The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  ‘But one thing is for certain, no matter what trade you choose, no matter what walk of life you decide upon, you will always be French and you will remain French until the day that you die. You will become French chefs… you will become French electricians, French bakers and plumbers, and who knows, maybe even French teachers. But one thing you will never become is a German chef or a German electrician and you most definitely will not become a German soldier. Get that out of your head right now, Charles… Not only are you French but you are a Parisian and that means, as Parisians, we have to set an example to the rest of France. We have to show them how to behave. Right now we may be beaten, but we are still French. Always remember that. That does mean something, even now.’

  And then Daubec did an extraordinary thing.

  He turned from them all, took a piece of chalk from his desk and, with all the class watching, drew a large letter V on the blackboard. He turned around to face them all, said ‘Class dismissed,’ and then walked to the door, opened it, and strode out.

  Henri looked across the room at Charles.

  ‘What was all that about?’ he asked, confused.

  Charles shrugged. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  As the class gathered their bags and possessions and quickly left the classroom lest Monsieur Daubec change his mind at giving them an early finish, Charles stared for a few moments at the blackboard and the letter V that was scrawled prominently upon it.

  There was something about the letter and the firm way in which Daubec had drawn it that had instantly caught his imagination. What did it all mean? he thought. What was Daubec’s point?

  As Charles was leaving the room and was confident no-one was watching him, he leaned over and took two sticks of chalk from the teacher’s desk and quickly put them into his pocket. He did not know why he had stolen the chalk but he had a feeling that he was going to make good use of it in the very near future.

  He stood for a moment longer, staring at the blackboard, almost transfixed by the two solid lines that made up the letter V.

  Charles thought it very odd the way that the teacher had spoken to them and then carried out this action. His quick departure from the classroom led him to believe that should another member of staff or someone in authority see it, it may cause trouble for the teacher. He did not know why but he knew that to leave it there may not be a good idea.

  He picked up the duster from the side of the blackboard and carefully rubbed the board clean.

  Later that evening after assisting his grandmother back to her bed after she had eaten the evening meal of boiled potatoes and vegetables, (that she had constantly moaned about due to the lack of meat), he spoke to his mother.

  ‘Maman,’ he said, when she had settled down to read a book by the light of a table lamp. The old radio in the corner quietly played a peaceful melody.

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ she replied, looking up.

  ‘Why are people drawing letter Vs on walls and things?’

  It was true. When walking home from school after the incident in the classroom earlier, Charles and Henri had spotted them amidst the general graffiti on the walls of buildings. They had probably been there for some time but it was only now after the incident with Monsieur Daubec that they had noticed them. They seemed to be everywhere.

  She put the book down and looked over to him.

  ‘It would be best if you just ignore it,’ she replied. ‘It doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’ he persisted. ‘And Monsieur Daubec drew it on the blackboard earlier. He seemed very serious when he did it.’

  ‘Did he now?’ she replied, raising her eyebrows. ‘He should know better than to do a thing like that. Especially in front of you children.’

  ‘Why?’ repeated Charles. ‘What’s so bad about it?’

  ‘Anyone caught doing it may get in trouble with the Germans,’ she said, almost at a whisper, as though speaking any louder could somehow be overheard. Charles knew that the walls were thin, but even he knew that those living next door would not be able to hear their conversation. ‘It is a form of protest. It isn’t much, but is shows the Germans that we haven’t given up. However, anyone caught doing it could land themselves in a whole lot of trouble.’

  ‘It isn’t much, though, is it?’ responded Charles thoughtfully.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she replied. ‘But at least it’s something. The thing is, Charles, you should just forget about it and ignore it if you see it. Don’t bring any attention onto yourself.’

  ‘Why are the Germans here, Maman?’ he asked. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘They are here to prove a point,’ she replied, tears forming in her eyes. ‘They are here to show us that they are superior to everyone else and they can do whatever they want.’

  ‘Are they better than us?’

  ‘Of course they aren’t,’ she replied, almost too abruptly. Then she added more calmly, ‘They just think that they are… The thing is, Charles, we have to believe that this is not a permanent thing… that they won’t be here forever. The English are still fighting them and one day they will be beaten. Bullies normally are and that’s what they are… bullies.’

  She was crying now, tears running freely down her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Maman,’ said Charles, moving over to join her on the couch. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  She kissed the top of his head and stroked his hair.

  ‘You haven’t upset me,’ she said softly. ‘It’s just that I miss him so much.’

  ‘He’ll come back, Maman,’ said Charles. ‘Just like the Germans will be gone, father will return. I promise you, he will be back… I promise.’

  The radio began to crackle. At first Charles thought that it may be a vehicle outside blocking the signal, which was prone to happen from time to time, but when it didn’t clear after a minute or so he moved over to it and adjusted the dial. He struggled to find the station they had been listening to and after a few frustrated twirls of the knob, a voice suddenly spoke out clearly from the old set.

  It was a man’s voice. Strong, clear and authoritative. A voice that demanded to be listened to.

  ‘Turn that off,’ shouted his mother. ‘Now. Quickly. Turn it off.’

  Charles ignored her. There was something about the way in which the man spoke that had immediately grabbed his attention. This noble voice was speaking positively; he was speaking determinedly and he was talking about France.

  ‘Frenchmen everywhere should rally to the cause,’ said this stranger. ‘By being united we can strike a blow to the heart of the fascists. France will be liberated and once again the tricolour will fly in Paris…’

  By now his mother was on her feet.

  ‘Turn it off, I say.’

  Charles was shocked at the strength in her voice. He had never seen her so animated… so unnerved. Quickly he turned the dial until he found some soothing music.

  ‘Who was that?’ Charles asked, returning to his mother’s side.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who it was,’ she replied, calming down. ‘We cannot listen to that channel. To do so can get us all into a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Why? Nobody can hear it, only us,’ he replied and then repeated. ‘Who was that man? Who was he?’

  His mother sighed.

  ‘That was the BBC,’ she explained. ‘If the Germans know we are listening to it they will be very annoyed and we could get into trouble. All of us. You, me, your grandmother and even Pierre maybe. The man you were listening to was General de Gaulle.’

  ‘Who’s General de Gaulle?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s in London,’ she said. ‘He is in charge of the French army… those that got away. Please do not talk of him when you are not here. Promise me. You must not talk of him.’

  ‘Is Papa with him?’ he asked, smiling. This was the best news he had heard in a long time. ‘If we listen to the BBC will we be able to hear Papa, do you think?’

  She smiled sadly. ’No, my love. We don
’t know where your papa is. He could be in England with Monsieur de Gaulle, but we just don’t know. Now promise me that you will never speak of de Gaulle outside of this apartment.’

  Charles could not understand why his mother was so adamant about this, but he could see in the desperate expression on her face and the panic in her voice that he had to promise to do as she said.

  ‘Of course, Maman,’ he promised. ‘You have my word.’

  Charles lay in bed later that night thinking of the two promises he had made to his mother. He knew that to promise that his father would return was a false assurance, but he was aware that she already knew this. How could he promise her such a thing? He had no way of fulfilling it. He had no clue if his father was alive or dead. Just like everyone else, Charles had no idea what had happened to him.

  But then he hated seeing his mother so upset and as he watched her strength and hope begin to fade he felt a surge of anger start to grow within him. He now felt embarrassed that he had ever said that he wanted to be a German soldier. Just like Monsieur Daubec had told him, he was French and he should be proud that he was French. After all, his own father was a French soldier and whatever had happened to him, whether he was in Britain with the mysterious de Gaulle or in a prison camp in Germany, he had been fighting for France against the Germans to protect them all. Ultimately the French army had failed but he could not blame his missing father solely for this.

  And now, tonight, he had learned that some of them were fighting on. Not all had surrendered.

  Although his mother had specifically told him not to do anything, to walk away whenever he saw any kind of aggression from the Germans or any form of resistance from the population, even if it was just the daubing of graffiti on a wall where nobody would notice, he felt that he had to do something himself, no matter how small and insignificant. He could not remain neutral as she had asked him to be. His father had fought, and quite possibly died, to resist them and he had to somehow honour him in some way by continuing that struggle. Just as de Gaulle had asked on the radio that evening.

  As he drifted off to sleep he could feel a plan formulating in his head and although he did not want to upset his mother, he decided that he would speak to Henri in the morning and tell him of what he was thinking. After all, what his mother didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. Surely.

  Chapter 3

  The following morning, being Saturday, Charles had to assist his mother with cleaning the apartment as he had done each weekend for the last couple of years. It was a chore that he found wearisome but knew it was something that had to be done and it also kept his mother happy. He knew that once it was finished he could go and find his friends to play with.

  They had just finished when there was a knock at the door.

  Charles went to answer it and on opening the door, a gendarme stood before him. At first Charles didn’t recognise his uncle Michel as he had grown a very bushy moustache that seemed to sit awkwardly on his face covering the whole of his top lip. Far from it making him look more authoritative, which Charles assumed was the reason for it, it made him look quite comical.

  ‘Take that smirk off your face, young man,’ greeted Michel, realising Charles was staring at it. ‘It’s only a moustache. Have you not seen a moustache before?’

  Charles stepped aside as Michel walked in. Charles didn’t care much for his father’s older brother who he had always found to be surly and condescending towards him. The man clearly didn’t like children but this didn’t bother Charles too much as he had decided that he didn’t like gendarmes that much himself, so the feeling was quite mutual. After seeing one look the other way the previous week, when the young Jewish girl was being abused by the German soldiers, he had decided that they did not deserve his respect.

  ‘Hello, Michel,’ he heard his mother say as his uncle entered the sitting room. ‘Have you news?’

  ‘No, Celeste,’ he replied. ‘I was passing on my rounds and thought I’d pop in for some coffee, if you have it.’

  ‘I think we have a little left,’ his mother replied. ‘I’ll put the stove on. How’s Claudette?’

  ‘Oh, she’s still the same. You know what she’s like. Always got something to moan about… .’

  Charles decided he did not wish to listen to the inane ramblings of the adults and so exited the open door and went in search of Henri, who lived in the next street. It was cold outside and he was glad that he had taken his coat, the collar of which he pulled up against his neck. Although chilly, it was quite mild for February and Charles was happy that the snow had not yet started to fall as he had a hole in his shoe that had been there since that pointless hike out of Paris the previous June. He dreaded the frozen toes he was sure to suffer once it came. He also realised that he needed to get his hair cut as it was hanging over his collar and he was conscious of looking more like a girl every day. He would ask his mother for the few centimes he needed to get this done when he returned home later. He would also mention the state of his footwear come to that. If he remembered.

  As he approached the apartment block where Henri lived, he saw his friend coming out of the doorway, he too wearing a warm looking coat.

  ‘Hello, Charles,’ said Henri. ‘I’m not sure I can stay out too long. If it starts raining then I’ll have to go home. You know how my mother frets about me catching cold and all that.’

  ‘Stop being soft,’ replied Charles, annoyed at his friend’s nebbish comment. ‘We’ve got things to do.’

  Henri frowned. ’What do you mean, we have things to do? And I’m not being soft. I’m here, aren’t I?’

  Charles quickly led his friend away towards the small park at the end of the street and once there, he sat on a bench near to the entrance.

  ‘What is wrong with you today?’ asked Henri. ‘You seem flustered.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied Charles. ‘Nothing for you to worry about’. And then he added conspiratorially, ‘Have you seen this?’

  From his coat pocket he pulled out the two pieces of chalk he had taken from Monsieur Daubec’s desk the previous day.

  Henri went to touch them and as he did so Charles pulled his hand away sharply and put them back into his pocket.

  ‘Be careful,’ he said, looking around. ‘You never know who’s watching.’

  ‘They’re two pieces of chalk,’ stated Henri. ‘What’s so special about two pieces of chalk? They’re hardly…’

  ‘True,’ interrupted Charles. ‘But they’re two pieces of chalk I stole from Monsieur Daubec yesterday.’

  Henri laughed.

  ‘It’s hardly the crime of the century,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I can’t see the gendarmerie putting their best men on the case. And I didn’t see anything in the newspapers about it.’

  ‘Laugh all you want,’ said Charles. ‘It’s not about how I got them. It’s about what we can do with them… against the Germans.’

  ‘I think we need more than chalk to defeat the Germans, Charles,’ replied Henri, still giggling. ‘I don’t think throwing a couple of pieces of chalk at a soldier is going to have them trembling with fear.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Charles shaking his head. ‘I was thinking more of graffiti.’

  ‘I know I’m not the cleverest person in the class, Charles, but even I know that no war was ever won with graffiti… at least I don’t think so.’

  ‘Have you not seen the Vs drawn on the walls? Like the one Daubec drew on the blackboard yesterday?… My mother tells me it’s a form of resistance… to let the Germans know that we’re not defeated…’

  ‘But we are defeated,’ interrupted Henri. ‘We’ve been beaten. My father says we just have to accept it.’

  ‘That’s your father’s opinion.’ Charles could feel himself getting annoyed. ‘Not mine. My father is somewhere right now, still fighting them.’

  ‘How do you know that, Charles?… You don’t know that.’

  ‘I have to believe it, Henri… I have to.’

  They were quiet
for a while, Charles thinking about his father and Henri scared of speaking lest he upset his friend.

  ‘What is it you want me to do?’ asked Henri after a while.

  Charles turned to him.

  ‘If I give you a piece of chalk… will you draw some Vs on walls and things?… like the others are doing?… it might not win the war, but at least it’s something and we know that it’s us when others see it.’

  ‘What will happen if we get caught?’

  ‘I’ve no idea… just don’t get caught… come on, let’s do it now.’

  Charles jumped up from the bench and as he did so, he knocked into an old woman who was walking a small dog, nearly stepping on it. A little Chihuahua with enormous ears.

  ‘Be careful, you little fool!’ exclaimed the woman, pulling the dog away with the lead, which growled at him menacingly. ‘And what are you two up to?… You look like you’re up to no good…’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said and then started laughing. Henri stood up and the both of them ran out of the park with the old lady shouting after them, her fist raised.

  ‘That’s it… run away… I’ll remember your faces…’

  Eventually her voice faded away and the two of them collapsed, laughing, outside a boulangerie, the rather rotund proprietor of which was standing in the doorway with his arms folded, watching them.

  Charles looked over and when he caught the gentleman’s eyes, he burst into more laughter and ran on further along the street, closely followed by his friend.

  ‘If a little old lady can scare us like this,’ said Henri once they had finally found their composure. ‘What chance do we have if the Germans catch us scribbling insulting remarks on walls?’

  ‘You’re not backing out, are you?’ asked Charles.

  ‘I’m not sure if I was ever in,’ replied Henri.