The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  ‘Mme Reynaud?’ asked Nathalie.

  A huge smile crossed the woman’s face. She knew immediately who the stranger was.

  ‘Thank God!’ she replied, relieved to see her, and gave her a warm welcoming hug. ‘We expected you yesterday. When you didn’t turn up, we started to imagine all sorts of things.’

  ‘There were disruptions on the lines. You know how things are,’ Nathalie answered.

  Mme Reynaud took her suitcase from her and ushered her inside the shop, filled with more flowers, vases, the odd sculpture, and ribbons of various thickness and colours. There was barely enough room to swing a cat around.

  ‘Antoine!’ she called out through a curtain that led to a back room. ‘Our visitor has arrived.’

  A man appeared and shook her hand. ‘Welcome to Paris, Nathalie. It’s good to have you with us.’

  Antoine Reynaud was a stout man who walked with a limp. Nathalie guessed that he was at least ten years older than his petite wife.

  ‘Give the girl something to eat,’ he said to his wife, ‘while I bring everything inside and close the shop.’

  Nathalie followed Mme Reynaud into the back room.

  ‘Here, give me your coat,’ she said. ‘It’s wet through. You’ll catch your death of cold.’

  She shook it and hung it on a peg next to the wood heater and added another log on the fire, sending out a streak of orange flames and a cloud of smoke.

  ‘The wood has not had time to dry,’ she said, holding a handkerchief over her nose and mouth whilst wafting the smoke away with the other hand. ‘We are fortunate to have this.’

  Nathalie thought of her home near the Pyrénées. Being a village house, it didn’t have too many luxuries, but it did have a large barn at the back of the house which was always filled with wood for the cold winters. It was only autumn and already firewood seemed to be in short supply here. How bad would it be during winter?

  Mme Reynaud cut a thick slice of hot beef and placed it on a plate alongside a generous helping of braised carrots and leeks. The only thing Nathalie had eaten in three days was a dried sausage, a piece of hard cheese and bread. Now famished, she ate it in no time. Mme Reynaud gave her more.

  ‘We’re going to have to fatten you up,’ she laughed. ‘Paris in winter under occupation is not the best place to be. You will need all your strength.’

  Antoine reappeared. ‘Tell, me, how is your father?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t seen him in years.’

  Antoine Reynaud was her father’s uncle and it was partly due to him that Nathalie had come to Paris. When the Germans occupied the city, they wasted no time in rounding up anyone who stepped out of line. Antoine and Madeleine Reynaud suddenly found themselves hiding friends who had been outspoken about Pétain and the Vichy government’s collaboration with the Nazis. Within a short space of time, it became clear that these people were being detained and tortured. They had to escape as soon as possible, and plans were put into place to get them out of France. By then, France was divided into the occupied and non-occupied zones, and getting through to the non-occupied zone was both difficult and dangerous. Even if the escapees did succeed, there was no guarantee of freedom.

  That was when Nathalie’s family became involved. One day, a message arrived for her father from Antoine saying that they were setting up escape routes throughout France with the aim of getting people out over the Pyrénées. Was he willing to stick his neck out? Èmile Fontaine consulted his wife. They were aware of the dangers involved. Already the borders were closed. Soldiers now patrolled all the exit roads to Spain and Vichy and German spies were keeping a close eye on the comings and goings in the nearby villages and towns. At first Nathalie’s mother thought it unwise, even though her sympathies were with the escapees. They had four other children to think about, all younger than Nathalie. Besides, her elderly parents lived with them.

  One night, in the middle of a particularly harsh winter, they heard a strange sound coming from the barn. Her father picked up a torch and his hunter’s rifle, and went outside to take a look.

  ‘Be careful,’ his wife whispered. ‘It could be a trap.’

  The snow swirled in a thick blizzard making it difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him. He pushed the barn door open. Screeching, it swang back against the outside wall.

  ‘Who’s there? Come out or I’ll shoot.’

  A moaning sound came from behind a pile of hay. Èmile Fontaine pointed the gun in the direction and kicked a bale of hay away with his foot. Behind it was a sandy-haired youth lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  ‘Help me,’ he said, the words barely audible, ‘I’ve been shot.’

  Èmile ran back to the house to fetch his wife and together they carried the man into the house. Nathalie had seen it all from her bedroom window and ran downstairs to see what was happening.

  ‘Make sure the children are in their rooms,’ her mother said, as they laid him on the couch. ‘I don’t want them seeing this.’

  Nathalie assured her parents that her siblings were all asleep. She wanted to help. The man was trying to speak, but the pain was too much and he passed out.’

  ‘He’s not French,’ her father said.

  ‘I think he’s English,’ Nathalie replied.

  Her father took off the man’s coat and shirt, whilst her mother went to get a bowl of hot water and a cloth. Nathalie searched through the man’s pockets, but there was nothing to identify him. The wound was from a bullet that had entered his upper chest and the blood was hard to stem.

  ‘He will die if we don’t get him to a doctor,’ Èmile told them.

  ‘We can’t possibly move him,’ his wife replied. ‘It’s impossible. And what if he dies here? Oh God, what shall we do?’

  She became frantic.

  ‘I’ll fetch the doctor,’ Nathalie said. ‘It’s the only thing we can do.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous to involve Arnaud. What if he tells the authorities?’ her mother replied anxiously.

  ‘It’s a risk we’re going to have to take,’ Èmile said. ‘We can’t have his death on our hands?’

  ‘We didn’t shoot him,’ her mother snapped.’

  ‘Maman, calm down! It will be fine. We’ve known Arnaud for years.’

  Èmile ignored his wife and looked at his daughter. ‘Get going; quickly. He won’t last much longer.’

  Nathalie rugged up in her thick winter coat, hat and scarf, and closed the door quietly behind her in order not to disturb the rest of the household. Arnaud, the local doctor, lived a short walk away. In daylight, someone would have seen her. Thankfully no one would be out on such a night as this. Then it dawned on her. When she knocked on the door, his wife would want to know what the commotion was all about.

  She rang the doorbell. A light come on in the hallway.

  ‘Coming, coming!’ a man’s voice called out.

  Dr Arnaud was surprised to find Nathalie standing on the doorstep.

  ‘You have to come quickly. We need your help,’ she whispered.

  A voice from another room called out.

  ‘Who is it at this time of the night?’

  Nathalie stared at him with frightened eyes. ‘It’s my grandfather, Mme Arnaud,’ she shouted out. ‘He has severe chest pains and we’re worried he may be having a heart attack.’

  Arnaud could tell that wasn’t the reason he had been called out on a night like this, nevertheless, he would go with her. Nathalie would not tell him the reason for her visit. Instead she waited until he arrived at the house and saw the man for himself.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ her mother asked nervously. ‘I mean we only just found...’

  Èmile put his hand out to stop his wife from saying any more. ‘Is he going to live?’ he asked.

  Arnaud checked the man’s pulse and retrieved several instruments from his bag. ‘Yes, but only if I remove this bullet straight away. Fetch me some hot water and alcohol.’

  It took just over an hour to remove the
bullet and stem the bleeding.

  ‘Thankfully, it narrowly missed his heart and aorta. He’s one lucky man,’ said Arnaud, as he stitched the wound.

  Èmile poured them all a cognac. ‘Will you report him?’ he asked.

  Arnaud shrugged. ‘My dear friend, would it surprise you to hear that he’s not the first man I’ve helped over the past few months?’

  Èmile threw a quick glance towards his wife.

  ‘The fact that the Germans are watching the border doesn’t mean people won’t try to escape,’ Arnaud said. ‘And who can blame them? Don’t worry, this is our secret. Keep the man hidden for a few days. I will come and check him. When all is well, he can be on his way and he will no longer be your problem.’

  After he’d gone, the three looked at the young man lying asleep on the couch.

  ‘Well, that’s it then,’ Mme Fontaine said, matter-of-factly. ‘We have to play our part in this. These men need us.’

  Èmile took his wife’s hand and told her how much he loved her for agreeing to help.

  ‘We must keep this between the three of us,’ she replied. ‘None of the children or my parents must ever get wind of our involvement, is that clear?’

  Nathalie kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I am proud of you, Maman.’

  The next day, Èmile telephoned Paris. ‘Uncle Antoine, count us in,’ he said.

  ‘Good man,’ Antoine replied.

  The phone went dead. One could never be sure if the wires were being tapped. The less said the better.

  The Englishman remained hidden in the barn for another two weeks, returning to the house only when the children and grandparents were asleep. After one final check from Arnaud, he was considered well enough to continue his journey and left the next day with the doctor. No questions were asked.

  Before long, Nathalie and her parents were helping others escape. If they thought it would just be men, they were wrong. Many were women and children.

  Antoine poured out a glass of eau de vie. Knowing how much Nathalie’s family were risking their own lives had made him wonder if he’d done the right thing in contacting them, yet as the occupation dragged on and things got worse for the French, he reasoned anyone could lose their life at any time, regardless of circumstances. A free France meant some must die for others to live. That was just the way it was.

  Chapter 2

  Nathalie was still fast asleep when Mme Reynaud knocked on her door with her breakfast; a piece of baguette, a pat of butter, plum jam, a boiled egg and a cup of real coffee.

  ‘I made the butter myself with the skin from boiled milk,’ she said with a smile. ‘As for other things, it pays to have a few friends around here. I give them the occasional bunch of flowers and they make sure a few things are kept aside for me. It saves us having to queue up for hours on end. Even so, rationing is hitting us all hard, but we manage.’

  She put the tray on a small table by the window and went over to the stove. A few pieces of wood had been hastily shoved inside, ready to be lit. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t light it yesterday. We couldn’t be sure when you’d arrive and we didn’t want to waste the wood. Antoine will bring more up for you today.’ She sat on the bed whilst Nathalie threw on some clothes.

  ‘We didn’t want to discuss everything the network does last night. You were too tired and needed to rest. I do hope you are aware of the danger you’ve put yourself in by coming here. What we are doing is not for the faint-hearted.’

  Nathalie began to eat her breakfast and listened.

  ‘Naturally, I cannot divulge everything,’ Mme Reynaud continued. ‘Your job will be to act as a courier; possibly a few other things, depending on the circumstances.’

  ‘What other things?’

  ‘Keeping watch whilst an operation is taking place. The odd surveillance work, etc.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too difficult.’

  ‘None of it sounds difficult, but when you can get shot or deported to Germany, simply because you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or someone takes a dislike to you, then it becomes dangerous. We also operate after curfew which means you can be shot on sight.’

  ‘I am aware of all this,’ Nathalie answered. ‘We weren’t immune to it at home either. After I saw my first public execution, something snapped and I was determined not to let them beat me.’

  Mme Reynaud saw the steely look of determination in her eyes. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Why don’t you spend the day getting to know the neighbourhood? You are welcome to join us for dinner this evening.’

  She picked up the tray and left the room, leaving Nathalie to mull over her words. She knew she was risking her life, yet at the same time she couldn’t deny there was a frisson of excitement about being a part of something dangerous.

  She looked out of the window. The rain had stopped, the sky was a cloudless pale blue, and the autumn sun was shining, casting a glorious glow on the Parisian rooftops. The Reynauds had given her an apartment at the top of the building on the fifth floor. The first floor was their own, and the others were occupied by two couples and an elderly widower who Antoine said they’d known for years and who kept very much to themselves. The building was typical of others in the area; elegant and fashionable blocks, built in the heyday during the days of Louis XIV and Baron Haussmann. The apartment was certainly not luxurious, but it was adequate and well appointed, and she was grateful to have it. When she looked at the wood heater, with its art nouveau green and white tiles, her heart sank. The fireplace hardly seemed big enough to heat the room, and she certainly wouldn’t be able to afford the luxury of a fire every day. Winter wasn’t going to be easy.

  Before she left the house, Antoine gave her a map and pointed out the nearby sites. After taking a stroll along the Seine towards Pont Alexandre III, she headed towards the Hotel Ritz, which she knew had been taken over by the German hierarchy. Throughout the walk, she noticed small groups of people silently huddled together, reading notices plastered on walls. She stopped to read them. They sent shivers down her spine. All were printed on red paper bordered in black, and the text was written in both German and French.

  Each one pertained to one violation only: Shot for Spying, Shot for participation in an anti-German demonstration, Five Communists guillotined, etc. The lists were endless. Each one bothered her, but it was the last two in particular that resonated. Henceforth, all French people arrested will be considered hostages. When a hostile act occurs, a number of hostages commensurate with the seriousness of the act will be shot. Another stated that a reward of a million francs would be paid to anyone who denounced the perpetrator of a particular deed. In times of hardship, there were plenty of people who would sell their mothers for such a tempting sum.

  She continued walking until she came to the Place Vendôme, festooned with huge red and black Nazi flags. Gleaming black cars lined up outside the Ritz. Most likely the only Frenchmen entering would have to be collaborators, and very soon they would have the French people to answer to, because of their treachery. Nathalie didn’t loiter. Her drab clothing alone would attract unwanted attention. She scurried away, disgusted.

  On her way back, she bought a newspaper and stopped at a busy café with tables set out on the pavement. The cakes looked delicious and she decided to treat herself to one. With sugar rationed, she wondered how they could still make such delights. One look at the clientele answered her question. Most of them were German officers who had the money to pay for such luxuries. A sense of normalcy had to be maintained.

  Natalie sipped her coffee and ate her cake, which cost her far more than she could afford, and read the newspaper. Apart from Vichy propaganda, which she glossed over, some of it centred on the Jews. Declarations were made that most of the foreign Jews had left the country of their own free will. No one could surely believe this, she told herself. Who on earth would leave all their worldly goods behind at such short notice and surrender themselves up to the people they had run away from?

  Her thoughts
drifted back to the last six months in the village. Her parents and Dr Arnaud had helped over a hundred Jews, and that was just their network. How many others had been fortunate to escape over the perilous mountains? Nathalie was well aware that in July 1942, the homes of at least 7,000 foreign Jews had been raided. Almost 18,000 were rounded up. A quarter of them were children. Almost all of them ended up in Poland. It was a national shame.

  Later that evening over dinner, Mme Reynaud announced that they would be having visitors who she’d like her to meet.

  Six people arrived that night. Five men and a young, blonde girl, Sylvie, who Nathalie surmised was not much older than herself. The men ranged between their twenties to late middle age. One of the men in particular caught her attention. Pierre was a softy spoken man in his late twenties or early thirties with dark hair and astonishingly warm, hypnotic eyes. His mouth was full and soft – almost too feminine, but sensuous all the same. But most of all, it was his face that struck her. He looked drawn and haunted. She couldn’t be sure why and wanted to know more about him. A tall, balding man, who introduced himself as Paul, took charge of the meeting. With his wire-rimmed glasses and grey goatee beard, he reminded Nathalie of a science professor.

  After welcoming her to Paris, Paul set about outlining the things they needed to discuss. The most important topic that night was the twelve Jews who were being hidden in a church crypt by a Priest. Over the past few days, there had been intensive searches in the area and the priest feared that it would only be a day or two at the most, before the church came under further scrutiny.