The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

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  V for Victory by John R McKay

  Synopsis

  V for Victory

  With only a piece of chalk and a pot of paint, can a thirteen-year-old boy restore the glory of France?

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  When Charles Mercier sees the victorious German army goose-stepping along the Champs Élysées on a warm June afternoon, he is at first impressed by their display of power and military might. However, after an altercation with his schoolteacher and hearing the voice of inspiration on the radio, he is soon reminded that as the son of a missing French soldier his allegiances should be with the country of his birth. With only a couple of sticks of chalk, a pot of paint and a determination to make his father proud and France free again, he embarks on his own personal mission to rid Paris of Nazi oppression.

  Chapter 1

  June 14, 1940 - Paris, France

  ‘Who are all these people, Charles?… I don’t like them.’

  Thirteen-year-old Charles Mercier gripped his brother’s hand tightly as they watched the Panzers, staff cars and half-tracks roll down the Champs Élysées, followed by the victorious Wehrmacht, goose-stepping confidently behind them. The sun shone brightly and the birds sang almost cheerily in the trees as the green and grey uniformed soldiers marched purposefully along, following behind the motorised vehicles and the cavalry troop that had just passed the two boys, their impressive mounts snorting heavily in the early summer heat. It was a truly magnificent spectacle and Charles found that he was glad he had walked the mile and a half to see it.

  He looked down at his younger brother and smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry, Pierre,’ he replied softly, pulling the young boy’s cap down so it covered his eyes. ‘We won’t be here much longer. And see, if you don’t want to look at them you can just pull your cap down.’

  Had it not been for the magnitude of the French defeat and his mother’s nervous anticipation of what was to come that slightly concerned him, Charles may have actually enjoyed the parade a lot more. But no matter what he thought of them, he could not fault the Germans’ sense of occasion. This was probably the best thing he had ever seen in his entire life. It was no wonder, he thought, that the German army had had little problem in defeating the French and British armies so quickly and so easily. They looked strong, powerful and invincible.

  It was clear to Charles that his six-year-old brother would have preferred to be anywhere else other than here and he was beginning to regret dragging him along, but there was something within him that had compelled him to bear witness to what was taking place here today. Charles had decided that he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up, to follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather and here was the perfect opportunity to take a look at some close up. He had not been disappointed in what he saw. This was the most powerful army in the history of the world and he felt privileged to see it.

  They had arrived too late to see the German leader pass by and he was slightly frustrated that he had not had the chance to see him. His picture had been in all the newspapers and Charles wanted to see him for real, to make sure that he actually existed and was not just a two-dimensional image in a photograph or on a news reel.

  His mother had demanded he stay indoors, away from it all, that it was none of their business. She had told him that the Germans did not deserve his curiosity and to keep away from them. After all, as far as she knew, their father was still fighting somewhere near to the coast and they were not sure whether he was actually still alive or if he had been killed during the blitzkrieg that the Germans had conducted so successfully. The strain in his mother’s eyes was evident as she tried to cope with this whilst at the same time attempting to keep her two sons positive and life as normal as she could possibly make it.

  However, Charles had ignored her and had left their ground floor apartment by the back door. After all, he had thought, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity and he did not want to regret missing out on it. It had been five minutes after he had left that he’d realised his younger brother had followed him. Understanding that to take him home would lead to a severe reprimand from his mother and her then stopping him from going, he had reluctantly taken him along. If he was going to get a telling off then he might as well see the parade first.

  He watched for a few minutes more as the motorcycle combinations roared by, followed by the regiments on foot, immaculately turned out with their rifles and machine pistols held at the high port as the sun reflected back off their steel-grey helmets. Charles smiled. He really was enjoying himself.

  Charles glanced along the tree-lined avenue, up towards the famous Arc de Triomphe, the monument Napoleon had commissioned to celebrate his many military successes over a hundred years ago. The weirdness of it all was not lost on Charles, despite his young age. A monument built to honour French victories was an ironic backdrop to the country’s worst defeat in history. Charles thought that maybe Hitler had chosen this route simply to mock them, to show them who the real rulers of Europe were; to laugh in the faces of the French. He noticed that between the trees the crowds were sparse, most Parisians choosing to stay away, not wishing to give the enemy the satisfaction of the Germans rubbing their Nazi victory in their faces.

  But then over half the population had left the city, choosing instead to take their chances on the road, heading south and away from the advancing Germans. In fact, only a week ago his mother had cajoled the two of them, along with their elderly grandmother who shared their apartment, to embark upon a trek that had been a total and complete disaster. With no transport and carrying as many of their possessions as they possibly could, they had joined the thousands of Parisians who were trying to make their escape. But after spending two days on the road, where they had had to sleep outdoors and abandonment of the belongings they had taken in ditches to the side of the road, their mother had eventually seen sense and they had headed back for home. Their grandmother had developed huge blisters on her feet and had to lean on Charles for miles, and with the constant threat of enemy bombardment and aerial attack, their mother had decided that it was probably safer to go back home and take their chances with an occupying force. On arriving home many hours later, totally exhausted, they had all collapsed into a heap on the sofa in the living room, glad that the looters had chosen to leave their apartment alone.

  As the last of the parade marched by, a soldier in the rear rank caught Charles’s eye. He seemed to be staring at him. Charles felt a chill run down his spine, despite the heat of the day. There was something about this particular soldier that had made him shiver, something malevolent and hostile in his eyes that immediately scared him. He quickly averted his gaze and turned from the parade, his enjoyment of the spectacle suddenly gone, and for the first time that day he realised that maybe his mother had been right all along and he should have stayed away.

  Pierre, standing patiently beside him, let out a large sigh.

  ‘Can we go home now?’ he asked. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t have followed me,’ replied Charles irritably. ‘You didn’t have to come, you know… But yes, we can go home now. Come along.’

  He quickly walked away. Pierre, still holding tightly to his brother’s hand, struggled to keep up as he strode purposefully along the street.

  ‘Slow down, Charles, slow down,’ he whined.

  It was only when they were some distance away that Charles did as his brother had asked and slowed to a more reasonable pace.

  Charles did not know what to think. When he had heard that the Germans intended to hold a parade in the city and that Hitler himself was to attend, he had felt excited. He had felt compelled to go and see history being made, to bear witness to it. He also wanted to see the soldiers. Above all else he
had wanted to see the soldiers.

  But there was something about that last soldier, the one who had stared at him with such venom, hatred and contempt. He had left him feeling disconcerted, with a sense that maybe having the German army in Paris would not be as exciting as he had initially thought.

  As they got closer to home he could see his mother standing on the doorstep, her arms folded. She did not look happy.

  In fact, she did not look happy at all. At that very moment he did not know whom he feared more. That tough-looking Nazi or his own sweet mother.

  Chapter 2

  Eight months later

  School, to Charles, was ever so tedious.

  He yawned and looked out of the classroom window at the small park opposite and the grey official looking buildings beyond it. He wished he was out there now and not stuck inside listening to Monsieur Daubec drone on about algebra or whatever it was that he was attempting to teach them today. Mathematics was not exactly Charles’s favourite or strongest subject and he found it all so unnecessary and mind-blowingly boring. He preferred history. He found the stories of the past much more interesting and relatable to his life right now. History told him who he was. It told him where he had come from and, most importantly, which direction he was going.

  He yawned again and realised that if he wasn’t careful he might actually fall asleep. He had been finding it difficult to find sleep at home for the past few weeks. Life in the apartment was not exactly a bed of roses at the moment. There had been no word from his father and nobody seemed to know what had happened to him. Not even his uncle Michel could find out anything and he was a gendarme after all, and surely he should know if anyone did. Through the thin walls of their apartment building he had heard his mother weeping each night and it was starting to prey on his mind. She was barely making enough money to make ends meet and they were just about hanging on. He had never known her to be so depressed.

  His grandmother was not well and spent most of her time in bed, complaining, as always, and feeling sorry for herself. She would demand he or his mother run around for her all day long, carrying out errands and helping her to the toilet whenever she needed it. Which was often.

  He sat up straighter in his chair and looked around the room at his classmates, some of whom looked just as uninterested as he was. One or two of them, their elbows on their desks, were resting their heads in their hands. His good friend, Henri Dandeneau looked as though he was actually sleeping which Charles found highly amusing. He had been caught napping only last week and had received such a mouthful from Daubec, which the whole class had found extremely entertaining.

  He turned his head again and once more looked outside. From where he was sitting he could see the flags of the occupier hanging from the government building across the way, red and white with the huge black swastika in the middle. These flags and pendants were all over the city now, hanging sacrilegiously from historic French buildings. He observed as a German staff car pulled up outside one of the buildings and a finely dressed officer got out of the car, quickly walked up the few steps and entered through the large oak door that another soldier standing guard outside opened for him.

  Charles’s initial excitement at seeing soldiers on the streets had given way to a feeling of unease in the way those soldiers were conducting themselves and in the subdued way in which the population were now behaving. It was as though all the happiness and fun had been sucked from the city. In the main, the Germans had done nothing to warrant his concern. This had changed recently when he had witnessed a small incident that had left him feeling very disturbed about the whole situation. Whilst walking on the Boulevard St Michel the previous Saturday, he had seen a young girl, not much older than he was, being verbally abused by a couple of German soldiers. They were shouting over aggressively and then laughing to each other. They seemed to get annoyed when she initially ignored them. She appeared to be minding her own business and had it not been for the tone the soldiers had used then Charles may easily have missed the whole thing and walked on by oblivious to it all.

  The girl had eventually stopped to see what it was that the soldiers wanted. They had then approached her and upon her asking why they were shouting at her, one of them, for no reason that Charles could make out, suddenly struck her very hard across the face, knocking her to the ground. He did not understand the words they were using apart from one. ‘Juden’.

  Through tears the young girl got to her feet and as she tried to dust herself down the second soldier kicked her across the backside with such force it propelled her a few yards along the street. She had struggled to stay on her feet and as she ran away, disheveled and in floods of tears, both soldiers laughed, patted each other on the back in celebration and then continued on their way as though all this was perfectly normal.

  What had disturbed Charles most of all was the fact that nobody had done anything about it. Not one person had said a word or offered any kind of comfort to the girl, not even a gendarme who had watched silently from across the road. Like the others, the policeman had just turned his head away and continued on his way.

  Charles had been severely affected by this and when he told his mother about it later that evening, she had merely sighed and told him that he’d better get used to it. This was what they were like, she had said. This was the kind of thing they did. This was going to be normal from now on.

  She had said all this through sad eyes, trying to hold back tears for fear of upsetting Pierre who had watched them silently.

  Charles suddenly realised that he could hear the birds singing outside and it took him a moment to realise that Monsieur Daubec had stopped speaking. He turned his head and was relieved to see that the teacher’s attention was focused on Henri and not him. Henri had rested his head on the desk and was now snoring softly, totally oblivious that the whole class’s attention was focused upon him.

  If Charles could have warned Henri then he would have done so, but there was nothing he could do now to prevent his friend from receiving the wrath of Daubec once more. The teacher strode slowly over to the boy and suddenly smashed his hand down on the desk just to the side of his head. Henri jumped with a start and nearly fell from his seat causing a few sniggers to erupt around the room.

  However, when Charles fully expected Daubec to unleash a torrent of verbal castigation as he had done on the previous occasion Henri had been caught sleeping in class, he did quite the opposite this time.

  ‘Henri,’ he said, almost softly. ‘Can you please pay attention. Sit up straight in your chair, there’s a good boy.’

  He turned around and walked back to the front of the class and then faced the classroom again. In doing this, Charles realised that Daubec now had everyone's full attention.

  The teacher sighed. ’Okay. Let’s change the subject for a while, shall we? I realise that mathematics is not for everyone, but you will all have to learn it at some point, I’m afraid. However, let’s have a short break from it for a moment.’

  He looked around the classroom and then stopped at Jean-Paul Guimont, who sat at the front of the class. Jean-Paul was a quiet boy who had few friends and a fringe that seemed to have a will of its own, sticking up almost vertical and away from his forehead. No amount of wetting it to fix it into place had done any good and so he had given up. Every time he plastered it with water, it would just spring back up again, much to Jean-Paul’s annoyance. Occasionally he took some ribbing for it from his classmates but it was all generally light-hearted.

  ‘Jean-Paul,’ said Daubec. ‘What do you want to be when you grow up? What profession do you want to go into?’

  Jean-Paul thought for a moment before replying.

  ‘I think I will probably be a carpenter, like my father,’ he replied thoughtfully.

  Daubec smiled. ’Good, good. A fine profession. I’m sure you will make a wonderful carpenter… Luc. And you? What would you like to be?’

  Luc Vautrin, who was sitting just behind Charles, looked up sharply.
r />   ‘I’m not really too sure,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t given it too much thought.’

  ‘You should, you should,’ said Daubec. ‘It’s never too early to think about what you want to do with your life. You’re at a good age to start making plans.’

  His eyes then fell to Charles.

  ‘And you, Charles. Have you given any thought to what you want to do when you leave school? What is it that you would like to be?’

  Charles did not hesitate.

  ‘A soldier,’ he replied confidently.

  Daubec looked a little shocked by this answer.

  ‘You can’t be a soldier, Charles. We have no army. There are no French soldiers anymore. Not in France anyway.’

  ‘Then I’ll be a German soldier,’ replied Charles. He was aware of all the others in the room looking at him. Some of them raised their hands, wanting permission to speak.

  Daubec raised his eyebrows, ignoring them. ‘A German soldier?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Charles. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Daubec, perching himself on the front of his desk. ‘I’ll tell you why not, young man.’ He paused for a moment as though to collect his thoughts, pondering whether or not to say what he was about to say.

  And then he seemed to make a decision and continued.

  ‘Okay… all right… all of you, put your hands down and listen to me,’ he said seriously. ‘One day you will all grow up and you will choose a trade or some other walk of life to make your living. Some of you know right now what you want to do and others, like Luc here, aren’t quite sure just yet. And that’s not a problem. It doesn’t matter if you are not quite certain what you want to do…