The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  As the evening wore on, Nathalie learnt that one of their main escape routes was via the coal barges that plied the Seine. The barges stopped at various pick-up and drop-off points all the way down through the canal systems until they reached the river Yonne. From there, the escapees took a circuitous overland route towards the Pyrénées. She recalled that none of the people her parents helped had ever mentioned how they got there for fear of the information getting into the wrong hands.

  ‘There will be a barge arriving tomorrow,’ Paul said. ‘We’re going to have to move our “package” out quickly.’

  The plan was to get the Jewish escapees from the crypt and into the Paris underground sewer system, where they would exit next to the Pont de l’Alma, a stone’s throw away from the house, and near the Seine. It was to take place after midnight.

  ‘Are you up for it, Nathalie?’ Paul asked.

  Everyone looked at her, waiting for her reply. This was it, she thought to herself, as his words sank in. It wasn’t a game. This was the real thing.

  ‘Certainly,’ she replied.

  ‘Good girl.’ Paul turned to Sylvie. ‘The two of you will work together. You know the ropes.’

  Sylvie nodded in agreement. She was to pick Nathalie up from La Vie en Fleurs, and they would meet him at the specific place near the entrance to the sewers at the Pont de l’Alma.

  After more discussions about safe houses and a cache of guns that had recently been acquired, the group dispersed. Nathalie also took her leave. Antoine had lit the fire in her room and she sat in front of it for a while thinking about the events that were to take place. In no time at all she was fast asleep.

  Chapter 3

  An hour before curfew, Sylvie and Nathalie left 29 rue Frédéric Chopin for the rendezvous point. The Reynauds had already left. A combination of the blackout and low clouds blocking out the moon, meant that it was pitch dark. They could hardly see their own shadow. Sylvie warned her that although this was good for them, the Germans would be particularly alert, and they must not let their guard down.

  She was right. They had only just left rue Frédéric Chopin when they heard the sound of an engine coming towards them. Sylvie grabbed Nathalie’s arm and pulled her into a doorway only seconds before a truck passed by, shining its searchlights into the street. The pair pressed themselves hard against the inside of a doorway and held their breath. The bright light swung in their direction as it passed, lighting up the doorway and barely missing them by a few inches. When the truck turned out of the street, they leapt out of the shadows and hurried towards the quay in the direction of the bridge. There they saw another truck driving slowly backwards and forth across the bridge, casting it’s searchlights up and down the river.

  ‘What did I tell you,’ Sylvie whispered. ‘They are not so silly that they don’t recognise we operate under the cloak of darkness.’

  Inching their way along the quayside via the recesses of doorways that opened out onto the street, they managed to make their way to the entrance of the sewers. The entrance was via a set of steps partially hidden from view by bushes. At the bottom of the steps was a padlocked door. The sewers were out of bounds and patrols regularly checked all the entrances. Anyone caught trying to get in or out would be shot on sight.

  To Nathalie, it seemed an impossible task. How could anyone get in or out, or even hang about in the area without being spotted? What she hadn’t reckoned was that the house opposite, the same building whose doorway they now stood in, belonged to a résistance member. When the door opened, her heart missed a beat. The house belonged to Paul.

  ‘Mon Dieu! You gave me a fright,’ she said in a hushed voice.

  Paul put a forefinger to his lips. ‘Shush!!!’

  He ushered them inside, leaving the door slightly ajar, and they stood in the shadows, waiting. After a few minutes, another man entered. Pierre.

  ‘Just in time,’ Paul whispered.

  Pierre checked his watch. They waited a few more minutes, and then he stepped back outside again, saying he would give them a signal when he was ready.

  The trio watched through the crack of the door as Pierre ran across the road and disappeared down the steps. Nathalie counted the minutes. After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, two lights flashed through the bushes.

  ‘He’s done it,’ Paul said, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘Right, come on. Let’s get them out before the patrols are back.’

  They hurried across the road and down the steps just in time to help Pierre pull away the chains and padlocks and wrench open the door. Tired, wet, and dirty from slipping through the sewers, the Jews were clamouring on the other side to get out. The ghastly drawn looks etched on their faces, made them look eerily like supernatural beings being disgorged from the bowels of the earth. Nathalie was both shocked and deeply moved by their plight, especially when she saw an elderly couple and two small children with them.

  Two résistants were with them, one of whom she’d met the other night. The men ushered them up the steps and into the bushes. Paul told Nathalie to take care of the little ones whilst he and Sylvie helped the elderly couple. When everyone was out, Pierre gave the signal to move on whilst he stayed behind to put the padlocks and chains back in place. It was imperative that the door looked as though it had not been touched.

  Nathalie took the two children by their hands and told them not to be frightened. The look in their eyes made her want to weep. In all her life, she had never seen children with such fear. The group began to file through the bushes towards the Pont de l’Alma. She looked back to see if Pierre was following. He was nowhere in sight.

  At a point where the bridge started to cross the Seine, Paul held up the flat of his hand and cautioned them to stop. This was the most dangerous part. The spotlights on the bridge had to be timed to see how long they would have before they could cross the road and descend the steep, slippery steps that led to a long, loading pier, part of which disappeared under the bridge. It was so dark that even with the soft reflection on the water, Nathalie could not see the barge that would carry the Jews to safety. One of the children started to whimper. She knelt down and whispered words of comfort as she wrapped her arms around them.

  A signal was soon given and the group headed for the pier in pairs, each one waiting until the searchlights had passed. She was the last to leave with the children. When she clasped their tiny hands tighter, telling them that this was a little game they were playing, she heard a rustling sound in the bushes. Pierre re-appeared, and without saying a word, scooped up one of the children in his arms and headed across the road.

  ‘Quickly,’ he hissed.

  Within minutes they were gathered under the bridge and Nathalie breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the dark shape of a coal barge waiting for them. Safe in the knowledge that the searchlights could not reach them, the captain, aided by one of his associates, helped the escapees embark. After the last person boarded, Paul checked that they were safely stowed away in the hiding place under the deck. A flashlight was given to them along with bedding, food and water, and a makeshift container to be used as a toilet. After satisfying himself all was well, the planks were secured in place, and coal sacks were carefully placed on top to prevent the hiding place being discovered during inspections. If all went well, the escapees would stay cooped up in these cramped dark conditions for the next few days. After that, their journey for freedom would take another circuitous route, and it was unlikely whether Nathalie or any of her friends would know whether their escape had been successful.

  Paul handed the captain a wad of money and they shook hands. His was a highly dangerous job and should the Jews be found, he had nowhere to turn. Death would be swift.

  Nathalie was too exhilarated to sleep that night, and lay in bed going over and over the events of the previous few hours in her mind. At home, she had known what was taking place in her village, but rarely came into contact with the people her parents were trying to help. The Englishman was an ex
ception. Her role had been little more than keeping watch whilst others took the risks. Now, she couldn’t get the terrified look on the escapees’ faces out of her mind. How could her country be a part of all this? The thought sickened her.

  The next morning, the Reynauds were back in the shop. Antoine was setting up a display of pink and white cyclamens in the window and Madeleine was cutting the stems from a bunch of roses to make bouquets.

  ‘It went well last night,’ she said. ‘From what I hear, you were a natural with the children.’

  Nathalie told her their plight had only strengthened her resolve to do more. She asked how many times the group had done that sort of thing.

  ‘More than I can count,’ Mme Reynaud replied. ‘It started with soldiers after Dunkerque; first one, then another. We never expected our country to turn on the Jews though. That’s when we began to hide them in small groups. It’s not so difficult to hide one or two people, but a whole family, well that’s something else. After the round-ups, the numbers swelled. And there are also political dissidents who have a price on their head. We had to turn to the church for help; even the mosques.

  ‘Antoine and I were at the church last night. We were helping to get the group into the sewers. The opening wasn’t through a door like the one at Pont de l’Alma. It was down a manhole. Can you imagine the distress that caused?’

  ‘Have you ever lost anyone?’ Nathalie asked. ‘Those sewers are dangerous. It’s easy to slip when you only have a flashlight to guide you.’

  Mme Reynaud sighed. ‘One evening we lost a whole group. There were ten of them. The last two were preparing to enter the sewer when the Germans turned up and opened fire. They were killed as was one of our own men. Another fled. Of course the rest of the escapees heard the screams and gunshots and started to panic. Our men urged them on, but the Germans wasted no time in going down after them. In the ensuing chaos, they were not fast enough and were gunned down. Another of our men was also killed there. Only two escaped. It didn’t end there. The Gestapo pounced, raiding every building in the area. At least fifty innocent men and women were detained and not all made it home. That’s what we are up against.’

  Antoine finished his flower display and made them all a hot drink. He looked tired. Madeleine told him to go and have a lie down. Nathalie offered to help out in the shop in gratitude for them giving her the apartment.

  ‘I could do with the help,’ Madeleine replied, ‘although I can’t afford to pay you very much. It may be better if you try to find yourself another job.’

  Nathalie had a little money put aside but she knew it wouldn’t last long. For the moment, she was content to help the Reynauds. It would also give everyone in the neighbourhood a chance to familiarize themselves with her. A stranger in their midst could provoke too many questions.’

  Chapter 4

  Over the next few weeks, Nathalie learnt the finer points of working as a florist. The correct way to cut flowers, what to add to the water to preserve them, which flowers were in season, and choosing the right flowers for floral arrangements and bouquets. It was work that she had never expected to do but she took to it with enthusiasm and creativity, especially when it came to gift-wrapping, which due to the diminishing lack of coloured papers and ribbons, stretched her imagination to the limits.

  The art of floristry was not the only work that Nathalie did. It gave her a cover to pass messages. Mme Reynaud would arrange a special bouquet, and Nathalie would deliver it, along with a coded message. After a few months, she knew the area from the 8th Arrondissement to the 16th, like the back of her hand.

  During the following months, she participated in several more escapes, most of which took place in other areas along the Seine. So far, all of them had gone well, but it worried her that this run of luck wouldn’t last. One day in February 1943, she was asked to deliver a bouquet to Pierre. She had only seen him once since the night of the first escape at the Pont de l’Alma.

  It was mid-afternoon when Nathalie left rue Frédéric Chopin, and the weather was particularly bad. A combination of sleet and snow and below zero temperatures meant walking was hazardous. Rugged up in her thick coat, she took the Metro from Alma-Marceau to Abbesses. The entrance to the Metro, with its green Art Nouveau, vine-like wrought-iron arches and amber lights, was one of the most beautiful in Paris, but Nathalie was far too cold to think of sight-seeing. She headed up the hill towards the Place du Tertre and the Basilica of Sacré Cœur where she was told Pierre lived in an apartment above a bistro.

  The ice glistened on the cobblestones and although she was careful, she slipped, falling heavily on her back. A searing pain in her ankle caused her to cry out loud. Damn, she thought to herself. That’s all I need. She stood up, wincing at the pain, and brushed the slush from her coat. When she saw the flowers that Mme Reynaud had so carefully put together, her heart sank. Hardly a flower head was intact. She stooped to pick them up and was conscious of a black Citroen stationed at the end of the road with its engine idling. The driver put the car into gear and slowly drove towards her. It pulled up by the side of the pavement and the passenger got out.

  ‘Can I help?’ he asked. ‘You appear to have had an accident. Are you alright?’

  He spoke French with a German accent and he wore a smart, calf-length leather coat over a dark suit. She glanced at the driver but could barely make out his face under the fedora. Nathalie’s heart skipped a beat. The Gestapo.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she stammered. ‘It was just a light fall; nothing serious.’

  The man took off one of his gloves, and proceeded to flick more slush from the back of her coat.

  ‘That’s better.’ He took one look at the bouquet and frowned, ‘which is more than can be said for these. Do you live locally?’

  His manner unnerved her. He was polite, yet there was no smile or warmth on his face. She prayed that he wouldn’t press her for the address.

  ‘I’m visiting an aunt. She’s been rather ill just lately. The flowers are for her.’

  The man put his glove back on. ‘May we offer you a lift?’

  Nathalie’s heart pounded in her chest. ‘I’m fine, really, I am. She only lives two blocks away.’

  ‘As you wish, Mademoiselle.’

  He got back into the car and drove away leaving Nathalie quivering with fright on the pavement. When they turned the corner, she breathed a sigh of relief. They hadn’t even asked her name or checked her identity papers.

  Pierre lived in a street off the Place du Tertre. He was looking out the window when she arrived, as if he was waiting for her. Moments later, a door next to the bistro opened and he ushered her up a narrow flight of steps to his apartment

  ‘You’re late,’ he said, ‘and you’re limping. Are you alright?’

  ‘I slipped. Unfortunately I destroyed Mme Reynaud’s beautiful bouquet in the process. I’m sorry.’

  He took the flowers from her and looked at them closely.

  ‘There’s no message with them,’ she added, ‘just the flowers.’

  ‘I don’t need another message,’ he said with a smile. ‘I have everything I need here.’

  His response told her something she’d suspected for a while; that the Reynauds often hid their messages in their floral arrangements. It was all about the colours and the arrangement. In this case, pink ranunculus and purple anemones with juniper and wax flowers. Nathalie had no idea what the arrangement meant, which was probably the safest thing, given her earlier encounter with the Gestapo.

  She stepped inside the apartment and was pleasantly surprised. Pierre was a painter and the place was filled with his work and artist’s equipment. It smelt of turpentine and oils. Every surface was covered with sketches or works in progress, paint – either in tubes or powder form, and brushes. She looked at an unfinished painting of a still life on the easel.

  ‘Are you going to paint these?’ she laughed, referring to Madeleine’s flowers.

  He put them in a vase and stood them on a sm
all table. ‘Flowers are not really my speciality. I prefer portraits or street scenes. It’s why I live here. That’s what the customers want.’

  Nathalie studied the painting closely. The vividly coloured oranges, intensely yellow lemons and green apples on a white platter, placed in front of a vase of nasturtiums and convolvulus, reminded her of a Cézanne.

  ‘It’s very good. I particularly love the way you’ve used the brush strokes to give the fruit depth. And the white platter makes the colours sing.’

  Pierre smiled at her description. ‘Do you paint?’ he asked.

  ‘It might surprise you to know that I did consider becoming a painter once – before the war. Now a career of any sort is on hold; maybe after the war.’ She cast a quick glance at several other paintings. ‘I’m not as good as you, and I’m quite sure I wouldn’t be able to make a living from it.’

  When she moved away from the easel, he saw her grimace in pain.

  ‘Take off your coat and sit down,’ he said, moving aside a pile of sketches from the sofa.

  ‘I’d better take a look at your leg.’

  Pierre sat on a stool in front of her, gently pulled her boot off, and put her foot on his lap, telling her to wiggle her toes.

  ‘The ankle is definitely swollen, but it’s not broken.’ He massaged it with his fingertips in a small circular motion.

  Nathalie lay back against a cushion, closed her eyes and purred like a cat. ‘You have no idea how good that feels. You’re not only a talented artist, you have a magic touch as well.’

  There was something about Pierre that Nathalie was attracted to. It wasn’t just his dark, brooding looks; he was sensitive and she felt at ease in his company, as if all her fears were falling away and life was as it used to be before the war.

  ‘Where did you study?’ she asked, her eyes still closed.

  ‘Here in Paris, at the École des Beaux-Arts.’

  ‘Then you’re in good company. I believe Degas, Ingres and Renoir studied there also.’ She sat forward whilst he continued to massage her lower leg. ‘And if you don’t think me too impolite, do you still manage to earn a living now that the war is on?’