russians are coming for us now. Berlin is getting a hammering like nothing we’ve seen before. My wife is trying to get to her parents’ place near Munich but I don’t know if she can. My children are only seven and five, and we’ve lost everything in the explosion, and there is nothing I can do...’ He had sighed heavily, but had allowed Catriona to comfort him with another hot whiskey.

  Frederik introduced her to the first of the three men she didn’t recognise: ‘Emilie, this is Rudolf Becker.’

  She shook his hand. Dark hair, average height and build, pale blue eyes, instantly forgettable. He wasn’t even wearing uniform. Frederik had explained that the Abwehr mainly wore civilian clothes; while some of them held a military rank, they did not use it when operating as agents.

  ‘Good evening, Herr Becker. It’s a pleasure to have you here.’

  He smiled, and shook her hand. ‘You speak excellent German,’ he remarked in a smooth, soft voice that she found chilling.

  ‘I’m Belgian and I went to school in the German-speaking part of Belgium so I am bilingual, and my best school friend Trudi was from Frankfurt.’

  ‘Are you still in touch?’ he asked.

  ‘Alas, no. I wrote but got no reply.’

  ‘Perhaps when the war is over, you will meet her again.’ Catriona got the impression that reuniting old friends was not what this conversation was about. He was testing her loyalties.

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ she smiled sweetly. ‘I liked her very much.’

  Frederik moved her on to the next visitor. ‘Let me introduce Albert Hoffman. You are from Aachen, are you not, Albert?’ he asked pleasantly.

  Albert was in his sixties, she guessed, with brushed-back silver hair and a neat moustache. He was short and dapper and perfectly dressed in a double-breasted suit. A blood-red handkerchief was folded in his breast pocket, which matched his tie.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Have you been to Aachen, Fräulein?’ He sipped his punch, and his tone was light and pleasant.

  ‘Oh yes, many times. One of the nuns was enthralled by the collections at the Suermondt Museum, so we visited regularly. Though to be honest, the best part for us was enjoying hot chocolate and pretzels in Café Brigitta on Peterstrasse.’ She laughed and Albert laughed with her.

  ‘Ah yes, Café Brigitta, I can still recall the aroma as we walked past her café. My grandmother lived near there and my mother would forbid us to eat anything before lunch at Grandma’s in case we insulted her by not clearing our plates, but the temptation was enormous. It is nice to meet you, Fräulein.’

  Frederik moved her on again. ‘And finally, this is Bruno Neumann.’

  ‘Fräulein,’ he nodded, but he did not take her outstretched hand. He was the only one of those present not to be holding a drink.

  She lowered her hand. ‘You’re most welcome, Herr Neumann. Would you like some punch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I get you something else if the punch is not to your taste?’

  ‘No.’ He lacked any social graces whatsoever, clearly caring nothing that he came across as rude.

  He was tall and powerfully built, his hair so short it was almost shaved. He moved stiffly and stood with his back to them, observing life on the quayside below. Karl offered his silver cigarette case around, and everyone but Neumann refused. Karl reached into his pocket and Catriona braced herself to see her father’s silver lighter again. Sure enough, out it came. She ached to grab it from him. Instead, she nailed a smile on her face and joined in the small talk: life back in Berlin; the progress of the war; the genius of der Führer, how they were giving the Russians a right trouncing. Neumann didn’t engage at all, just stood watching the street below and smoking.

  After half an hour of excruciating small talk, Catriona excused herself, saying she needed to attend to matters in the kitchen. The goose was cooked and she was taking it out of the oven to rest before carving when she heard footsteps in the passageway. Her heart missed a beat.

  Calm down, she commanded herself silently – there is nothing incriminating to see in here.

  When she turned, it was Karl.

  ‘Emilie, do you need any help?’ he asked, his smile lecherous.

  ‘No thank you, Karl, everything is under control,’ she replied as coolly as she could manage.

  He entered the kitchen and kicked the door closed behind him with his foot. Suddenly she was cornered and he was so close she could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath.

  ‘You’re very pretty, you know,’ he began, running a finger down her cheek, ‘but I’m not falling for that innocent little girl act. Why are you hiding from me?’ He reminded her of the wolf in the storybook she’d had as a child about Little Red Riding Hood. What did he mean, hiding? Did he know something? She fought back the panic.

  ‘Of course I wasn’t hiding from you …’

  He grinned and put his arms around her waist, roughly pulling her towards him. ‘Good. Because I can protect you, Emilie. I fear it’s Russia for poor old Frederik – they know about him being too soft here, and even nearly being duped by a British spy, the fool. But I’ll be staying after he goes and a nice girl like you…’ He glanced around the kitchen ‘…and a nice apartment like this, come to think of it, would suit me perfectly.’

  ‘Karl, go back to the others – I need to prepare the meal.’ She shoved at his chest, trying to give herself some breathing space, but he tightened his grip, delighted.

  ‘That’s more like it! I have imagined you so often as a little vixen, fighting back. I’d love that, you and me, biting and scratching...’ His face was in her neck, and she could feel his teeth touching her skin. His hand snuck up her dress and he squeezed the back of her thigh, within millimetres of the concealed pistol. She had to act – now.

  ‘Get off me!’ she hissed and raised her knee as forcefully as she could, catching him right in the crotch and causing him to instantly release her and double over in pain.

  ‘You little bi...’ he choked out, but before he could finish the word, the door opened and Frederik put his head around it.

  ‘Everything alright in here?’ he asked, staring at Karl.

  ‘Yes, wonderful. Karl was just on his way back to you all,’ she sang brightly as the red-faced Karl reluctantly and painfully straightened himself. ‘Dinner will be served in ten minutes.’

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ Frederik waited for Karl to pass in front of him, then – after throwing a startled glance at Catriona
– followed him back into the apartment.

  After she had recovered her breath, Catriona delivered platters of charcuterie and bowls of salads to the table in the dining room and decanted two bottles of the ’36. It was not as good as the ’37, which Gaston said would only be drunk when France was free once more, but it was a very good vintage nonetheless – much better than he normally wasted on Germans.

  Then she moved out onto the balcony. Karl was nowhere to be seen and the others were talking intently, with their backs to her. There appeared to be a tense atmosphere now, and the jovial chit chat of earlier was notable by its absence. She spotted Karl’s cigarettes with the lighter on the side table beside the now empty punch bowl. Quickly she slipped the lighter into her bra, under her arm.

  The men stopped talking and turned when she lifted her voice: ‘Dinner is served, gentlemen!’

  Taking their seats at the large oval table, the visitors returned to idle chatter and – with the exception of Neumann – exclaimed in delight at the vast array of delicacies on display. Albert unfolded his napkin and admired the feast with slightly drunken relish. ‘Ha! These French would have you believe they are half-starved but look at this fine spread. Thank you, my dear!’

  ‘It’s my pleasure, sir,’ Catriona smiled.

  Frederik rubbed his hands together. ‘Eat and drink your fill, gentlemen. It is such an honour to have you here.’

  Karl – who had just emerged shakily from the direction of the bathroom to take his seat at the table – needed no second bidding: he was already pouring himself a large glass.

  Catriona headed for the door. ‘Please excuse me, I must get the centrepiece.’

  ‘Do you need some help?’ asked Frederik. They had thought of this previously – surely one of the men would offer to lift the heavy bird to the table, so it was better that he offered and she refused.

  ‘Not at all, Frederik, it’s not heavy and I have a few finishing touches I need to put to the garnish. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  She retreated to the kitchen and closed the door behind her and set to work.

  The explosive was packed and cut into pieces small enough to fit into the neck of the bird. Working at speed, the way she’d been shown in London, she bound four blocks together. She then took the timing pencil, cracked the glass vial with a rolling pin and, once she was sure the acid could escape and corrode the wire, she stuck it into the explosive, inside the bird. She carefully arranged the flaps of fat from the neck to conceal the opening and sprinkled some sprigs of parsley and sage. The whole process had taken her less than a minute. Now they had maybe five minutes until the bomb went off – six at the most. Her heart was racing and sweat prickled on her forehead and back.

  The kitchen door opened and she spun around, terrified it was Karl returned to finish what he tried to start. It was Frederik. She experienced a split second of relief before she realised he was shaking.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she whispered, trying not to panic.

  He closed the door softly behind him. His eyes were wild. ‘I’ve made a decision. We can't do this, Catriona.’

  Her brain span. ‘Do what? I don't understa…’

  He crossed the kitchen, taking her hands in his. His palms were cold and sweaty, and he was trembling from head to foot. ‘I don't want you to set the bomb.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shh. Don’t say anything. Just listen to me.’ His blue eyes pleaded with hers. ‘Listen to me. I love you, and I want to run away with you and save myself and be happy. But I can't do this to my own people. They are my fellow countrymen, they are fathers, husbands, it’s wrong…’

  She couldn’t believe this was happening. She tried to pull away from him. ‘No, no… I thought you were on my side! You said you…’

  He gripped her hands tighter. ‘I am on your side, meine liebling – yours and mine. Just because I’ve changed my mind about being a murderer, doesn't mean I will betray you. I just can't allow you set the bomb.’

  ‘It’s already done and will detonate in less than five minutes!’

  ‘Oh Good God…’ The blood drained from his skin. ‘We have to stop it!’ Releasing her, he began tugging frantically at the neck of the goose, pulling back the flaps of skin.

  She seized his arm. ‘If you won't think of me or France, think of yourself! They’re planning to send you to the Russian front!’

  Fiercely, he shook her off. ‘But I know how to make things right with the Abwehr. I know the café on the corner of the Rue St Catherine is a hive of the Resistance…’

  ‘You’re going to betray them?’

  ‘It’s my duty as a German, and the only thing that will convince the Abwehr that I’m innocent of treachery. Don't worry, I’ll let you escape before I say anything. I’ll tell our guests that you're sick and have gone to lie down and you can slip out. We’ll meet again after the war…’

  Catriona reached up under her skirt. In one deft move, as she’d been trained, she cocked the pistol with one hand and rammed it hard into his ribs, aiming upwards.

  A look of bewildered horror passed over Frederik’s face – a second’s realisation – as she pulled the trigger, while simultaneously knocking a stack of silver dessert dishes to the floor with her elbow. He sank to his knees, then backwards. As the metal bowls clattered furiously across the ceramic tiles she leant over her lover and – also as she had been taught – shot him again, pushing the muzzle hard into his flesh to deaden the sound. The second-bullet rule was to make sure of death, and also to collapse the nervous system.

  As the plates stopped rolling around on the tiles, she carefully opened the door and peeped out. Down the hallway, German voices were deep in discussion. She came back for the platter. She had to step around Frederik as he lay on the tiles, blood pooling beneath him. Feeling like she was made of ice, she repaired the damage to the garnish and walked carefully down the hallway to the dining room.

  ‘I’m so sorry, we had a bit of a catastrophe in the kitchen when a shelf came off the wall. I’ve asked Frederik to fix it about five times! But anyway, he is just clearing up and he’ll be out in just a moment.’ Smiling sweetly, she placed the goose in the middle of the table.

  ‘Ah, the pièce de résistance,’ Otto remarked with a grin. Catriona didn’t react to the choice of word. Resistance indeed.

  Amazed at how she managed to keep the tremor out of her hands, she poured a glass of claret for each of the Abwehr agents, draining the bottle. ‘We need another bottle, gentlemen. Please excuse me.’

  She left the dining room, slipped out of the front door and fled on tiptoe downstairs. The main door lock was fiddly and Catriona had to struggle for at least thirty seconds to open it but eventually she managed it. She forced herself to walk, not run away from the building.

  She had just reached the corner when the deafening sound of an explosion shook the ground beneath her feet. She’d got out just in time. As she glanced back, the entire front of their building collapsed onto the street – people were screaming, rushing in all directions. She ran with the rest and there, waiting for her just as promised, was the doctor’s car. Yves handed her a bag of clothes as she climbed into the back of his car. ‘You’re alone?’

  Catriona was only able to nod. She felt numb.

  ‘Very well then, let’s go.’ He pulled away from the kerb. Several military vehicles were passing them in the opposite direction, speeding towards the explosion.

  Catriona tried as best she could in the confined space to change into a plain grey dress and cardigan he had supplied. She wiped off the elaborately applied makeup using just her spit and a corner of the red dress and shook out her hair before tying it back in a simple bun.

  Yves dropped her to the very barn where she had spent her first night. ‘Wait down at the back there. Our people are watching this place from all approaches so you are quite safe but still, best not to take any chances. Someone will come for you. Bonne chance, et merci.’ And he was gone.

  Left alone in the
barn, Catriona sat on a hay bale in the dark and waited. Grief and horror tugged at the edges of her mind but she pushed the dark emotions away, refusing to allow herself to think about what she’d just done. Instead, she tried to remember song lyrics. Her teachers in Baker Street had been adamant that this work was as much of a test of mental endurance as physical. For now, she needed to stay focused. This wasn’t over yet. Plenty of time for tears afterwards. She looked upwards – pale moonlight was visible through holes in the roof of the barn. The British could only fly by moonlight so that was good. Yet the Germans would be watching the skies like hawks after the explosion. What if the plane couldn’t get here to collect her?

  She took deep breaths to steady herself, and checked her watch. Almost eleven-thirty. Then eleven forty. Each minute felt like an hour. Eventually she heard the sound of bicycle tyres outside. She crouched down behind the hay bales watching the entrance, and only exhaled when she saw the enormous figure of her uncle enter the barn. She jumped up and ran to him, into his waiting arms.

  He hugged her back. ‘Oh Catriona, my darling girl, well done, well done. Yves told me you are alone?’

  ‘Yes. Frederik changed his mind at the last minute, said he couldn’t go through with it. I...I shot him.’

  ‘Good girl.’ He held her closer. ‘Well done, my darling.’ He was clearly unperturbed at the demise of Frederik. In fact, he couldn’t keep the delight from his voice as he told her, ‘Word is spreading already, how the Resistance has killed twelve high-ranking Nazis.’

  ‘No, but it was only five… I mean, six.’ Her heart throbbed, but she pushed the pain back down inside. She had to remember to count Frederik among her enemies now.

  Gaston spluttered with laughter. ‘No, twelve! This is a propaganda war, so we must exaggerate!’