The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  ‘I’ve no butter,’ I said, ‘only dripping. Mrs Flanders let me have the scrapings from her pantry.’ I handed her a plate and tore the loaf in half, wincing as the hot crust burned my fingers.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she mumbled, cramming the bread into her mouth.

  I wasn’t much more restrained myself, for it was steamily fragrant and startlingly good after the grey gravel we’d been calling ‘bread’ for the last six months.

  ‘I knew you weren’t dead,’ I said, once we’d emptied our plates. ‘You’d never drown yourself. You’re such a good swimmer the waves would just laugh and throw you back.’

  ‘Pity of it is, the Germans think the same. Should’ve known they’d see through it.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Stupid idea. Still, it was either that or end up in a camp like my parents. I’ve thought a lot about it, dying. There might come a time where it’s a choice I’d make. But not willingly. So much has changed in these last years. I’ve begun to see that the Nazis really do intend to cleanse the world of Jews.’ She gave me a rueful look. ‘It still seems faintly unreal, that they can do that and nobody will lift a finger to stop them, but then I’ve seen the whole island begin to cave in to fear. It only took a few deportations and arrests before people began to be too scared to stop them.’

  ‘I know. I can feel it, the terror. It’s like an undercurrent, as if we’re all looking over our shoulders the whole time. We thought the war would be short, but it drags on. Lord, how I wish it were over.’

  Rachel stood up and went to sit in the sagging armchair. ‘But what if it’s never over?’ There was a desperate edge to her voice. ‘What if the Nazis win?’

  ‘Don’t even speak of it. I refuse to live on Bratwurst and Sauerkraut.’

  ‘You’ll be all right. You’ll have Fred.’

  ‘I never really think of him as German. He’s just … well, Fred.’ I heard the catch in my own voice. To cover it, I pushed my specs further up my nose and got busy. ‘You hang on there, and I’ll go and get a pail of water, and we can heat it on the range. You can have your bath in front of the fire.’

  I ran the tap, blinking back tears. ‘Stupid,’ I said to myself.

  By the time I’d got the bucket to the range, Rachel had pulled off her shoes and was asleep, feet curled underneath her bottom. Exhausted, I guessed.

  I set the bucket down quietly and fetched a blanket from Tilly’s room. Rachel didn’t even stir when I covered her. She’d have to stay there for the night at least. I checked the curtains were pulled tightly shut and fetched the alarm clock with its big bells. I’d set it to ring at four in the morning, before dawn. She must go by the morning, I knew that.

  I also knew that turning her out of my door to an unknown fate would be the hardest thing I’d ever done.

  Chapter 11

  The rapping at the front door made me leap from the bed, bleary-eyed and fumbling for the alarm. Light seeped through the crack in the curtains. With horror, I groped for my glasses and picked up the clock. Six thirty. How the heck did that happen? Oh Lord, I hadn’t forgotten to set the alarm, had I? I’d meant to, but could I actually remember doing it …? What a blethering idiot. And now here was Mrs Flanders, come to get started with the baking.

  I threw on my candlewick dressing gown and shot down the stairs, almost tripping over the dangling cord as I went.

  Rachel was hopping up and down putting on her shoes.

  ‘Quick! Upstairs!’ I hissed at her.

  The knocking was even louder now, and I heard the letterbox open. A voice boomed into the shop. ‘Céline! Get up, you lazy lump. It’s six thirty! Let me in.’

  I was about to go and open the door when I saw our two plates still on the table. I shoved them both into the cupboard under the sink and ran to the door.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Flanders,’ I said, out of breath, ‘I must’ve overslept.’

  ‘I can see that. You look like you’ve spent the night in a hedge. Well, get out of the way, then, and let me in. And get yourself dressed whilst I get the oven lit. There’s a frost this morning and that wind’s sharp.’

  I rushed upstairs again, and seeing no sign of Rachel in my bedroom, I stuck my head around the door into Tilly’s room. A tap on my shoulder made me yelp. Rachel was behind the door. I flashed her a warning look and put my fingers to my lips.

  ‘You all right up there?’

  ‘Fine,’ I called out. ‘Just stubbed my toe.’

  I dressed in a panic, throwing on an old skirt and a darned jersey, and splashed my face in the bedroom washbowl. There was no soap of course. We hadn’t had any for months.

  By the time I got downstairs, Mrs Flanders had got the ovens heating and was kneading the first batch of bread. ‘We’ll have to get a shift on,’ she said. ‘Best leave it to prove whilst we do the cows, and then you can finish it off when I drop you back.’

  Deliberately, I got into the van without my coat. As the engine roared into life, I shouted, ‘Wait! I forgot my coat!’

  ‘You’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.’

  I leapt out and into the house. ‘Rachel,’ I hissed, ‘it’s only me.’

  Her head poked out from the top of the stairway.

  ‘I’ll only be a few hours. Don’t answer the door. Get your bath and take some of Tilly’s clothes, whatever she’s left. We’ll decide what to do later.’

  ‘I’m not staying—’

  ‘I haven’t got time to argue. You can’t leave in the light – too risky. Just do as I say, okay?’

  ‘All right, Miss Bossy Boots.’

  I was a long time coming back from the farm, because Mrs Flanders was teaching me to drive the van, and I kept stalling the damn thing. After I waved her off, I unlocked the shop door to smell the aroma of baking. My mouth watered, but these days the loaves often smelt better than they tasted. I followed my nose and there was Rachel in the bakehouse, already kneading the next batch of bread.

  ‘I had to do something,’ she said. ‘Sitting about waiting is just too nerve-wracking.’

  ‘I like your outfit,’ I said. She looked better already, dressed in one of Tilly’s plaid kilts and a jersey. They were still too big, and she looked like an orphan, but at least they were more practical than the thin cotton frock she’d been wearing yesterday.

  ‘I couldn’t take anything from my apartment,’ she said, ‘or it would have looked suspicious. My dress had to go on under the clothes I left at the beach, in case the neighbours saw me go out. I carried the shoes wrapped in brown paper. Good job I had a spare pair, even if they’re more hole than shoe. I tell you, I was scared I’d be blown to bits by a mine. The beach is littered with them.’

  ‘They went to your apartment. I went to look for you and they were kicking the door in.’ I explained what I’d seen.

  ‘I got out just in time, then.’ Her smile was the same, but there was a tension around her jaw. ‘Would it be all right if I took Tilly’s coat?’

  ‘Well, she’s not coming back from England for it, is she?’ I caught her eye, and we held each other’s gaze. ‘Look, Rachel, you can’t just leave. You can stay here. If you go out there … well, anything could happen.’

  ‘No. I told you. It would be too much of an imposition. If they catch us—’

  ‘I know, I know. Don’t keep saying it.’

  She pulled the oven door open and dragged out the tray of loaves and set them on the table. ‘Ugh. Those look horrible. But beggars can’t be choosers I suppose.’

  ‘Rachel, you’re changing the subject.’

  She sighed. ‘Do you think I don’t want to stay here? But I know what it will mean. It will change your life. You will never be able to be easy again. And I … I will always have to be grateful. I’m not very good at being grateful, Céline. And I can be bad-tempered and awkward, and bloody-minded. And what about Horst? I couldn’t live with myself if something happened and they caught us. You’d get the blame.’

  ‘Then we’ll just have to make sure they don’t.’


  She shook her head, but I could see she was tempted.

  ‘God, you’re stubborn. And I don’t care how bloody-minded you are, if you’re still alive.’

  ‘You might just regret saying that.’

  I rushed over to hug her. For a moment we stood just gripping each other.

  ‘We’ll make it, you’ll see. And you can help in the bakery. They’ll wonder why my bread suddenly tastes decent. And you can have Tilly’s room, but you’ll have to be still and quiet when customers are in the shop – her floorboards creak and they’re right above it.’

  Chapter 12

  Rachel moved in to Tilly’s old room and for the next few days I almost forgot she was there, except for the fact my shoulders grew knots and I had a permanent feeling of panic every time a German came into the shop. The evenings were the best, when I could lock all the doors and we could settle downstairs by the range and chat over weak tea and the cobbling together of meals from whatever ingredients I could glean.

  Mrs Flanders was our lifeline. She still had a wireless set – verboten, of course – but she was so avid for news that she risked keeping it, wrapped like a baby in blankets, beneath bales of straw in the barn. Ghoulish gossip was Mrs Flanders’ reason for existence; without it she’d probably shrivel up and die. So in the evenings after work, as we peeled beet to make sugar syrup, I could tell Rachel the news from the World Service.

  Horst telephoned to tell me his driver would collect me on the Saturday evening, so when the day arrived Rachel helped me get ready in my one good dress, a dark floral print with padded shoulders and a cinched-in waist.

  ‘What’s he like, this Horst?’ Rachel asked, as she fastened the little buttons at the back.

  ‘I don’t know him that well. In Vienna I always found him a bit intimidating. And he treated Fred in a condescending big brother-ish sort of way, belittling his career as a baker. He once told Fred that baking was weiblich, womanly, right in front of me. It was clearly supposed to be an insult, and he was totally oblivious to the fact he’d just insulted me too.’

  ‘Sounds like a dream date.’

  ‘I’m hoping he’ll tell me some news about Fred. He can find out about him through the German network, and I’m desperate to know how he is. Though it feels really strange; somehow I can’t really imagine Fred as part of an invading force.’

  ‘He probably looks different in uniform.’

  I stared at her then. It was something I’d never thought of. How stupid. I’d always just imagined him in the clothes he wore at home. And suddenly I could see it; that the uniforms were a big part of the intimidation.

  I shuddered. ‘Let’s not talk about it,’ I said. ‘I just have to get through this one night.’

  ‘I’d better go upstairs. He might be early,’ Rachel said.

  When she’d gone the house fell to silence again. I was ready far too soon, but we couldn’t risk anyone coming unexpectedly, so I wanted to be waiting. I sat on the edge of the armchair, steeling myself, my palms sweating with nerves. It would be so easy to slip up, to forget and to say ‘we’ instead of ‘I’.

  In the event I was at the door as soon as I heard the car. It was a shiny black monstrosity called a Horch, with glaring headlamps and a gleaming chrome radiator like something from a film. I made a great fuss of locking up, although I felt like I was acting a part. The chauffeur held the door for me, with a ‘Guten Abend, Frau Huber’. As I climbed in, I saw the curtain at the window twitch.

  Rachel, you fool! I prayed the chauffeur hadn’t seen it and gripped tight to the leather seat as the car slid away from the kerb. Wait till I got home, I’d have words to say to her. I began to wonder if I could really trust her to be careful enough. She’d always been a bit flighty, a bit reckless. For the first time, the real spectre of deportation to a German prison camp made me shudder in my seat.

  I was deposited by the harbour outside the Pomme d’Or and told to go into the lobby to reception. In my plain wool coat I felt too dowdy for the grand entrance and the sleek interior, with its silver bucket for umbrellas and the elaborate display of starched roses on the front desk. I was about to go to ask the porter where I might find Horst when he appeared before me.

  ‘Céline!’ he said, grasping me by the shoulders and making two loud air kisses. ‘I’ve reserved for us a table in the restaurant.’

  ‘You mean here?’

  He must have seen my consternation. ‘It will be more relaxed here,’ he said easily.

  Relaxed for him, perhaps. For me, it was the equivalent of being inside a wasp’s nest. All male eyes turned to me as we passed through the lounge, and I was greeted by resentful stares from the waiters, who, as far as I could see, were all islanders.

  Horst pulled out a chair for me in the mirrored dining room and sat down opposite. The room was full of uniformed men dining in great good humour. Most seemed to be in naval uniform and were chatting in German in groups of three or four. Glancing around the room I could see only a few other women, and they all seemed to be in evening dress – accented with red lips and plucked eyebrows, and the flash of white gloves and jewellery.

  I flushed as I struggled out of my coat, and I handed it to the hovering waiter. I was woefully underdressed, I realised. But then again, what could I do? I was in my only dress that wasn’t used in the shop or on the farm.

  Horst laid a small parcel next to my plate.

  ‘Oh, Horst, what’s all this?’

  ‘Open it,’ he said.

  I tugged off the bow on the box and slid it open. Bas Le Bourget – transparents comme l’air, I read. French stockings, flesh-coloured and wrapped in cellophane. Again, heat rose to my face, partly because Fred had never in his life given me such an intimate gift, and partly because I knew these had come from France, another occupied country just like Jersey.

  ‘You can wear them next time we dine out,’ he said, leaning in and patting my hand. His palm was damp and heavy.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, uncomfortable. ‘It was a sweet thought.’ I withdrew my hand, closed the lid, and asked to see a menu.

  ‘Sorry, but there’s no menu. The rationing, you see. But usually we have something reasonable here.’

  Reasonable? I was aghast when they brought me fresh tomato soup with a crisp bread roll, roast chicken with runner beans and roast potatoes, and a pear and apple upside-down pudding with custard. We hadn’t seen a fresh tomato for years, nor eaten anything sweet, except carrots and turnips, let alone the luxury of custard. I’ll swear it was made with eggs too.

  I couldn’t help thinking of Rachel, at home with my empty larder, and the lumpy flour they supplied us with, which only made hard bread. It was torture. I couldn’t help enjoying it, but at the same time I could hardly swallow for the thought of all the other islanders saving their one egg for a special occasion.

  Horst packed away his dinner in a business-like way, whilst extolling the virtues of German efficiency. ‘We are building everywhere on Jersey – tunnels, bunkers, walls. It will really put this island … how do you say it? On the map. This will be the strongest place in Europe when the Führer he finish it.’

  ‘Why, Horst? Why does he need Jersey? We don’t understand.’

  ‘Because from here we are close to France, and to England, which we will have under our control soon enough. It is ideal place for German command. A good stronghold. And besides, it is very beautiful, Ja?’

  ‘But will it still be beautiful once you’ve built all that? Everywhere I go there’s the stink of concrete and men building. And as for our beautiful beaches, they are full of mines and barbed wire.’

  Horst tightened his lips, picked up a napkin and pressed it to his mouth. I had offended him. ‘The English, it is their fault. All the building work is necessary because of the English. Once the English cease to threaten us, then we’ll clear the beaches again, and life here will become more … more pleasant.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that we’re not used to changes here in Jersey
. Everything’s been the same here for hundreds of years, since the Normans. Let’s talk of something else. Tell me about Fred. Is there any chance he’ll get leave any time soon?’

  ‘Leave? Probably not. France has many pockets of resistance. All men are needed there. We have a shortage of fit men in Germany. It is small in population compared with the rest of Europe, and there is much clearing to do.’

  ‘What do you mean by clearing?’

  Horst paused, took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘I forgot, you are not a German.’ He puffed a moment and blew out a thin stream of smoke. ‘It is not something for you to worry about. Tell me instead the most beautiful place on the island.’

  He was changing the subject, damn him. I played his game. ‘Mont Orgueil, the castle. It has stood there for eight hundred years, and the view is breathtaking.’ Too late, I realised that this was the first place the Germans had taken over, and even now they were building gun turrets into its sacred walls. Everything about this conversation made me tense. I found I was gripping the edge of the damask tablecloth as if for support.

  I reeled off a few more local beauty spots, all of which had lost their peace and charm since the occupation, but Horst seemed to barely be listening. He was watching other people watching me.

  ‘They are wondering who you are,’ he said. ‘You are a new face here. And a charming one. I thought we might take a stroll, so you could show me the sights. We need to walk after dinner, yes?’

  I agreed; anything to escape this stultifying atmosphere. So, after coffee for me and cognac for Horst, we set off to stroll past the bobbing boats in the harbour and towards the church. The evening was chilly, and Horst took my arm. To counter the disloyal feelings this produced, I entertained Horst by telling him about Saint Helier, who lived just offshore as a hermit but was set upon by pirates in the early days of Christianity.