The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  ‘I’m not rich if that’s what you mean,’ he replied. ‘But I manage. Montmartre is still a tourist spot, you know, even if the clientele has changed.’

  ‘You mean the Germans?’

  ‘Of course; they love to sightsee around here. For some reason, it makes them think they’re on holiday and not at war.’

  ‘And they actually pay you for your work?’

  ‘Perhaps I’ve been lucky. Only the odd one or two have wanted to cheat me. Many come here with their Parisian girlfriends and want to impress. Sometimes it’s those same women – horizontal collaborators – who make them pay the asking price. Funny how human nature works isn’t it?’ He put her leg down and asked if she’d like a drink. ‘I only have red wine,’ he said. ‘Not a very good one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You paint a rosier picture than I’d imagined,’ Nathalie replied. ‘I saw the Gestapo on my way here, and they weren’t sightseeing. In fact I would say they were definitely staking the area out – like bloodhounds.

  Pierre took a sip of his wine. ‘We’re used to each other.’

  Nathalie thought that an odd comment. How could anyone get used to the Gestapo?

  ‘This is a Bohemian area,’ he continued. ‘The Gestapo think we’re all communists and socialists. They raid us frequently.’

  ‘Have you ever been raided?’

  ‘Yes, once. They ransacked the place and left. I think it was a warning.’

  ‘I didn’t think the Gestapo did warnings,’ she replied, dryly.

  Pierre finished his wine. ‘Would you care for a bite to eat before you return? I don’t have much here. I usually eat in the bistro downstairs.’

  Nathalie accepted. The more she was in his company, the more he intrigued her.

  It was late afternoon and the bistro was almost empty. The owner, Jean, was a rotund man with a ruddy complexion, and he welcomed Pierre with the familiarity of a family member. As food was rationed, a menu was not offered.

  ‘I’ll have whatever the chef recommends,’ Pierre said tactfully.

  ‘In which case, we have a hearty bean stew cooked in beef stock,’ Jean replied. ‘And Mademoiselle?’

  ‘The same, thank you,’ said Nathalie.

  Pierre told her that the bistro had been in the same family since the end of the nineteenth century. ‘They have a reputation of being loyal to artists. When we can’t pay, we offer them a painting which they hang on the walls. If it sells, they pay us and we pay our bill. If it doesn’t, they keep the painting.’

  Nathalie looked at the variety of paintings adorning the walls. They ranged from small, six inch sketches and watercolours, to one that was over three feet square. Some were framed, many unframed. It resembled a small gallery.

  ‘And are any of these yours?’ she asked.

  He laughed. ‘Not today; maybe tomorrow.’

  Nathalie thought it a very insecure life, but she was in no position to judge others when she didn’t even have a job herself.

  The owner placed a basket of bread and two steaming bowls of soup in front of them. It was accompanied by a carafe of red wine.

  Pierre asked what brought her to Paris and she told him her story.

  ‘And you?’ she asked. ‘What made you get mixed up in all this?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult. I was ashamed when our government surrendered without a fight. At first I voiced my protest by writing messages on walls. After a short time, it was evident that anyone with libertarian views would be silenced. I don’t subscribe to any doctrine except freedom, but I have friends who are committed communists. Some of them were hauled away and badly beaten, others have disappeared completely. What am I to do? I cannot be an onlooker to such things.’

  Nathalie understood his sentiments, but it was what he said after this that shocked her.

  ‘And then there was Anna.’

  ‘Who’s Anna?’ she asked.

  ‘She was my lover. We studied together.’

  Nathalie blushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  Pierre continued. ‘She was my lover and she was Jewish. Her family came here from Berlin in 1933.’

  Nathalie felt uncomfortable. ‘Please, Pierre, you don’t have to say any more.’

  He looked into her eyes. ‘I want to talk about her. I’ve bottled it up for too long. At first the government promised no harm would come to any Jew, and then, at the end of 1940, her father was dismissed from his post at the university. It spiralled downwards after that. Their identity cards were marked “Jew”, they were not allowed in cafés or any public space such as gardens, and could only travel in the last compartment on the metro. They even had separate curfew hours which meant that they missed out on food and starved.’

  Pierre’s face took on the same haunted look he wore the first time she met him.

  ‘You cannot possibly have known what it was like here, Nathalie. In June of the following year, they were all forced to wear the yellow star. If it wasn’t sewn on accurately, they were beaten.’

  He went on to tell her of more restrictions.

  ‘I knew it was bad,’ she said, ‘but until now, I never really understood just how bad. It’s hard to comprehend.’

  ‘Some of them escaped to the Free Zone. They were the lucky ones. I urged Anna’s family to flee, but they wouldn’t hear of it. At the end of July, the round-ups started. Anna’s family were in bed when the police burst into their home at three-o’clock in the morning and ordered them to prepare a suitcase and accompany them outside to a waiting truck. By now, her parents were worn down, and coming from Germany, they did have an idea of what might happen. Against her wishes, her parents told her to escape out of the window onto a narrow ledge which led to the back garden. She hid there, listening to the screaming and shouts until it was all quiet. The next day, she arrived at my apartment.’

  ‘Did anyone here know she was Jewish?’ Nathalie asked. ‘I mean...’ she inclined her head towards Jean.

  ‘The subject of religion wasn’t brought up, but there were colleagues at the art school who knew her background.’

  ‘Wasn’t it dangerous to hide her?’

  Pierre sighed. ‘I would have done anything for her. It was natural to hide her.’

  Nathalie hated herself for asking such a question.

  ‘That’s when we decided to actively join a Résistance group. Of course, it wasn’t easy. They didn’t exactly advertise for recruits! But I knew Paul and that helped. When he realized we were genuine, he introduced us to the Reynauds who had created an escape network for British servicemen. They put us through quite a few tests before they were sure of our commitment. Because of Anna, we came into contact with other Jews in hiding and our escape network expanded. Soon we were aiding all sorts of people. It wasn’t only Jews, but political dissidents and homosexuals. Then one night, an escape went wrong.’

  Nathalie felt a lump rise in her throat. She had a sickening feeling she knew what was coming next.

  ‘We had almost finished getting the last escapees into the sewers when the Germans arrived.’ Pierre became agitated. He ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his temples with his fingers. ‘It was a bloodbath. They killed all the escapees and some of our own. I was at the Pont de l’Alma with Paul. We knew something had gone wrong when no-one arrived. The next day, I discovered Anna was one of those killed.’

  ‘You weren’t responsible,’ Nathalie said, trying to offer a little comfort. ‘It can happen to any of us at any time?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have let her go there. That part of the escape is very dangerous. Trying to get people into a dark manhole scares the hell out of them.’

  ‘Mme Reynaud told me about that escape, but she never said who was killed. Apparently only one man managed to escape when the Germans turned up. Do you know who it was?’

  ‘Gilbert. We call him “the Communist” because of his radical Marxist leanings.’

  ‘Wasn’t Gilbert one of the men at the Reynauds the night I firs
t met you?’ Nathalie asked, ‘a rather quiet man with light brown hair and a short beard.’

  ‘That’s him. He assists with false IDs and distributes leaflets.’

  By the time they’d finished their meal, it was dark and Nathalie said she’d better be getting back. Pierre offered to walk her to the Metro but she wouldn’t hear of it. As much as she wanted to stay longer in his company, she was afraid the Gestapo might still be hanging around.

  ‘Thank Mme Reynaud for the flowers,’ he said. ‘Tell her that I approved of her choice of colours.’

  They shook hands and Nathalie headed back down the hill, wondering if his words, I approved of her choice of colours, was also a coded message.

  Chapter 5

  The following week, Nathalie and Mme Reynaud were arranging flowers in the shop when Pierre unexpectedly paid them a visit.

  ‘I happened to be in the area and thought I’d call by to give you this,’ he said, handing Nathalie a flat parcel wrapped in newspaper.

  When she opened it, she was surprised to find it was the still life he’d been working on.

  ‘You expressed your delight with it and I would like you to have it. I also wondered if you’d care to join me later this afternoon. There’s a cinema not far from here and they happen to be showing one of my favourite films – Les Enfants du Paradis. That is if Mme Reynaud can spare you for a while.’

  Mme Reynaud smiled when she saw Nathalie’s face light up. She was a woman of the world and had recognized her attraction to him the first time she laid eyes on him.

  ‘It will do you good to get away for a while,’ she said. ‘Go and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Then it’s settled,’ Pierre said. ‘I will pick you up in an hour.’

  When he’d gone, Nathalie confided in Mme Reynaud that Pierre had told her about Anna.

  ‘What was she like?’ she asked.

  Mme Reynaud picked up a few flowers and started to cut the stems, deliberating over her response. ‘She was a beautiful girl and her death touched us all, but if we are to do our work successfully, we cannot dwell on the past. Now, if you’ll pass me those flowers, I’ll continue here, and you go and pretty yourself up.’

  Her sharp reply told Nathalie the subject was closed.

  By the time Pierre returned, Nathalie had transformed herself. The decision about what to wear wasn’t a difficult one. She had only brought two good outfits for special occasions; one for winter, the other for summer. As it was still winter, she wore a pencil-slim, charcoal grey skirt with a figure-hugging, cream jumper which complimented her shoulder-length dark hair. After applying a little rouge and red lipstick, she studied herself in the mirror. Something was missing. The outfit needed a pretty scarf or a piece of jewellery. She remembered the string of pearls her mother had given her as a farewell present. As pretty as she looked, she would still have to wear her drab, thick winter coat, and after her fall, it was in desperate need of a good clean. It would have to do.

  Les Enfants du Paradis always guaranteed a good audience and the cinema was packed. It had been a few years since Nathalie had seen a film; the war had changed everything. All the little things she took for granted had gone, replaced by survival and a deep suspicion of everyone and everything. She stole a glance at Pierre as they watched the film. His presence made her realise there was a life out there to be enjoyed.

  He caught her looking at him. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, with a smile.

  ‘I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have a normal life.’

  He reached for her hand. ‘So had I,’ he said in a soft whisper.

  Nathalie felt a warm glow radiate through her body. His words and touch gave her goosebumps. Where it would lead, she had no idea. For the moment, she was happy just to be near him.

  After the film, they took a stroll along the Seine eventually stopping at a bar for a drink.

  ‘I was most impressed with the way you unlocked the chains and the sewer door at the Pont de l’Alma entrance,’ Nathalie said. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’

  Pierre laughed. ‘It’s a skill I picked up from an escapologist a while back’

  Nathalie’s eyes widened. ‘You mean a magician?’

  ‘A magician, yes, although he managed to make a very good living from escapology – travelling circuses and side shows; that kind of thing. He lived in Montmartre for a while and we became friends. That’s when he taught me some of the tricks of his trade. At the time, I didn’t know I would ever put them to use.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I have no idea, but knowing him, I imagine he’s using his skills in the same way that I am.’

  ‘And are all your friends as colourful?’

  Pierre laughed. ‘Perhaps. Being colourful isn’t such a bad thing, especially in times like this.’

  Nathalie’s face betrayed more than a hint of concern. ‘Not unless it attracts the attention of the wrong people.’

  Pierre changed the subject. ‘I was wondering if you would care to sit for me one day. It would give me great pleasure to paint your portrait.’

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ she replied, thrilled that he should consider her worth painting at all.

  ‘Good. Then let’s say in a week’s time. And wear those pearls,’ he added. ‘They suit you.’

  It was past closing time when Nathalie returned and La Vie en Fleurs was still open. As she neared the shop, she could see the Reynauds through the window. They had a visitor. At the sound of the door opening, the man spun around. It was Gilbert.

  ‘Ahh, if it isn’t the delightful Mademoiselle Fontaine. Madame Reynaud told me you went to the cinema. Did you enjoy the film?’

  ‘It was a most pleasant afternoon, thank you,’ Nathalie replied, taking off her hat and coat.

  Gilbert cast a quick eye over her. ‘May I say how particularly attractive you look this evening.’

  She had no idea if the Reynauds had told him she’d gone out with Pierre and she didn’t offer to tell him. Mme Reynaud asked her if she’d be so kind as to go outside and bring the flowers in. Outside, Nathalie caught a glimpse of the three of them through the window as she picked up a large bucket of roses. Even though she’d left the door ajar, it was impossible to hear what they were saying. Then she noticed Gilbert pull out a small package from the inside pocket of his overcoat and place it on the counter. Mme Reynaud quickly slid it under the counter. They shook hands and Antoine walked him to the door. Gilbert doffed his hat towards Nathalie as he left.

  ‘Good night, Mademoiselle Fontaine. It was a pleasure to see you again.’

  The next morning, the Reynauds asked Nathalie if she’d mind looking after the shop as they had urgent business to attend to. They had only just left when she heard the roar of trucks pulling up in the street. Within minutes, the street was blocked off and soldiers carrying machine guns began a search of all the houses. Nathalie was serving an elderly woman at the time, and the woman almost passed out in fear. In that instant, the package Gilbert gave to Mme Reynaud flashed through her mind. She remembered seeing her hide it under the counter and took a quick look to see if it was still there. It was hidden under a few sheets of wrapping paper, well out of sight. Instinct made her pick it up and drop it into an empty bucket. She quickly grabbed a large container of roses and placed it on top. Fortunately, her customer was too pre-occupied with the unfolding situation taking place in the street to notice what she was doing. She placed the bucket outside the door, where it blended in with the rest of the display. Seconds later, she faced the barrel of a gun.

  ‘Your papers,’ the man asked. ‘Quickly.’

  Nathalie ran back inside and took them out of her bag. By now the man was accompanied by half a dozen others, all carrying guns. He indicated to them to search the premises whilst he scrutinized her papers.

  ‘Who else lives here?’ he asked.

  ‘Just the owners: Madame and Monsieur Reynaud.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  Nathalie thought qu
ickly. ‘Monsieur Reynaud is at the flower market and Madame is making a floral delivery.’ Nathalie was aware of several Germans living in the area as she’d made deliveries to their apartments herself. She tried to recall a name to throw them off. ‘Rue Napoleon, I believe. Herr Schubert regularly orders flowers. Sometimes roses, other times...’

  ‘Enough!’ the man shouted.

  He turned his attention to the old woman. By this time she was in tears and her hands shook visibly when she handed him her papers. He examined them, threw them back at her and started to look around the shop. Nathalie watched helplessly whilst he ransacked drawers and glass cabinets, at one point knocking over a Lalique vase which shattered at her feet. Upstairs she could hear the sound of heavy footsteps as the men searched the rest of the building. Ten minutes later they returned, saying that all was in order. The man took one last look at Nathalie and they left. She breathed a deep sigh of relief and ran to comfort the elderly woman who was clutching her chest with severe pains.

  From the safety of the shop window, they watched soldiers march frightened groups of men and women towards the trucks at gunpoint. Guard dogs strained at their leashes, barking and jumping around them, their handlers taking obvious delight in frightening the hapless prisoners. To Nathalie it seemed as if they were in the area for an eternity. In reality it was barely half an hour.

  The Reynauds, returning home when rue Frédéric Chopin was blocked off, witnessed the events from the other side of the blockade. When they eventually reached the shop, the first thing Mme Reynaud did was to look under the counter.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ she cried out loud when she saw the package had disappeared. ‘The identity cards have gone. We’re finished!’

  Nathalie lifted the roses out of the bucket to retrieve the package.

  ‘Is this what you were looking for?’ she asked.