The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  When the clock showed four o’clock I peered outside to see rain sheeting down from a black sky. Bloody Jersey weather. I stuffed my brown leather shoes in the case on top of the other clothes and dressed warmly in a tweed suit and a mackintosh, and a headscarf over my hair against the rain.

  In the hall I put on my galoshes, picked up the case, and braced myself.

  Don’t look back.

  As I shut the door and turned the key in the lock, I had to close my eyes. All my life was behind that door: the shelves Fred had made himself, the curtains I had sewn, the badly painted pictures I’d done at art class. When would I ever open it up again? I gulped back tears and ran down the unlit road, down towards the harbour, the handle of the case making a groove in my palm.

  Though it was dark, I knew every inch of the island and had no trouble navigating. Rachel, in her checked swing coat, was hunched under an umbrella, outside the bank where we’d arranged to meet. I joined her standing under the eaves, to keep out of the downpour.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ she said. ‘It feels like running away.’

  ‘Let’s try to stick together.’ I grabbed her arm and we headed for the harbour.

  The queues were even worse than earlier. In front of us, a little girl with her hair in ragged plaits was weeping inconsolably. Her mother, a big-busted woman with two suitcases by her feet and a damp cloth bag over her arm, tried to quieten her.

  ‘Dottie’s lost her dog,’ the woman explained. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He couldn’t come with us so we had to go to the vets and …’ she mimed slitting her throat. ‘You wouldn’t believe the queues yesterday. The poor man’d done two hundred by the time we got there. I’m Ivy, by the way.’

  Rachel and I looked at each other. Killing pets? It seemed barbarous, but of course they couldn’t come with us, and there seemed to be nothing we could say. Rachel found a piece of ribbon in her pocket and engaged Dottie in a game of cat’s cradle until she stopped crying and Ivy was able to hand Dottie a handkerchief to dry her face.

  When the first wave of boats arrived, with a series of short blasts on the horn, the crowd surged forward. The rain was just a drizzle now, but a shove in my ribs from behind made me stagger forward, flailing to stay upright. In front of me, Rachel hauled Dottie into her arms to stop her being trampled. Everyone’s feet slid on the wet tarmac, and in the scrum, Rachel’s suitcase was kicked out of the way.

  ‘My case!’ Rachel yelled.

  I fought my way back, but the crowd was pressing forward, all elbows and chests and bags, in a tide that couldn’t stop. The case was just out of reach. I saw a woman in high-heeled shoes stamp on it as she was pushed forward. A few moments later and I couldn’t see it at all.

  Another boat must have arrived because I feared I’d be crushed to death as the crowd shunted forward again. Rachel’s hat flew off, knocked by someone’s umbrella, but she still had Dottie clamped to her hip.

  ‘Mummy!’ Dottie screamed, as Ivy was carried forward.

  By the time we got near the front, my shoulders sagged. Only one boat was left. Suddenly, I was determined to get on that boat. Behind us, a hundred people were pushing. In the water, one was leaving, crammed with people. There wasn’t a spare place anywhere on deck, and it looked ominously top-heavy as it motored out to sea, growing smaller and more vulnerable in the swell of the sea.

  ‘Good grief. There’s no navy escort,’ Ivy said. ‘We’ll be sitting ducks.’

  ‘My case!’ Rachel peered over the sea of faces. ‘Did you see what happened to my case?’

  ‘Sorry, Rache. I just couldn’t get to it. There’s too many people.’

  The last boat was almost full, and the next surge crushed us up to the turnstiles. All around was the stink of wet mackintosh and wool, and cries of ‘Let my children through!’ ‘Please, my daughter must go on that boat.’ A tweed elbow dug into my side, and a male voice hissed in my ear, ‘Get out of the bloody way.’

  I stood firm, though my arm ached from clinging to my case. The moustached official at the gate asked for papers and funnelled the people in front of us through. He held up three fingers and said, ‘Only three more.’

  Ivy, her face wild with panic, scooped Dottie from Rachel’s arms and pushed her way through the turnstile, so desperate to get aboard that she left her suitcases stranded on the quay.

  ‘One more,’ the man said.

  ‘You go,’ I said, thrusting my case towards her.

  ‘No,’ protested Rachel, ‘You—’

  Our hesitation was enough time for the tweed-jacketed man to shove past us both and through the turnstile. Behind us there was an immediate outcry of ‘Shame!’ The gatekeeper clicked the padlock on the gates shut and walked away.

  Hopelessly we watched the boat draw away from the quay, and at last the crowd stopped its press so we could breathe.

  ‘When will there be another boat?’ someone shouted.

  The officials turned away and didn’t answer. The harbour was empty. The small boats in the distance were just specks amid the grey heaving sea. The disgruntled crowd milled around for another half hour in the drizzle as the dawn light pinked the clouds, and it became obvious another boat wasn’t coming.

  ‘I’m going to see if I can spot my case, then I’m going home,’ Rachel said. All over the street were abandoned cases and bags, hats and umbrellas. A man in a trilby knelt on the cobbles next to Rachel’s case, trying to open it.

  ‘What the blazes do you think you’re doing!’ she shouted. ‘That’s my case.’

  We ran towards him.

  ‘Sorry, miss,’ he said, standing up and holding his hands up. ‘I thought you’d gone on the boat and wouldn’t be wanting it.’

  ‘You worm,’ I said, snatching it from under his nose. ‘Come on, Rache. Come back with me. I’ve some eggs, and flour to make griddle cakes. We’ll have a proper breakfast. You look like a drowned rat.’

  ‘So do you.’ We stared at each other, two bedraggled women, both soaked to the skin. Rachel laughed. ‘It’s wetter on land than at sea!’

  ‘Looks like we’re stuck here,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t really want to go anyway,’ Rachel said. ‘I feel safer here, where my friends are.’

  ‘The Germans won’t come here now,’ I said. ‘Why would they? There’s nobody flipping left, except us.’

  But despite my bravado, as I walked past the luggage abandoned in the rain, and the shuttered empty shops, I couldn’t help wishing we’d been on that boat. There were so few of us left now, and making a living would be harder than ever. There’d be no chance of resisting any invasion, and if the Nazis came, where would we go? The thought kept going round my head: left behind.

  Neither Rachel nor I spoke. The reality of our situation had struck home. I stared at the cruet and our greasy plates, and wondered what I would do, now that Albert had gone and Tilly too, and there was nobody to help me. I knew hardly anything about baking, because Fred used to do all that. Though I’d never admit it to Rachel, I’d thought by now we’d be starting a family, and as well as keeping shop, I’d be using my nannying skills.

  Unusually for her, Rachel was silent, and I wondered if she was thinking about the rumours again; the stories that all over Europe Jews were being rounded up and deported. Her hair was still soaked, and she seemed deflated, as if all the energy had drained away with the rain.

  ‘I suppose I’d better go and see if there’s still work for me at the bank,’ she said.

  ‘Will it be open?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t know what I’ll do for money if it’s not.’

  ‘Chin up,’ I said. Fred’s favourite English phrase.

  ‘I’m just tired. Thanks for breakfast.’

  We parted at the door and I watched her hurry away, still carrying her precious suitcase. Coming up the hill in the opposite direction was a stout square woman on a bicycle, obviously finding it hard going. Near the top she dismounted and propped the bicycle against the wa
ll.

  ‘Phew,’ she said, flapping her hand in front of her face whilst she got her breath back. ‘I’m Mrs Flanders, from Flanders Farm. Who was that coming down the road? Friend of yours, was it?’ She didn’t stop for an answer. ‘Will you be wanting milk, because no one’s been to collect it in the van.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘Albert used to do that, but he’s gone.’

  ‘My farmhands too. It’s a total disaster. You’re our biggest customer and the milk’ll go to waste if nobody comes for it. I’ve done my best to do the milking myself, but I need more help. Terrible thing, the men all running away like that. And now the women too. Cowards, the lot of them. And me, a poor widow-woman with no man to help. Is Tilly still here? I’ve come to ask if she’ll lend a hand with the milking.’

  ‘I’ve seen no sign of her. I expect she’s gone.’

  ‘You’d best get started with the baking then. Don’t let me hold you up.’

  ‘Albert’s gone and I don’t know how the mixing machine works or what temperature to set the ovens.’

  ‘Let’s have a dekko.’ Before I had chance to stop her, Mrs Flanders was in the bakery, loading flour and yeast extract into the big bowl and setting the electric mixing machine churning. ‘Matches?’ She held out her hand.

  I obliged, and she opened the big oven doors, and for a moment all I saw was the broad beam of her backside in its black serge frock and the soles of her sturdy shoes. Within a few minutes she’d got the gas going. ‘Can you drive?’

  I shook my head, feeling even more hopeless.

  ‘Well, you’d best learn, ducks. Have you got the keys to the van?’

  ‘Yes, over here.’ I pointed to the board behind the door where all the keys hung.

  ‘I’ll take it, then, and fetch you the milk.’

  ‘I’m not sure—’

  She already had the keys dangling from her hand. ‘You’ll need milk for the scones and to make butter, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Let the bread prove,’ she called as she opened the door. ‘Twenty minutes. Then in the oven on a slow heat. Keep an eye on it whilst you make another batch. I should be back by then. I’ll drive you over to the farm later, to help with the evening milking.’

  The door banged, and outside I heard the grunt and roar of the van starting up, and she was gone.

  I don’t know what I would’ve done without Mrs Flanders. Always in black, always matter-of-fact, she had more energy than a carthorse. What I wasn’t to know then was that she knew everyone’s business, and she was also the greatest gossip in the whole of Jersey.

  Chapter 5

  Gradually things got organised, despite the fact that the population of Jersey was half what it had been. My bread was hard and unpalatable, but at least I was baking, though I had to be up every day before it was light. Mrs Flanders came to help with the bread, and in return, twice a day, I trekked over to Flanders Farm four miles away to help her with farm work and milking. She’d managed to commandeer several other women who owed her favours, and we gradually came to a rickety routine.

  The result of this was that by the time the shop opened I already felt like I’d done a full day’s work. It was a wet summer, and it just made everything harder. Many bakeries had ceased to run, so the shop was always busy, despite the rationing.

  One morning, Mrs Flanders was still there helping me lay out loaves when the shop door flew open and Rachel blew in, shaking a flurry of raindrops from her wet umbrella. Since our night at the harbour, we’d grown even closer, and now she called in every day on her way home from work so we could share supper. This morning’s visit was unusual.

  ‘Can we talk?’ she said. The set of her jaw told me she was angry.

  Mrs Flanders stood up from under the counter from where she’d been stacking loaves in a crate.

  ‘Morning,’ Mrs Flanders said, with a breezy customer smile.

  A sudden silence.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you on your own,’ Rachel said, glaring at me.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ Mrs Flanders said huffily.

  ‘Just give me a few minutes and—’ But Rachel was already out, tugging at her umbrella, which was tangled in the door. Finally, she swore and abandoned it. ‘Wait! You’ll get soaked!’ I yelled. But by the time I went after her, she was already halfway down the street, going in the direction of the sea, her head bowed against the rain. I stood on tiptoes, brandishing the umbrella like a fool. ‘Rachel!’

  She must have heard me, but she didn’t turn back. Already drenched from the squall, I dragged the umbrella back into the shop and shook it out onto the doormat.

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Flanders said. ‘What on earth was all that about?’

  ‘No idea,’ I said, handing her a loaf to wrap in brown paper.

  ‘Heavens, you don’t think she could be …?’ Mrs Flanders mimed a bump on her stomach.

  ‘Not Rachel. I’ve known her ages, and I know there isn’t anybody.’

  ‘That’s the thing with young girls,’ Mrs Flanders said. ‘They’re always getting themselves in trouble. Take Albert’s wife. I bet you didn’t know he married her on the rebound. It wouldn’t surprise me if one of those kiddies wasn’t even his.’

  Mrs Flanders continued to tell me all Albert’s private business as we wrapped the bread, but I wasn’t paying any attention. I was worried about Rachel. Since the night we’d tried to leave, I felt connected to her somehow, and today there was something about her accusing manner that had told me it was bad news, and that it was somehow my fault.

  Mrs Flanders and I loaded the rest of the bread into crates, ready for her to drive the van round to the hotels, to deliver their loaves and crusty rolls for tonight’s dinner, and I waved her off.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Though I couldn’t manage without her, just being with Mrs Flanders was exhausting. At lunchtime I put a Closed for Lunch sign in the window and, grabbing Rachel’s umbrella, I hurried down into St Helier to the bank.

  She’s off sick, they told me. Sick? She hadn’t looked remotely sick this morning. I’d have to go to her apartment.

  Rachel lived on the second floor of a small dilapidated Victorian boarding house near the seafront; faded and peeling, it had communal stairs that always smelt of boiled cabbage.

  When she opened the door, I tried to give her the usual kiss to each cheek, but she withdrew. Her eyes were red and wouldn’t meet mine.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, ‘What’s going on?’

  She held out a letter to me. ‘From my mother’s neighbour. Read it.’

  The envelope was addressed to Mrs R Jones. But Rachel wasn’t married, and her name was Cohen. I raised my eyebrows at her. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure it was for me either. But it was my address, and my initial, and the sign on the envelope told me I should open it. Go on, read it.’

  I pulled it out and took it to the window where there was more light. Today, though the rain had stopped, the windows were misted up and splattered with gull droppings. There was no address on the top of the letter, and no date. It was in French, but on Jersey, everyone could speak both French and English, or Jèrriais, our own Jersey language from the old Norman. I translated easily:

  * * *

  Mr and Mrs Cohen of 6 Rue Balard, Paris, were ordered to report to the train station yesterday, and by now they will be on their way to a camp for Jews and ‘undesirables’. Given that they are unlikely to return, their house has been requisitioned for use by the Sicherheitspolizei.

  Heil Hitler.

  * * *

  At the bottom of the letter was a small symbol that looked like a cat’s face. The same little drawing was on the envelope. ‘What’s this?’ I asked, pointing.

  ‘That’s how I know it’s from Madame Vichy. It’s their cat, Otto. He’s dead now of course. It was when I was a little girl. I used to feed Otto when they went on holiday, and he always wrote me a thank you note, signed like this, but of course it was Madame Vichy who wrote the notes.�
�� She swallowed. ‘I haven’t seen a note signed like this for twenty years.’

  ‘This woman, is she a Nazi sympathiser?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Rachel sighed. ‘She’s just an ordinary woman, like my mother. She’s not doing it out of malice. She’s my mother’s best friend; they used to gossip over the garden fence and exchange recipes for tarte au citron. I suppose, now France is occupied, Madame Vichy must pretend to toe the line. Not to, might be too risky.’

  I stared at the note again. ‘She doesn’t say where they’ve gone. You don’t think it’s just someone making trouble?’

  ‘No. Look, I trust her. She wouldn’t write me this unless it were true, and I can’t bear to think of it. Of where Maman and Papa are, I mean. I’d heard rumours of this, of the mass transportation of Jewish people out of the cities and into ghettos, but …’ She stopped, picked at the frayed edge of her cardigan.

  ‘When did you last hear from them?’

  ‘Maman’s letters kept coming as usual until about six weeks ago. Then they suddenly stopped, and though I’ve been writing, I’ve heard nothing since. I suspected England wouldn’t let the mail through, now France is under German occupation.’

  I turned the letter over to look at the postmark. The words ‘unlikely to return’ had sent a chill through me. ‘When was it sent?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Rachel said. ‘I don’t know. You can see the censor’s mark, but it came this morning and the rain has blurred everything.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I can’t go there to look for them, can I? I don’t know where they’ve gone, or where to look. How can they do this?’

  I put the letter back in the envelope. Her voice had an accusing tone. And suddenly I realised that she meant Fred.

  I bridled. ‘It’s not Fred’s fault,’ I said. ‘It’s this stupid war.’