The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  Henri had been having second thoughts about repeating the events of the previous week and his initial pluckiness had faltered somewhat. Charles had had trouble persuading him that it wasn’t just luck that had made their endeavour such a success, but it was also down to their boldness and the fact that what they had done, although it could get them into trouble, had been a righteous act and God himself was looking out for them. However, his friend would still take some convincing before he would embark on a similar venture a second time.

  They had both regularly passed the statue with the Vs and slogans, and now, a week later, it was still there, no attempt having been made to clear it away. Nobody from the municipal council had sent anyone to scrub the monument clean. From his observation post at the bench he watched people passing by and saw how they looked over at the graffiti before quickly turning their heads away, as though they feared that being caught in the act of merely looking at it would somehow get them in trouble with the gendarmerie or Gestapo.

  Charles was itching to go out at night once more and use the more permanent paint to promote what was turning into his own personal struggle. He decided that should Henri stick to his guns and refuse to help him, then he would just have to do it on his own instead. He had no option.

  Arriving home from school that Friday evening, he was disgruntled to find his uncle Michel sitting at the kitchen table with his mother and grandmother. Although he loved and missed his father, he seriously disliked his father’s elder brother. He wasn’t sure if this was purely down to the fact that he was a gendarme or if the aversion was more because of the man’s total lack of charm or empathy. It seemed to Charles that as soon as the man put on the uniform, he turned into an authoritarian with all the personality of the statue on which he had daubed graffiti a week earlier. However, he knew that he had to appear respectful to the man to avoid harsh words from him. He would also likely feel the wrath of his grandmother who doted on the man. But most of all he didn’t want to upset his mother who would probably take the brunt of any criticism Charles may attract.

  ‘Hello, uncle Michel,’ he said in as clear and polite a voice he could summon.

  The man looked up from the table but said nothing, merely taking a sip from a cup he held in his right hand. Charles was unsure as to what he was drinking as they had not had any coffee for well over a week now.

  He took a glass from a cupboard and poured himself some water from a jug that was on the table. He then sat in a chair next to his mother. Nobody had uttered a word since he had walked into the room.

  ‘Your uncle has some news,’ said his mother eventually, as he took a sip from the glass.

  ‘About Papa?’ He put the glass down sharply on the table causing some to spill onto the tablecloth, an immense sense of euphoria suddenly threatening to overwhelm him.

  ‘Is he home?… Where is he?… How is he?… Can I see him?’

  The words tumbled from his mouth, falling over themselves in a rush to get out. He had no control over them and he had no idea what he was saying, only knowing that he needed answers right away. They had news of his father. He was alive and he would be coming home.

  ‘Stop babbling, you little idiot,’ snorted his grandmother. ‘Listen to your mother and keep your mouth shut.’

  Charles had come to accept her speaking to him in this manner and was now so accustomed to it that it had no effect on him. He ignored her.

  His mother smiled at him.

  ‘Your uncle Michel has had word that he is being held in a prison camp in Germany,’ she said. ‘He was captured outside Le Touquet a few months ago and was in a hospital. He’s now been moved.’

  ‘We don’t know his condition, other than he’s alive,’ said Michel and for the first time the man seemed to display an emotion other than contempt. His eyes seemed glassy, as though passing on the news of his brother’s survival was difficult to do.

  ‘But he is alive?’ said Charles. He was aware that he was grinning, the relief was overwhelming. Despite maintaining a positive front for the past few months, in his heart he had come to accept that he may never see his father again. This felt like Christmas and his birthday combined.

  ‘Yes,’ replied his mother. ‘That is all we know.’

  ‘When will he be coming home?’ he asked. ‘When are we going to be able to see him again.’

  ‘She’s just told you that’s all we know,’ sneered his grandmother. ‘Do you have something wrong with your ears?’

  ‘Leave him, Maman,’ said Michel. ‘He’s just a little excited. As we all are.’

  ‘We don’t know that, dear,’ said his mother, darting a quick glance of irritation at her mother-in-law. ‘This is all we know. It’s now up to the Germans to decide when he is allowed to come home. We will just have to wait. However, at least we now know that he is still alive and we have to take comfort from that.’

  That night, lying in bed, the sense of euphoria had not abated and Charles found it difficult to sleep. He tossed and turned, pulling the covers over his shoulders before pushing them off again. It seemed the more he tried to sleep, the less joy he was having in making it happen.

  Again he turned onto his side and pulled the bed sheet over his shoulder, willing sleep to come to him. In his dreams he had regularly seen his father and had thought that this could be his ghost visiting him, to tell him that everything was going to be okay and to hang in there. However, now he knew that this couldn’t be the case and he was glad for that. However, tonight he wanted another dream like those before. He wanted again to see his father in his dreams where he had always appeared so clearly, every one of his features distinct and defined, much better than the blurred and faded photographs that his mother kept on the sideboard in the living room.

  After lying restlessly for a couple of hours he realised that his day’s energy was not yet spent and he would have to do something active before he had any chance of getting any sleep.

  ‘Pierre,’ he whispered across the room to his brother. ‘Pierre.’

  There was no reply, just a slurred mumble from his younger brother who turned over, his back now to Charles.

  Charles quietly slithered out of his bed and crawled across the room. When he got to Pierre’s side, he whispered again. ‘Pierre… Pierre.’

  Once more there was no reply and in the darkness Charles was confident that his younger brother was sound asleep and it would take an earthquake to wake him up.

  He could feel the blood pumping in his body as he understood what it was that he was about to do.

  Just like he had done a week ago he quietly moved to the window and pulled it up. Looking back at his brother’s bed and seeing no movement, he slipped out of the window and closed it behind him, again leaving a couple of inches gap at the bottom.

  Quietly, and with a growing confidence, he slipped from street to street, keeping to the shadows just as he had done before, until at last he got to the park. Quickly, he moved to the den in the bushes and, after moving away the leaves and branches, was pleased to see that the paint and brush had not been discovered. Using the screwdriver that had been stowed under the paint tin, he loosened the lid and stirred the paint, wiping the excess on some leaves and placing it back on the ground.

  The paint on the brush had set so that the bristles were hard as stone, but after stirring it in the paint, although not ideal, he realised that it was still useable. Taking a quick look around, and once content that he was unobserved, he set out once again on his mission of justified vandalism.

  Keeping to the shadows and stopping to get his bearings in alleyways and side streets, he slowly made his way to the Avenue Victor Hugo, that thoroughfare where Hitler’s troops had marched as part of the route during the victory parade almost nine months ago now. Thinking back to the excitement he had felt on that day, he inwardly squirmed, a sense of personal embarrassment for having held the enemy in such high regard. He had been so excited to see them, to see any soldiers in parade, that he had quite forgot himself
and how he should behave as a citizen of France. It had taken Monsieur Daubec and the voice of General de Gaulle to bring him to his senses.

  Finding a safe spot behind a baker’s van just off the roadway, he observed the main road. He could see vehicles moving up and down the avenue; troop carriers, official looking automobiles and the occasional police car. An open staff car sped by, its lights shining brightly. German officers singing loudly with their courtesans laughing along as they swigged champagne and wine straight from half empty bottles. Somewhere nearby he could hear the whoop-whoop of a siren, and for a brief second, he saw the lights of an ambulance to his right as it squealed around the fountain in the centre of the Place Victor Hugo before disappearing down another road. If it wasn’t for the empty streets it was as though life still went on with a degree of normality, despite the fact that the Germans and the Gestapo now controlled the capital. He listened until he could hear it no more, its bells fading into the darkness. He wondered why the driver had chosen to sound the siren when there was little traffic on the roads. He smiled to himself as he wondered if this was the ambulance driver’s own little token of resistance, reminding the Nazis that they still had some control over events, no matter how small.

  Cars and other automobiles were parked along the side of the road and he looked for something suitable on which to carry out his act. Spying a German staff car around thirty yards to his right, he slowly creeped out from his hiding place, keeping low to avoid being seen. His heart was beating so hard that he thought it might bounce out of his chest, but the thought of making his father proud spurred him on, the danger of what he was doing seemingly unimportant. At the moment he could not see anyone but he constantly turned his head from left to right, aware that the situation could change at any moment.

  Flipping the top off the tin, he dipped the stiff brush into the paint and hastily drew a large V and the cross of Lorraine onto the car door. It took a matter of seconds and as he finished, he looked around again alert for the sound of anyone who might discover him. His senses felt somehow enhanced, the adrenalin pumping through his body making his hearing and eyesight more receptive and aware of his surroundings. Realising that he was still very much in the clear, he looked for another target, another object on which he could stamp the brand of resistance.

  He quickly moved along to a bread van that was parked outside a boulangerie and again daubed the V adding ‘Vive de Gaulle’ underneath.

  The sound of an approaching vehicle caused him to duck down instinctively. The lights of a large truck penetrated the darkness, casting shadows across the roadway as it passed the parked cars, trees and street furniture. Charles held his breath as it went by, the occupants unaware of his presence only feet away. As he watched the red tail lights disappear around a corner further along the avenue, he realised that he was trying his luck maybe a little too much. It was time to make a move for home.

  Replacing the lid on the paint tin, he realised that he had nothing in which to wrap the paint brush. He could not risk putting it into his coat pocket as it would surely be discovered by his mother, or worse, his grandmother, and so he decided to discard it in a nearby bush. He would have to find another from somewhere for the next time he embarked on another night time mission.

  Again, sticking to the shadows and hiding in alleyways and behind trees and parked vehicles whenever he heard a German patrol close by, he eventually made the journey back to the den in the park where he stowed the paint tin under the leaves in the same place he had taken it an hour or so earlier. He sat down amongst the leaves and brambles and took a minute to gather his thoughts and to take stock of what he had just done. He grinned to himself that he had got away with it again. This was becoming remarkably easy and he knew that the more he did it, the more confident he would become. He inwardly praised himself for the success of another night’s work and realised he was smiling.

  Taking a deep breath he got to his feet and made his way to the park entrance.

  He was about to cross the road to the shadows when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, gripping at his coat tightly. The shock of it sent a shiver down his spine and he felt a sudden tightness in his chest.

  ‘And what exactly do you think you’re doing?’ said a gruff voice.

  He turned his head and saw, to his horror, that it was a gendarme.

  And then, just as quickly as he had grabbed Charles’s coat, the gendarme let go, stepping back in shock.

  ‘Hello, Uncle Michel,’ said Charles.

  Initially he had not realised that it was his uncle and for a brief moment he had felt his heart skip a beat. However, he also realised that he was in a whole load of trouble and it would take a monumental effort to get out of this.

  ‘Charles… Charles… what on earth are you doing out after curfew?… Have you gone completely mad?’

  Charles looked at his uncle, desperately trying to formulate an explanation or some sort of believable excuse.

  ‘I… err.. I…’ he stammered.

  ‘Does your mother know you are out at this hour?’ said Michel, quickly grabbing Charles and dragging him to the shadows at the side of the road.

  ‘Err… no…’

  Taking hold of his shoulder again, Michel pushed Charles into a a nearby alleyway and up against a wall.

  ‘Thank goodness it was I who found you,’ he whispered sharply, his anger evident. ‘I heard someone in the park and came to look. Had it been the Germans who found you… or another policeman, then you would be in a lot deeper trouble than you already are. And so would the rest of us…’.

  Charles was not quite sure what Michel meant by that last remark but thought it better to keep his mouth shut for the time being.

  ‘Come on,’ said Michel, nervously looking around the corner and up and down the street. ‘Let’s get you home before anyone sees us.’

  Ten minutes later, having woken up Charles’s mother and grandmother, the four of them sat around the kitchen table. A heavy-eyed Pierre entered the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘What’s going on,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Go back to bed, dear,’ said his mother soothingly. ‘This is nothing to worry yourself about.’

  Without saying another word, Pierre did as he was told and left the room, leaving them to discuss what had taken place.

  ‘What on earth have you been up to?’ asked his mother, the nervousness evident in her tone. ‘Do you realise what you could have done?’

  Charles sat silently, looking down at the table, unable to meet her gaze.

  ‘Answer your mother!’ snapped his grandmother.

  ‘There’s no point shouting at him, Maman,’ said Michel. ‘You know what he’s like. He’ll not tell us anything if we start losing our temper.’

  Charles could feel tears welling up in his eyes and fought hard to fight them back. He could not believe that this had happened. He had been so careful.

  ‘I think you need to tell us what you’ve been doing,’ said Michel. ‘And lift your head up when I’m talking to you.’

  Charles raised his head and looked at them all.

  His mother looked clearly upset, his grandmother scowled at him and Michel looked serious. He thought it best to bite the bullet and come clean.

  ‘I’ve been telling the Germans just what I think of them,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve been letting them know that we French are not finished and we won’t just roll over and let them walk all over us.’

  His grandmother made as though to speak but Michel raised his hand and she closed her mouth.

  ‘So what exactly have you been doing?’ he asked. ‘Tell us the truth, Charles. We can’t help the situation if we don’t know what the situation is.’

  ‘I’ve been painting stuff,’ he said quietly, his gaze going back to the table. ‘Words and things.’

  ‘And why do you feel the need to do that?’ continued Michel.

  ‘Because others have done it and I can’t just sit here and do nothing… like you lot
,’ he replied defiantly. ‘I want to be able to tell my papa that I did something… like he did… no matter how small it is, to show the Germans that they haven’t beaten us.’

  ‘But they have beaten us,’ replied his mother tearfully. ‘We just have to get on with things. We have to keep our heads down and just accept that this is the way things are.’

  Charles could feel his temper rising.

  ‘See,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly it. Why should we let them get away with it? What gives them the right? Why won’t they let my papa come home?’

  ‘The best way you can help your father is to simply be here when he returns,’ interrupted Michel. ‘People are doing things. Things that you are unaware of… there is more happening than you realise. But the one thing that you have to do is to be careful and look after your mother. You are the man of this house now, Charles. You can’t put yourself or anyone else in jeopardy.’

  ‘What’s what I do got to do with anybody else?’

  ‘These people don’t differentiate, Charles,’ explained Michel. ‘Had they caught you, do you think that it’s just you that they would have punished? It would have been your mother too… and Pierre, and your grandmother and most certainly me… Maybe even your father. All of us. This is a dangerous thing that you’ve been doing.’

  The tears that had threatened now started to roll down his cheek and he quickly used his sleeve to wipe them away.

  ‘I didn’t know…’ he whimpered.

  ‘Stop your blubbering,’ said his grandmother, but somehow her tone didn’t sound as condescending as it normally did.

  He looked up at her and noticed something in her eyes, something different in the way she normally looked at him. He wasn’t sure whether it was the glow from the dimly lit lamp on the table that made her countenance look somewhat different to the contempt she usually displayed. And then he realised what it was. Was there actually a hint of respect in her stare?