The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  ‘I have no … no suspender belt.’ My cheeks grew hot as I mimed the belt.

  ‘This is easy fix. I bring you, soon, with new dress.’

  He took me to one of the restaurants frequented by Germans and propelled me to a table. At every opportunity, he crept his hand onto the bare flesh of my knee. I had to hold the menu up to my nose to read it, and of course, I saw with a sinking heart, that even that was in German.

  ‘I will order for you,’ Horst said with a self-satisfied smile.

  I ate a meal that almost choked me, keeping a polite distance but fearful of offending him. Offending the Germans was something that landed you in jail, along with chalking ‘V’ for Victory on the pavements or owning a wireless. Horst regaled me with stories of his childhood. In nearly all of them, Horst was the clever one and Fred the stupid one, or Horst the leader and Fred limping behind. I gritted my teeth and tried not to show my annoyance.

  When he drove me home, the house was dark and silent.

  ‘Soon this will be my house,’ he said, looking up at it. ‘It is humble, but I will endure it. It is better than one room at the hotel.’ But then he saw something that made him leap from the car.

  ‘What is this?’

  The front window of the shop was daubed with an enormous dripping white ‘V’ and ‘ENGLISH VICTORY IS CERTAIN’ in roughly drawn capitals.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, instantly feeling guilty. ‘I don’t know who did this. But I don’t think it will be easy to clean – the paint smells like enamel.’

  ‘It is not to be borne, this resistance. We will find out. Your neighbours will be punished. I will find out who is responsible for doing this to our house.’ He paced up and down the street, a kind of animal tension in the way he walked. ‘Stay indoors tomorrow, Céline. It is none of your business.’

  ‘But, Horst, it is probably just children, fooling around.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Stay indoors. I order it.’ Without even a ‘goodnight’, he forced his bulk back into the car. ‘I must go and organise some men,’ he shouted through the window. ‘If you hear anything else, call me.’ He drove off.

  My shop had been a deliberate target. One of my neighbours had chosen to do this, to make me feel bad. It was the last thing I needed, to be made the centre of German attention. I wouldn’t put it past Mrs Galen, or her husband Anton, to single me out.

  Rachel came down from upstairs. She was dressed and looked much better. ‘How did you get rid of him? I thought he’d want to come in. I was all set to hide behind the door.’

  ‘Don’t jest,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not jesting. I was bloody terrified. There’s nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Did you hear anything or see anything when I was out?’

  ‘No. Nothing. I heard noises outside, but I kept the curtains drawn and the lights out, like always. Why?’

  I explained about the window. ‘He told me to stay indoors tomorrow.’

  ‘Guess that means me too. Shame, I was thinking of a nice stroll down to the harbour for an ice cream.’

  ‘Will you stop it with your stupid jokes. It’s serious.’

  ‘What should I do instead? Cry? Once I’m on the run, I’ve probably only a few days before I get caught. I might as well enjoy them. I would’ve left already, but I wanted to thank you first.’

  ‘I told you before, I don’t need thanks.’

  ‘I’d be dead by now if you hadn’t fetched Wolfgang. I could hardly breathe, but all I could think of was that I mustn’t die, because otherwise it would cause you even more trouble.’

  ‘Don’t be a goose. Look, we’ve five days before Horst moves in. We’ll just have to find you somewhere else. Is there anyone else you trust?’

  ‘No. Nobody who would risk their life for me. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? And it isn’t fair. I can’t ask that of anyone. I’ll move on tomorrow. Meanwhile, let’s get on with the baking. It’ll give us time to think. Maybe we can stop Horst moving in, and you never know, we might come up with an idea.’

  ‘Have you ever tried to stop the Germans doing anything?’ I said.

  ‘What if you ring the Kommandant and get him to send someone to take over the bakery? Then at least you wouldn’t have to deal with Horst.’

  ‘It might be someone worse. Or they’d move me out and neither of us would have anywhere to go.’

  Both of us fell to silent kneading.

  At dawn we were up again to bake the meagre consignment of bread. Rachel had just got it in the oven when there was the noise of boots on the street outside. I tweaked back the curtain. Even without my glasses I could see enough to know there was a whole platoon of soldiers in the street.

  ‘Get upstairs out of sight,’ I whispered urgently, flapping my hands at Rachel.

  From behind the bedroom window, I watched as they knocked at every door and dragged the occupants onto the street, even shy six-year-old Lily and Mr and Mrs Soulier, her schoolteacher parents. If the door didn’t open, soldiers shot off the lock and kicked it in. Mr and Mrs Galen were white with terror; the others just looked stunned. They stood in a ragged line, trying to make themselves seem smaller.

  A car arrived, one I recognised, and Horst got out. The troop saluted him with rigidly raised arms and a Heil Hitler.

  Horst strolled up the line and then pointed to the window. I saw Mrs Galen look up to the crack in the curtain where I was watching, and her mouth pursed in disgust. Still, I couldn’t move away.

  ‘Who has done this?’ Horst said. ‘You are all neighbours. Who saw?’

  Nobody answered.

  ‘You?’ He grabbed a rifle from one of the men and smashed it hard upwards into Mr Soulier’s jaw. I heard myself gasp as he fell to the ground, groaning and spitting out teeth. Another of the men aimed a vicious kick at his stomach. Mr Soulier curled into a bloody foetus, hands over his head, as Mrs Soulier, eyes pools of horror, grabbed Lily and pressed her face into her skirts, her hand on her head. Nobody else dared move.

  Horst walked along the line. Sickened, I couldn’t look away. I was the cause of this; if I hadn’t known Horst, had never had him in my house, then nobody would have painted on my window. I would be one of them, instead of one of the enemy.

  The next man in line was the old man, Mr Benoit, who hardly ever came out of his house because he was lame and walked with a stick. Horst dragged him forward, the man cringing, his hands clamped together before his face, pleading for mercy.

  ‘Who will tell me what they saw?’ Horst called out. ‘Or shall I shoot him?’ He threw down the blood-stained rifle and cocked his handgun.

  ‘No, please. I saw nothing.’ Mr Benoit was on his knees, a wet stain on his trousers.

  ‘I count to three.’ Horst pressed the gun to his temple.

  The rest in the line froze, like dummies. Some closed their eyes.

  ‘Three. Two.’

  I leapt down the stairs and flung open the door of the shop. The jangle of the bell made everyone’s eyes swivel to me. ‘Please! It doesn’t matter! It’s only a window!’

  The shot rang out and Mr Benoit slumped. His head hit the pavement with a second crack. So quick? Alive one moment and gone the next? It didn’t seem possible.

  ‘Céline’ – Horst’s voice was calm – ‘I told you to stay indoors.’

  ‘Please, Horst.’ I met his gaze with mine. ‘It’s not worth someone’s life.’

  The neighbours shifted their eyes sideways to look at me, but they didn’t move. I felt as if the whole world was staring.

  Horst walked the few steps over to me, a cold look in his blue eyes, the gun pointing straight at my chest. He leaned close to me as I stood quaking. His words were whispered, conspiratorial. ‘It is necessary. To keep order. Do not try my patience.’ He called to his men. ‘Schultz, Vogel, begleitet Sie.’

  Two men grabbed my arms and half pushed, half carried me towards the shop.

  ‘Let go,’ I protested. ‘I’m going.’ I ran inside the shop.

 
From behind the glass in the door I watched Horst cock his gun and move back to Mrs Soulier, who was shuddering with weeping and fear, with Lily still pressed to her knees.

  Please God, no.

  Horst prodded Mrs Soulier in the neck with his gun. ‘You want her to be an orphan?’

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ She fell to her knees, shielding Lily by pushing her behind her. ‘It was Mr Galen!’ She pointed. ‘I saw him with a brush, painting the window! Last night, when it was dark.’

  Horst swivelled to look at him.

  ‘You bitch!’ Mrs Galen shouted. ‘Don’t believe her! She’s lying. We know nothing about it!’

  But anyone could see Mr Galen’s guilt. It was written all over his face.

  Horst gave an order in German and the men moved forward in a crush of rifles and helmets. The Galens were punched and beaten, and frog-marched away down the road.

  When the disturbance was over, the street emptied. Mrs Soulier carried Lily indoors and then came back to help her husband to stagger back into the house. But Mr Benoit was still lying there, like a discarded bundle. The shock of it made my teeth chatter and my stomach roil.

  I couldn’t think. Couldn’t make sense of it.

  I ran my hands under the cold tap until they were blue.

  Like a sleepwalker, I dragged the dough from the mixing bowl to divide it into loaves. The smell and texture of it, on top of what I’d just seen, were enough to make me run back to the sink to vomit and then hurry on shaking legs to the privy in the backyard.

  I scrubbed at my hands again, over and over, letting the clear cold water run. My hands seemed to be someone else’s as I loaded the bread into the ovens and busied myself with batches of loaves. When I looked into the street an hour later, the old man was still there, but now there were flies buzzing near his face, and the blood had dried to a dark stain.

  There was no noise at all from upstairs. Rachel might as well not have existed. But I knew she’d have heard the shouting and the shots, and the body in the street was plain to see.

  I’d have to drive the bread to the German Supplies Unit if I didn’t want to be evicted. The thought of driving was bad enough, but the thought of seeing any more German soldiers made my palms sweat.

  Chapter 14

  When I returned, driving slowly because I could barely see the road without my glasses, I avoided the bundle in the street. I was a coward. It had taken only one morning to turn me into someone who would just ignore a body on my own doorstep. There was still an unsettling silence from Rachel’s room. If she was still planning on leaving, she must be even more afraid than I was. And leave she must. I had no doubts at all now about the man who would be sharing my house. I couldn’t understand it; how could Fred and this man have come from the same womb? The thought of Fred in a German uniform made me uneasy.

  I glanced at the clock. Nine thirty, and the day already felt a hundred years long.

  Finally, Rachel came downstairs. ‘I saw,’ was all she said.

  Her face was white, and in the oversized clothes she was childlike; nothing like the brazen, confident swimmer I used to know.

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ I said. ‘Eat something.’ I passed her a plate, on which was a nub of the grey bread with a scrape of margarine, and a cup of nettle tea.

  There was nothing we could say to each other.

  Finally, Rachel said, ‘I don’t want to leave you alone with him.’

  I squeezed her hand where it lay on the table. ‘None of us asked for this. We just have to survive it. If we can only survive, better times will come.’

  ‘I’ll leave as soon as it’s dark.’ Tears stood like glass in her eyes.

  The shop was open, but I had nothing to sell anymore, except what I could filch from the German ration. I’d stretch bread rolls until they were tiny and flat like dried biscuit, and occasionally someone would come to barter – a potato for a small roll. But word must have spread that I wasn’t to be trusted, for none of my island customers came near me now, and if I tried to speak to them on the street, they cut me dead.

  It was lunchtime when a German car rolled up the street. I shouted to Rachel, ‘Germans!’ and heard her bedroom door close. I stood behind the shop window, behind that ugly ‘V’.

  The car stopped just in front of Mr Benoit’s body, and the door opened.

  But it wasn’t Horst, it was Wolfgang. He went over to look at Mr Benoit and gently rolled him onto his back. He bent to listen to his chest and feel his pulse, though it was pretty obvious Mr Benoit was dead. Wolfgang looked up and down the street, but seeing nobody, he lifted the man off the road and into his arms. It was a struggle, for Wolfgang, though tall, was slight.

  I only hesitated a moment, before I ran out, locking the door behind me. ‘Where are you taking him?’ It was an accusation.

  ‘I hear about this shooting. It is a bad thing. He can’t lie there, this old man, in the street. Has he any family?’

  ‘No, not that I know of. His wife died years ago.’

  ‘Then let’s take him there.’ He indicated the chapel just down the street with a nod. ‘They will bury him, I hope.’

  I went ahead to push open the gate. ‘There’s no graveyard here; Almorah cemetery is up the road. But the door’s always open, and the minister knows him; he will know what to do.’

  The iron handle twisted easily and the heavy oak door swung open. The chapel was dim, with high windows and semicircular rows of pews. Wolfgang lay Mr Benoit down just before the altar platform, on the smooth-flagged floor.

  We were silent a moment, both looking at the cross on the altar table. This wasn’t a high church, but its plainness and simplicity made our presence even more stark.

  ‘We say prayers for him,’ Wolfgang said.

  We knelt side by side. Instinctively, I felt I could trust him, but I couldn’t pray. The taut feeling in my belly, the sensation of being caught on a dangerous ledge, wouldn’t let my mind rest.

  Wolfgang’s hands rested on the pew in front of him, and I saw then a great bruise across the back of his hand. He saw me staring and thrust it into his pocket.

  After a few minutes, we stood together and walked silently from the church. It seemed natural for him to walk me to my front door.

  ‘Can I see the patient?’ Wolfgang asked. ‘Just a few moments. I am supposed to be collecting a man from the boat, but it is delayed.’

  ‘A Nazi?’

  ‘Yes, a Nazi.’

  I hesitated, key in hand, blocking the door.

  ‘I do my job.’ He looked ashamed. ‘But for you, I am just a doctor. Not a German. Not a soldier. Just a doctor.’

  My hand was already turning the key in the lock.

  ‘It’s okay, Rachel,’ I called. ‘It’s a friend.’

  Rachel emerged warily from the top of the stairs.

  ‘You look better,’ Wolfgang said. ‘It’s good to see you out of bed. The cough is gone?’

  ‘Almost.’ She suddenly seemed shy. ‘Thank you for bringing the medicine. I was in a bad way.’

  ‘You will be able to rest now, and soon you will be good as new.’

  Rachel caught my eye, and Wolfgang saw our exchange of glances. ‘You have trouble?’

  ‘Hauptmann Huber,’ I said. ‘My brother-in-law. He has decided to move in here.’

  ‘In this house?’ Wolfgang sucked in his breath. ‘This is not good news. He thinks all Jews Untermenschen. And outside, there is nowhere for a person to hide.’ He turned to Rachel. ‘You have to have shelter. Haven’t you some storeroom? An attic or a cellar?’

  ‘There is nowhere,’ Rachel said. ‘We’ve wracked our brains, but nothing. And Hauptmann Huber doesn’t strike me as a man who will listen to reason. No, I must move on, and I’ll try to get a boat to England.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Wolfgang said. ‘The boat patrols stop every craft. Two men were shot only a few nights ago. And trees are being cut down so fast for wood, there’s nowhere left to hide.’

  ‘Well, I can’t sta
y here.’ Rachel said.

  ‘In the day, yes you can. He is out all day doing his work.’ The way Wolfgang said ‘work’ left me in no doubt as to its ugliness. ‘I see him arrive in the morning, and we all thank God when he leaves at night.’

  ‘It’s just too dangerous for you, for me to stay here,’ Rachel said.

  ‘And too dangerous for you if you go,’ Wolfgang said.

  We sat in silence, at an impasse.

  The next day was a whirlwind of activity. I had the daily baking and delivery to do, and to clear enough space in Tilly’s room for all my things. I didn’t want to leave anything of mine or Fred’s in Horst’s room. I also kept Rachel’s things and all of Tilly’s. We couldn’t get cloth or shoes anymore. Every garment was precious. I stacked what I could under the bed to make room, lining up my own shoes near the front and putting Rachel’s at the back.

  Wolfgang arrived in the middle of the chaos. ‘I can’t stay long. Hauptmann Huber has sent me to see to one of his men who is suffering with ache of the stomach. I can spare only a half hour. But I have an idea. You have bread boxes, yes?’ He mimed the wooden trays we used for carrying bread.

  ‘Ah. You mean crates?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Crates, yes.’ His face was bright with fervour.

  ‘But we don’t have any bread,’ I said. ‘Not since the English cut off French trade routes. They’re trying to starve you out. And us with you.’

  ‘That is not important. Show me these crates.’

  I took him to the bakery, where a stack of unused crates was piled up near the door. More were stacked under the counter.

  He pulled one out. ‘We use these, to build a wall.’

  ‘What?’ I didn’t understand.

  ‘A hiding place for Rachel.’

  ‘Here?’ Rachel’s face took on a worried expression.

  ‘Wolfgang, I don’t think it will work,’ I said. ‘This isn’t a child’s game. We don’t need a den, we need a proper safe house.’