The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

‘Morning, Céline.’ The postman, Ernest Jones, a farmer’s son with a ruddy, perspiring face, dumped the letters on the counter, next to the till, and waved as he breezed out again with another jangle from the bell.

  ‘Is that the post?’ Fred emerged from the bakehouse, still in his floured apron and the white cloth cap that made him look like a friendly convict. He slapped his palms together and released a cloud of white dust, before giving me a quick cuddle, pressing me to his broad chest.

  ‘Leave off! You’ll cover me in flour,’ I said, smiling and hugging him back.

  ‘I hope it’s another order from the Marine Hotel for our Viennese pastries,’ he said, wiping his hands down his apron.

  ‘Might stop you eating them,’ I said, pinching at the soft flesh at his waist.

  ‘You love me really,’ he said. ‘Good to have a bit of padding.’

  He sifted through the mail, dividing it neatly into orders and bills. Then he stopped, his fingers frozen in the act of picking up a brown envelope.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  He frowned and took the envelope back into the bakery. I paused, aware of a tension in the pit of my stomach, but carried on as usual, stacking loaves into the wooden crates ready to go out to the hotels on the seafront. When Fred came back, his rosy face had drained to grey.

  Another jangle. Old Mrs Hedges from the haberdashery just down the road bustled in, coming to collect her brown loaf.

  ‘We’re closed,’ Fred said.

  ‘Closed?’ Mrs Hedges blinked behind her thick tortoiseshell glasses. ‘But the sign in the window says—’

  ‘Closed.’ Fred turned the sign around and held open the door.

  ‘But what about my bread?’

  ‘You’ll just have to come back later.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Are you deaf?’ His sharp tone made me gasp. Mrs Hedges backed uncertainly out of the door, an expression of disbelief on her face. Neither of us had ever heard my husband be so rude before.

  ‘Fred?’ I put a hand to his arm.

  ‘You’d better come through to the back and sit down.’ He stripped off his apron and stared at it a moment before hanging it on the peg.

  ‘Is it bad news? Is it your parents? Are they all right?’ Everyone was calling the war with Germany the ‘phoney war’ because, so far, it seemed to be all talk. I followed him through to the sitting room and perched myself on the edge of the armchair. He didn’t sit, but paced, gripping his head in his hands.

  ‘What is it? What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ve been conscripted. I have to leave for army training next week.’

  ‘What? But they’re demilitarising us. That’s what Churchill said. That Jersey’s too small to be any use to the Germans.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Show me. Show me the letter.’ I pushed my glasses further up my nose.

  He handed it over. He was still speaking but I heard nothing he said. The brown piece of paper I was holding had an eagle and swastika on it. The long words of German preceded a space where his name had been typed – Siegfried Huber. We’d been on the island ten years, and nobody ever called him that. We all called him Fred.

  A wave of something cold sluiced over me. ‘No.’ My voice was a whisper.

  He looked at me. ‘I’ll be fighting for the Germans.’

  I stood up, my knees shaking. ‘No. You’re not going. You must refuse.’

  ‘I can’t refuse. If I refuse they’ll just arrest me.’

  ‘You’re a baker. A master baker, for God’s sake, not a soldier. You’ve not been back to Germany for years. This is madness!’

  ‘If I don’t report, they’ll court-martial me anyway and throw me in prison. Look at all this small print.’ He held out an accompanying document printed in small type. ‘The letter says I’m to leave within two days and report to German command at Cherbourg.’

  ‘We’ll go somewhere. Anywhere.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Where would we hide? It’s a small island, and everyone knows me and—’

  ‘Exactly. You’re not German anymore! You live here, on Jersey!’ My voice rose in panic.

  He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘I am German, Céline. It’s no use pretending I’m not. Germany’s a part of me. Ever since war was declared I’ve been thinking of my mother and father in their little house in Dortmund, and whether they’re all right. Every time I read a paper saying the British are going to bomb the Ruhr I feel my insides grow hot and my blood boil, because whatever your English papers might say, it’s not just industry in the Ruhr. I know it. I grew up there, and it’s houses, and schools and hospitals. It’s factories, like my father’s engineering works. And they’re all full of people. My people,’ he said sadly. ‘My school friends, my teachers, my parents. Don’t you see? I must do it for them.’

  ‘For that madman Hitler?’

  ‘No, of course not for him.’ His eyes looked full of pain. ‘It’s complicated. Germany’s my childhood, my school days, the smell of pine logs burning and the taste of my mother’s cooking. My homeland. Who wouldn’t want to protect that?’

  ‘And you’d choose that over me … over us?’

  He pulled me to his chest, gripping me tight and speaking over my head. ‘I’ve worried about it for a long time. It’s nearly driven me mad, wondering what you’d say when the summons came.’

  ‘What?’ I pushed him away. ‘You mean you knew it was coming?’

  ‘They wrote to me once before. Beginning of last year. But I didn’t tell you then because we weren’t actually at war with England, and once we were, I thought the war would be short and be over by the time my papers came.’ He rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘And I knew how I felt, that I would have to go, and I didn’t know what you’d say.’

  ‘Oh, Fred.’ I sighed and shook my head. ‘You said we’d never keep secrets.’

  ‘I thought it better to keep quiet than to hurt you. I can’t just siphon the German out of myself; it’s a part of me.’

  ‘But how on earth will I manage here, without you?’

  ‘Albert will do the baking. He’s learnt a lot since he started, and he’s old enough for the responsibility; and besides, I won’t be away for long. The war will be over soon and then I will be home again, and we will all be back to how we were.’

  I shuddered. The war still didn’t seem real, not here in my sitting room. The thought of it being over was no comfort either, because someone would have to lose, and one of us would be the loser.

  On the day Fred went, we shut the bakery, and I went down to the harbour to see him off. I had told no one where he was going; I was ashamed. Our different nationalities had never mattered when we met in Vienna. He was training to be a master baker and I had managed to get a position as a nanny to two children, and I kept going back to his shop, partly for his vanilla kipferl, but mostly for him, for the twinkle in his bright blue eyes and his open face. One day I forgot my purse, we were so busy chatting, and he had to run after me, waving it in the air. When he caught up, I saw what a fine, tall man he was. I’d only ever seen him behind the counter before that, and it took my breath. I still found him handsome, despite his extra weight.

  We walked arm in arm towards the boats, in an uneasy truce. Fred looked different in a dark suit, with his bushy fair hair pressed flat with water and his leather suitcase swinging. The ferry to Cherbourg was late, the harbourmaster said, for it had run into trouble with a German blockade. Ironic that Fred was in danger from the very army he was trying to join. I looked out to sea, and the whole thing seemed crazy; that my lovely soft husband was going to go to France all alone, and who knew when I might see him next?

  We sat on the harbour wall staring glumly out to sea, not knowing what to say, and watching the gulls dive at any small fleck of floating debris. The war had seemed a long way away from our twisting leafy lanes and white sand beaches. Please, make the boat not come, I prayed.

  I glanced at Fred. His eyes were fixed on th
e dark line of the horizon where a black dot was growing larger. The boat. And with it, the terrifying thought that in battle people had to kill or be killed. I gripped his arm, overwhelmed by utter helplessness.

  ‘There it is,’ Fred said, standing up.

  ‘Wait,’ I choked out. ‘I love you.’

  He drew me close and wiped the tear from my cheek where it leaked out from under my glasses. ‘Chin up. Isn’t that what the English say? I’ll be back before you can whistle.’

  When the boat docked, we followed the queue of people to the gangplank, where the harbourmaster and the remaining officers were examining people’s tickets and passes. I looked at my shoes as they checked his passport over, aware of one of them whispering to the other and making a private joke. They stamped the papers and handed them back with impassive faces. Fred turned back to me, his eyes glassy.

  ‘Stay safe, liebchen,’ he whispered, reaching out to give me a last hug.

  The German word was a stab in the heart. It was what he’d always called me, but now it made me afraid. That he could be my country’s enemy and might have to shoot at us, or worse. I couldn’t speak; I was too churned up; one thought chasing vainly after another.

  Fred grasped me tight and kissed me on the lips, a kiss like a seal on a letter, like an ending. And then he was walking away.

  No. Not this soon. ‘Write!’ I shouted. ‘You’d better damned well write.’

  He turned to give a wave and then stood on the deck staring back at me.

  As the boat slid away from its berth, Fred was nearest the stern, his eyes fixed on my face.

  ‘Filthy Boche!’ It was the officer who’d stamped his papers. He shook a fist at Fred. ‘We don’t want you here.’

  His words were like a physical blow. I pressed my lips together and ignored him, my eyes fixed on the sea. As the boat moved away, I had the urge to claw it back, to tell them it was a terrible mistake, that my husband was just Fred the baker. Would he even reach Cherbourg? Or would some English Tommy take him prisoner? Would his boat be shot at, or bombed? I simply didn’t know.

  I turned to walk back towards the town, a chasm in my chest.

  ‘Jerrybag!’ yelled one of the men by the harbourmaster’s office. ‘Whore!’

  A moment later a stone whistled past my ear. I set off at a run, stumbling up the hill as fast as I could, clutching my handbag over my head.

  Jersey wasn’t supposed to be in this conflict at all; but in that moment, some sort of war had already started.

  Chapter 3

  Over the next weeks I oversaw the bakery as best I could without Fred to help me. I had Albert, Fred’s nervous young assistant, and Tilly, our shop girl and chief fetcher and carrier, who lived in. Albert lived at home but came at dawn and did the early baking: all the bread for the hotels on the seafront. When that was done, he and Tilly made pies and pastries for the tourists, for we still had plenty of summer visitors, despite the war.

  One morning though, when I came down to the bakehouse, there was no smell of bread. I put my hand out to the bread oven. It was cold. There was no sign of Albert. Was he sick? I went to the door to see if I’d missed a sick note, but there was no letter, and the shop door was still locked. Nor was there any sign of Tilly. How odd.

  I went up to her room, but the bed hadn’t been slept in. She’d been to visit her mother on the other side of the island the previous night, but I’d expected her back for the morning jobs. I lit the oven myself and dragged a sack of flour from the brick storeroom at the back of the house.

  The doorbell sounded and I hurried into the shop. It was Rachel, her dark hair tousled by the wind, and a look of agitation on her face. She always came in for her boss’s bread before she went off to the bank where she was a cashier, and sometimes she’d stop for a cuppa whilst we caught up with each other’s news.

  Before she could even ask, I threw up my hands. ‘Sorry, Rache, I’ve no bread yet. I can’t think what’s happened. Albert didn’t come in this morning and the ovens haven’t been lit.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? He’ll have gone to sign up.’

  I was bewildered. ‘For the army?’

  ‘No, silly. Evacuation,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s chaos. I’ve just been down there. They’re taking precautions in case the Channel Islands are invaded. There are notices up everywhere.’

  ‘No! Whatever for?’ I stared at her, unbelieving. ‘They won’t come here. The Jersey Evening Post says these islands are not worth conquering. At least, not unless Hitler wants an ice cream and a ride on a donkey.’

  ‘We’re so close to France though. And my boss, Mr Scott, says that on the other side of the island you can hear the boom of the German guns and see the smoke from bombs. I don’t know what to do.’ She stopped and bit her lip. Fred’s name hung unspoken between us. She was the only person I’d told that Fred was fighting for the Germans. Everyone else assumed he was fighting for the British. I’d had no news of him, and his absence chafed every minute. ‘I thought you’d have heard,’ she went on. ‘They’ve called women and children, and men between the ages of eighteen and thirty. That’ll be why Albert’s not at work. We’ve got until ten o’clock tomorrow morning to register.’

  ‘Oh Lord. I bet that’s where Tilly’s gone too. She’s probably still with her mother. She could have let me know! What will I do with no staff?’

  ‘It’s so quick. There’s no time to make proper arrangements. They’re sending everyone to England. Where will we all end up?’

  ‘Will you really go?’ I asked.

  Rachel leant over the counter, tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. ‘You know my situation. It’s hard with a name like Cohen. Mr Scott says he’ll keep my job open for me, but that I should go if I get the chance. I weighed it up before, and I really think I’m safer here than in England. That’s the place the Germans really want, and they’ll go all out to get it. And I’ve no job or house in England. But now, with all this talk of invasion, it’s getting scary.’

  ‘I won’t go,’ I said. ‘Someone’s got to feed everyone. Do you really think Albert will be going? He’s got two small children.’

  ‘A lot will go,’ Rachel said. ‘There’s queues already around the town hall. I came to see if you were going.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘People are saying that if trade routes to England get cut off, and Germany holds France, we’ll starve. But Mr Scott won’t budge. He says you can only take one suitcase and he doesn’t want to be a penniless refugee at his age. He’s nearly sixty.’

  I went to the window and turned the hanging sign to closed. ‘I’d no idea. I haven’t been into town. I’ll get my coat. Better take a look at those notices.’

  But even before we got anywhere near the port, the queues wound around the town like a thick dark snake. I gripped Rachel’s arm, unable to believe what I was seeing. ‘Bloody hell. Half the island must be going.’

  ‘Do you think they know something we don’t?’

  As we got closer, waves of panic and indecision came from the queue. A large woman in a flowery apron was begging her husband to tell her if it was better for her children to be bombed in England or starved in Jersey, and meanwhile, hearing all this, the children clung to her apron in tears.

  ‘There’s a new notice gone up,’ Rachel said, pushing through the queue towards the bank.

  I pulled on her coat sleeve. ‘Rachel, this looks bad. If this many are leaving, maybe there’s some truth in it, and we might be taken over by the Germans.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s just scaremongering,’ Rachel said, but her usual carefree face was pinched. The document pinned to the bank door was headed ‘Evacuation’.

  ‘£20 is the maximum withdrawal allowed,’ I read aloud. It was signed, ‘by order of the Bailiff.’

  ‘It looks terribly official,’ Rachel said. ‘It looks like the bank will be cleaned out.’ She twisted her hands around the strap of her bag. ‘What do you think, Céline?’

  ‘I think yo
u should go. I’ve heard rumours, passed from the French fishermen to ours … about what happens to Jews when the Nazis arrive.’

  ‘I’ve heard those rumours too. But they must be an exaggeration, surely? Wartime propaganda and all that. I can’t believe they can be true. What would Fred say? Does he think they’re true?’

  ‘He’s just a baker, not a politician. Before all this he couldn’t decide if Hitler was a genius or a madman. But he told me there’s strong anti-Jewish feeling in Germany.’

  Rachel dragged me away from the crowd around the notice.

  ‘I know one thing. He wouldn’t want me to abandon the shop.’

  The thought of Fred, fighting somewhere in France, and then coming home to no shop, made me cover my mouth to stop it trembling.

  Rachel put an arm around my shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I know he had no choice.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all such a mess.’ I fished a handkerchief from my pocket, took off my glasses, and blew my nose. ‘But one thing I do know is, if the troops come here, we’d never get out of their way. There’d be nowhere to hide. Can you imagine? Jersey’s only eight miles long; they’d overrun us in a few hours.’

  She blanched. ‘Then it’s time for me to leave. I’ll put my name down, if you will.’

  Chapter 4

  We queued for six hours at the town hall and finally got on the list for transportation. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I wandered around the house and the shop, scrubbing the ovens and the counter, emptying the bins, as if I were going on holiday. My one small leather suitcase lay open on the candlewick counterpane whilst I agonised over what to take.

  How could I do it? Just leave everything – everything Fred and I had worked for in the last five years – and set off with just this one suitcase? To England, where I knew not a soul? I stood, dithering, a bag of hair rollers in my hand. I stared down at them. Hair rollers. It seemed stupid to be worrying about how frizzy my hair was now.

  In the end I threw the rollers down on the bed in despair and sat in the dark, drinking tea and thinking of Fred, wondering where he was, and where he might have been posted, and fretting over whether or not to leave.