The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  Nathalie prayed that person would be Pierre and she felt a huge disappointment when she saw Gilbert cross the road. She could not bear to look at him.

  Marcel brought over a platter of toast, hard cheese, coffee and cognac, and Paul started to outline their mission.

  ‘In two hours, we will be moving another “package” –three agents sent by the Free French. They are to be transported by car to a place on the outskirts of Paris where they will be met by another group and taken to a destination in the countryside.

  ‘Where is this place?’ Gilbert asked.

  ‘It’s a church – Saint-Michel – situated at the end of the tree lined Place Alboni. Catch the Metro to Passy and it will be on your right as you exit. At exactly 12:30 p.m. two men wearing Milice uniforms will arrive and park outside the church door. They will be in a black Citroen.’ He turned to Gilbert. ‘There’s a safe house near the church – number 74. Make your way there. Someone will let you in. Your job is to keep watch. The car will only stop for a few minutes; long enough to collect the men inside the church. If there is a problem, you must make sure the curtains are closed, in which case the car will not stop.’

  Paul turned his attention to Nathalie. ‘Your job is to pick up important documents from them before they leave. Any questions?’

  The mission seemed simple enough. It was not the first time the group had used a car and men dressed in Milice uniform. They had done this many times before and each time was successful.

  ‘I don’t want you going together,’ Paul continued. ‘Make your own way there. Gilbert, you will go first.’

  ‘Fine,’ Gilbert replied, ‘in which case I’d better get a move on.’

  He got up and shook Paul’s hand.

  ‘Good luck, my friend,’ Paul said.

  Gilbert turned to Nathalie. ‘I will see you there.’

  Every operation was dangerous, no matter how small, yet he didn’t betray any emotion. His eyes were stone cold.

  Nathalie felt a mild irritation towards Paul at being asked to do an operation with a man she detested, but she refrained from speaking out. Paul watched Gilbert walk down the street. As soon as he was out of sight, he motioned to Marcel to make a telephone call. The telephone was in an alcove behind the bar making it impossible to hear the conversation. Seconds later, he returned giving Paul a nod. This obvious sign language between the two of them alarmed Nathalie whose nerves were already on edge at having to take part in an operation with Gilbert.

  ‘I’d better be going also,’ she said, making a move to leave.

  Paul reached out and grabbed her hand.

  ‘Sit down. There’s been a change of plan.’

  Nathalie stared at him in disbelief, wondering if this wasn’t as a result of the mysterious phone call.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, knitting her brows together. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Sometime around midday, Nathalie walked into a second-hand bookstore on the Avenue de New York. This broad street, with its sweeping view of the Seine, was a place she had come to know well over the past year. The bookshop was not far from the Pont de l’Alma. After perusing the narrow aisles, she eventually picked up a book of short stories by Guy de Maupassant. When she presented it to the man at the cashier’s desk, he glanced around the shop and told her to follow him. At the back of the shop amidst shelves of old magazines, was a door that opened into a hallway with a dark, narrow staircase leading down to the cellar.

  The man switched on his flashlight. ‘Down there,’ he said. ‘Mind the steps.’

  When she entered the cellar, Nathalie was more than relieved to see half a dozen other members of the network already there, including Mme Reynaud. They were busily emptying crates of ammunition and weapons.

  ‘Where’s Antoine?’ Nathalie asked Mme Reynaud.

  ‘Paul sent him elsewhere. That’s all I know. There’s a lot happening and he’s keeping things close to his chest. Paul won’t be coming tonight either.’

  Before she could ask any more, one of the men put her to work, unloading the crates. ‘Make a note of the contents,’ he said, handing her a pad and pen. ‘And be careful: we don’t want to get blown up.

  During the next few hours, the contents of the crates had all been accounted for. It was the biggest concealment of arms and ammunition she’d ever seen. All of it had come from the Special Operations Executive in London, and was intended for distribution to the various Résistance networks.

  By nine-o’clock the sun started to set, sending narrow shafts of golden light between the iron bars of the small window that looked out at eye level onto the avenue. The basement became darker and in no time they could barely see each other. Now they had to sit and wait. The continuous wail of sirens penetrated the room. Several convoys of armoured vehicles rumbled along the avenue followed closely by lines of motorcycles. The Germans were out in force, and it didn’t bode well for their operation. Just before curfew, the sound of footsteps running along the pavement made them reach for their guns. The footsteps came to a halt outside the bookshop, which had long closed its doors. Nathalie had her small Polish pistol tucked away in the back of her trousers. She pulled it out, praying she wouldn’t need to use it. One of the men cocked his pistol and stood on a crate to see who it was. He heard the bookstore door open and the men disappeared inside. Everyone was on tenterhooks.

  A few minutes later, the footsteps reached the basement. Nathalie could hear the deafening sound of her heart beating wildly in her chest. The door opened and a man shone a flashlight at them.

  She let out a shocked gasp. It was Pierre. With him were six men, who by the look on their faces were as relieved as they were to be amongst friends. Pierre introduced them as representatives of General De Gaulle’s Free French and they were about to make the same journey out of Paris that others had made – by coal barge; the same barge that had brought the cache of arms the night before.

  Pierre settled himself down next to Nathalie. ‘Bon soir, my friend,’ he said.

  Even in the darkness of the cellar, she could make out a tentative smile. There was so much she wanted to ask him, but now was not the right time.

  At the stroke of midnight, the men prepared to make their way to the waiting barge. Nathalie left the cellar with everyone else to keep a lookout. It was much easier to move seasoned men in the field than it was ordinary civilians, and it wasn’t long before the men were well hidden in the barge. In the absence of Paul, the man in charge was the same one who had told Nathalie to make a list of the contents of the cache. He counted out a wad of money for the captain and they shook hands. There was a collective sigh of relief as they watched the barge quietly slip out of the shadows under the Pont de l’Alma and travel up the Seine. All had gone well. The “package” was on its way and the group congratulated each other. They returned to the safety of the cellar where they had been told to wait for further instructions.

  The ebullient mood did not last. In the morning, Paul arrived. Except for those who were to stay behind and attend to the removal of the guns and ammunition, everyone else was told to make their way to the warehouse used for target practice. Nathalie left with him. Throughout the one-hour journey, he did not utter a single word and appeared to be in a world of his own, which alarmed her.

  At the warehouse, Nathalie got the shock of her life. Inside were at least thirty armed résistants. The fact that they were dangerously gathered together in one spot spoke volumes. Something serious had taken place.

  The résistants moved aside and Paul made his way towards a table in the centre of the group. He took a seat alongside two other men. A hush descended over the crowd and Paul began to speak.

  ‘I’ve brought you all here to pass judgement on the man who almost brought us undone,’ he said, and waved his hand towards the back of the warehouse.

  A scuffle broke out and two men dragged a man forward through the crowd. They sat him on a chair some metres away from the table, and tied him securely with rope. The man�
��s head was bloodied and beaten and flopped down over his chest. One of the men grabbed him by the hair and held his head back for everyone to see.

  Nathalie bit her lip to stop herself crying out. It was Gilbert.

  ‘This man,’ Paul continued, with a sweeping arm gesture, ‘is someone I have known since before the Germans arrived. It shames me to say that he is a mouchard of the worst kind. It was he who informed the Gestapo of the escape which saw some of our members and escapees killed, including Anna Benesh.’

  Nathalie glanced towards Pierre who stood staring at the ground.

  ‘Having sold his soul to the devil, he betrayed us again. The next time Sylvie was taken and executed.’ Paul paused for a moment in order for everyone to digest the enormity of his speech. ‘At this point you might wonder why we were not all raided and hauled to Avenue Foch. But the Gestapo are clever. They wanted us to sweat. Next, this wretched man was asked to betray someone else close to us all. That man was Pierre. Why, I hear you ask? Because he held a grudge against him for falling in love with a woman he himself was in love with, scorned love that could have brought us all down. At first, Pierre’s parents were harassed by the Gestapo in their village, and when they refused to give their son away, even under torture, he was visited at his apartment in Montmartre by a member of the Bureau of Anti-National Activities. Pierre refused to give anyone away. Unfortunately, that man bought a painting for his mistress. Before he could give it to her, his father saw it and went in search of the woman. In all likelihood, it was to recruit her too. We shall never know.’

  By this time, Nathalie thought her legs would give way. Mme Reynaud came closer to her and looped her arm through hers, giving her an assuring squeeze.

  Paul continued. ‘We followed these men for several weeks. Now I can assure you all that as from last night, this threat was eliminated. In the early hours of the morning, two of our men entered the apartment of the Countess Irené Moreau-Kaminski. She was eliminated in her bed, along with her lover, Daniel Corneille. Some hours prior to this, Corneille’s father, one of the most senior men in the Bureau of Anti-National Activities, was also eliminated by a lone gunman, as he left the offices to go home. The only one who remains is this man. Yesterday, there was to be an assignment at the Place Alboni. Only myself and two others knew about this. One of them was later given another assignment. The other – this man who sits before you – notified the Gestapo as soon as he left the meeting. Knowing full well the crime he had committed, he entered his assigned destination, but we were waiting for him. We brought him here only minutes before the area was surrounded.’

  Paul stopped for a moment to gauge the looks on everyone’s faces. Their eyes shone with hatred.

  ‘It is you who will pass judgement on this man today. Think carefully about what he has done.’

  After a few minutes of silence, Paul asked the men to vote on Gilbert’s guilt.

  ‘All those who believe this man is not guilty, raise your hand.’

  Not a single hand was raised.

  ‘All those who believe this man guilty, raise your hand.’

  This time everyone raised their hand including Nathalie.

  Paul asked Gilbert if he had anything to say. He refused to answer.

  Nathalie held her breath. Everyone in the room knew what would happen next. Paul picked up his pistol which had been lying on the table, and cocked it. He walked over to Gilbert, pressed it to his temple, and fired. A gush of red spurted from his head and he slumped forward. Nathalie realised she had been gripping Mme Reynaud’s arm so tightly, her arm had become numb. In that moment, she felt a surge of nausea and vomited.

  Chapter 15

  August 1944

  Nathalie opened the shutters and looked at the majestic peaks of Pyrénées in the distance, a landscape of towering summits, plateaus, valleys and meadows. It wasn’t until she returned home that she realized how much she’d missed them. For four years, the hiking trails had seen some of the most arduous escapes in the war. Hundreds had passed along them in search of freedom, braving the harshest of winters with below zero temperatures and howling gales. Now the tracks had fallen silent.

  It was almost a year since she returned back to her village and she remembered it as if it was yesterday. After all, coming back was not what she’d anticipated. She’d always expected to be in Paris when the Allies landed. The decision for her to return was not hers to make. It was Paul’s. Her new assignment was to take charge of “packages” escaping into Spain.

  After the events leading up to Gilbert’s execution, it was no longer safe to be in Paris. The Gestapo would leave no stone unturned until everyone in the network was caught. Whilst Gilbert’s body was unceremoniously being dumped in the Seine, Nathalie was given travel documents under a false name, and told to leave Paris immediately. The Reynauds were also advised to leave to an unknown destination in the country. La Vie en Fleurs was boarded up and they left straight away.

  There was one thing Nathalie needed to do before she departed. Unbeknown to Paul, she returned the fine clothes to the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré saying she had decided to leave Paris and that she appreciated the kindness of the Monsieur to give her work in times of hardship. She was told that both De Rossier and Mme Lefort were attending the funerals of close friends. Nathalie was in no doubt as to whose they were. She left the premises with mixed feelings. On the one hand, meeting Corneille had flushed out the traitor in their midst; on the other, she had worked with collaborators. And then there was Pierre. He could not let go of Anna’s memory and he left Paris. She never saw him again.

  Nathalie heard her mother call. ‘Get a move on or you’ll miss the train.’

  She pulled out her battered brown suitcase from the closet and started to pack. Her pistol was still inside it. She took it out and looked at it. In all that time, she had never needed to use it. Paul had told her that once she killed someone, it would never leave her. Thankfully, she would never know. She placed it in the drawer, finished packing, and went downstairs for a bite to eat before leaving.

  Her father was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.

  ‘There were times when I never thought France would be liberated,’ he said, his voice quivering with emotion.

  ‘I know, Papa,’ Nathalie replied. ‘I felt the same.’

  ‘How long will you be gone this time?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Maybe a week: two at the most.’

  The scene at the train station was a far cry from the one she’d experienced the last time she left. A band was playing the Marseillaise and throngs of happy families were being united with their loved ones. She bought a copy of Paris Match and boarded the train back to Paris. This time her trip was for a different reason. Paul had asked her to be with him when they welcomed Général de Gaulle back to Paris. She could not have been happier.

  In Paris, the jubilant crowds in the streets took her breath away. The hated Nazi swastika had been replaced with thousands of French flags. Bands were playing, people were dancing, and strangers were hugging and kissing each other. Paul emerged through the crowd to meet her.

  ‘Welcome back to Paris,’ he said, handing her a bouquet of roses. ‘A welcome-back gift from us all, courtesy of La Vie en Fleurs.’

  ‘How are the Reynauds?’ Nathalie asked.

  ‘Much better now that they are back in the shop again. They’re looking forward to seeing you.’

  Nathalie and Paul arrived at the War Ministry just in time to hear Général de Gaulle’s rousing speech. It was the moment the whole of France had waited for.

  ‘Vive La France!’ he shouted at the end. The crowd went wild.

  Vive la France! France is free again.

  The crowds began to move aside as a procession of armoured vehicles passed by. Nathalie froze when she recognized one of the occupants’ faces.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ she cried, grabbing Paul’s arm. ‘Look who it is.’

  For a brief moment she stood, remembering the man who had
walked out of her life in Tours, leaving her with a warm glow. Now here he was again. She threw up her hands and waved at him.

  ‘René!’ she called out. ‘René!’

  René had also seen her and he told the driver to stop the vehicle.

  ‘Camille,’ he shouted out, reaching his arm out towards her. In one swift movement, he pulled her on to the vehicle beside him.

  ‘René,’ she laughed, her eyes filled with tears.

  He kissed her full on the lips. ‘In my darkest days, I never thought I’d see you again.’

  ‘Nor I you?’ she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘A new era has begun,’ he said, pressing her close to him. ‘And this time I’m not going to let you get away.’

  * * *

  The End

  Continue the wonderful series in Conspiracy of Lies

  About the Author

  Kathryn Gauci was born in Leicestershire, England, and studied textile design at Loughborough College of Art and later at Kidderminster College of Art and Design where she specialised in carpet design and technology. After graduating, Kathryn spent a year in Vienna, Austria before moving to Greece. She worked as a carpet designer in Athens for six years before eventually settling in Melbourne, Australia, where she ran her own textile design studio in Melbourne for over fifteen years. The Embroiderer is her first novel; a culmination of those wonderful years of design and travel, and especially of those glorious years in her youth living and working in Greece.

  Her second novel, Conspiracy of Lies, set in France during WWII is based on the stories of real life agents in the service of the Special Operations Executive and the Resistance under Nazi occupied Europe. To put one’s life on the line for your country in the pursuit of freedom took immense courage and many never survived. Kathryn’s interest in WWII started when she lived in Vienna and has continued ever since. She is a regular visitor to France and has spent time in several of the areas in which this novel is set. Conspiracy of Lies is the recipient of several literary awards including chillwithabook Book of the Year 2017