The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  As he approached the end of the road leading to the apartment building it started to rain. He stopped at the side of the road to button up his coat and to pull up his hood. As he was doing this, a black car passed him, followed by two military Opel trucks. As the second truck went by, he could see two rows of German soldiers sitting patiently, each of them carrying either a rifle or an MP40 machine pistol.

  He watched as the vehicles all pulled up near the building and the tailgates of the truck dropped down. Suddenly the street was filled with German soldiers who entered the building under the instructions of a German officer and a short man wearing a long leather coat and a homburg hat upon his head.

  At first it didn’t register with Charles that this had anything to do with him or his friends and so he watched proceedings curiously from the corner of the street.

  After only a couple of minutes he watched in horror as first Bernard, then followed by Alain, Gerard, Jean-Claude and finally Lucy were dragged unceremoniously from the building. He could feel his heart beating within his chest and, despite the chilly evening, he could feel the perspiration run down the back of his neck. He felt like being sick. He knew that should he open his mouth then he would vomit, right there at the side of the road.

  But he could not do nothing. He could not sit idly by and watch these people take away his friends. He knew that the materials they had in the apartment, particularly the printing machine and, no doubt, the tracts and pamphlets produced by Lucy would incriminate them all. He was aware that they would more than likely be shot for this, or at the very least sent away to one of those camps that Bernard had told him of. He feared he would likely not see any of them ever again.

  He had to show them that he was there for them. They had to know that he was there to support them in their hour of need and, if possible, he would do something to aid their escape.

  He put his foot on the pedal and pushed off. It was always a strain to get the bicycle moving but once he had the momentum going then it became easier. He pedalled towards the trucks.

  Bernard and Alain had already been forced into the back of the rear truck and Gerard and Jean-Claude were now being made to get in. A soldier hit the butt of his rifle into Jean-Claude’s back to hurry him along and he turned his head angrily in protest. His friends took hold of his arms and hauled him into the vehicle before the soldier had chance to hit him again.

  Charles was now only a few feet away and he saw Lucy standing with the Gestapo officer. She cringed before him as he shouted at her in German, words that Charles could not understand. Charles could see a bruise developing on her cheek.

  For a brief moment Lucy looked up and their eyes met. She had been unaware of his presence until now and when she saw him, her eyes widened, almost as a warning and in that moment Charles realised that there was nothing he could do for any of them. He was useless to them. The only thing that was left open to him was to get away, to put as much distance between himself and the arrests as he possibly could.

  However, as he passed them, he was compelled to stare at Lucy, turning his head to the side as he cycled by, his eyes transfixed, as though mesmerised by what was happening.

  This did not go unnoticed by the Gestapo officer who looked from Lucy to Charles and then back to Lucy before barking more angry words at her, gripping her arm tightly. He turned his head once more towards Charles.

  ‘You,’ he shouted, ‘You, boy… on the bicycle… Stop!’

  Charles was momentarily stunned. For a brief moment, all thought vanished from his brain. He was not unable to process what was going on.

  He shook himself to clear his head. What should he do? Should he stop and go and speak to the German? Should he ignore him and pretend he hadn't heard him? Should he get away as fast as his legs would allow?

  Some of the soldiers had stopped what they were doing and were now also looking in his direction.

  Suddenly Lucy shouted, ‘Go, Victor… Go!…Get out of here!’

  Broken from his momentary indecision, he acted without further hesitation and pedalled as fast as his strength allowed, pushing down hard on the pedals. The adrenalin was now coursing through his veins and he sped along the street, pumping his legs as hard as he could, grateful that the old bicycle reacted to his exertions.

  He could hear shouts behind him and the sound of boots running along the pavement in pursuit of him, but he knew that they could not move as fast as he was going and with each cycle of the wheels he could feel himself getting further away from them.

  And then he heard something that filled him with total horror. The sound of a rifle bolt being readied.

  He felt the wind of something flying past his right ear and it took him a moment to realise that it was a bullet, the report of the rifle following a fraction of a second later.

  They were shooting at him.

  They were actually shooting at him!

  Hunching his head down, he pedalled furiously. He could hear the sound of one of the vehicles’ engines being gunned and realised that although he could get away from those on foot, there was no way he could outrun a staff car or German truck.

  He knew that there was a Metro station close by and decided to head for that. It was probably his only realistic chance of getting away from them.

  He got to a corner and turned right. He was now going so fast that he strayed onto the opposite side of the road and was grateful that there were no vehicles there. He mounted the walkway causing pedestrians to jump out of his way, but he was soon back on the road again with their angry shouts ringing in his ears.

  He could hear vehicles behind him but dared not look back, all his focus, all his energy, all his trust now resting with this rickety, old, rusty bicycle.

  Charles could now see the entrance to the Metro station ahead of him. He chanced a look back but could see no-one following him. Had the Germans given up? Had they decided that he, a thirteen-year-old boy, was not important enough for them to be bothered with? He could not be sure and so, as he pulled up at the top of the steps that led down into the bowels of the city, he abandoned the bicycle at the top and ran down them, taking two at a time.

  ‘Slow down, young man,’ said a middle-aged woman irritably as he barged past her. ‘You’ll not get there any quicker…’

  Fumbling in his pocket he pulled out the few centimes he needed for a ticket and passed it to the old man in the ticket booth. He collected his ticket and ran to the platform, all the time looking around for any signs of people following him. He could see a couple of German soldiers further along the platform but it was clear that they were not looking for him, laughing together, smoking cigarettes and shouting across the train lines at a group of young girls who bashfully tried to ignore them.

  After only a few minutes, a train pulled in and Charles quickly got on, sitting near to the door. He did not know, or care, where it was headed, he just knew that he had to put as much distance between himself and anyone who still might be chasing him.

  He stayed on for three stops and then got off, making his way quickly to the street above where he found that he was on the northern side of the river and a long way from home. It took him over an hour to walk home but he felt confident that he had got away. Nobody was following him and when he passed any gendarmes or German patrols, they did not give him a second look.

  He walked into the kitchen to find his Uncle Michel sitting at the table with his mother and grandmother. Pierre was playing with a toy car on the floor in the corner. Michel was wearing his uniform.

  His mother looked relieved. ’Where have you been? It’s getting late. We were getting worried about you… Whatever is the matter?’

  He could not help it. The feeling of relief was overwhelming and he burst into tears in front of them.

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered Michel sternly.

  Too exhausted to argue, Charles did as he was told and sat opposite them.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Michel. ‘And where is your bicycle?… I didn’t hea
r you wheeling it in.’

  Charles wiped his eyes. ‘I lost it. I think somebody stole it.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Michel raised his eyebrows. ‘You see… we have been asked to keep a look out for a boy on an old bicycle that appears too big for him. For some reason, I thought of you when we got the message and so came straight here. And now you come home all flustered and without that old bicycle, that is, let’s face it, somewhat too big for you.’

  Charles sniffed. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Uncle Michel.’

  ‘Hmm. For the love of God, Charles, you have to be careful. People have been arrested. They have been taken to the Cherche-Midi and they will go to trial and if found guilty, then they will probably be shot. You understand that surely. This is a very dangerous game you’re playing.’

  ‘Like I say… I have no idea what you mean.’

  His mother looked up, tears in her eyes. ‘Charles… Whatever it is that you’ve been doing then it stops now. My nerves can’t cope with this.’

  Charles was torn. He had never felt so helpless in his life. Here were the people he loved telling him he had to stop what he was doing, that it simply was too dangerous. And yet he felt an enormous loyalty to his friends who had just been taken and knew he should be doing something to help them.

  But what? What could he do? They were holed up in cells in the Cherche-Midi and there was no way a thirteen-year-old boy could do anything to get them out. If he spoke out then he would be arrested too. And maybe not just him, but his mother, grandmother, maybe even little Pierre who played in the corner, oblivious to the turmoil his older brother was in. He knew that he could do nothing and so had no option but to do nothing. Maybe a few slogans on walls demanding their freedom, but in his heart of hearts he knew that it would have no effect whatsoever.

  He looked around the table. His mother was weeping, his unusually quiet grandmother noncommittal and a look of anxiety upon Uncle Michel’s face. As he looked from one adult to the other, he knew it was over.

  For now.

  As Charles lay upon his mattress later that night, he found it difficult to sleep. He could not stop thinking of his friends and what they may now be doing. If they were suffering. If they had been kept together or had been separated. If they were remaining strong and steadfast. He wished it so. He hoped they were being resilient.

  They were determined characters, all of them. They would not tell the Germans anything, of that Charles was certain. He was not worried about himself personally as he had never revealed his true identity to any of them. They all simply knew him as ‘Victor’. They had no idea of his real name, who any of his family were or indeed, where he lived.

  Charles shuddered. Even if they were tortured none of them could reveal anything about him. In fact, had he not cycled by Lucy when she was being held by the Gestapo officer and given himself away, the Germans would not even be aware of his existence. The thought of it made him less anxious about his own personal safety and that of his family, but it also made him feel a bit of a coward. He had let them be taken and had done nothing to stop it. He had fled. He had got away from the whole thing as fast as he could. Even if he knew that this had been the only course open to him, it still made him feel bad and inadequate.

  But then Lucy had told him to do it. She had shouted for him to get away.

  Maybe if they knew that he was still on the outside and still fighting on, then it would give them some comfort, maybe even some hope that all would be well in the end. That even if they were stuck inside prison awaiting their fate, there were still others outside who would carry on their work.

  But then, he thought, as he slowly drifted off to sleep. He was merely one thirteen-year-old boy. What could he do?

  Chapter 9

  Six months later

  The courthouse was packed.

  The trial had been set to start at nine o’clock but the crowds had been larger than expected and it was gone ten by the time the doors were able to be shut. The gendarmerie had been tasked to police proceedings but there were a number of SS guards on duty inside the room keeping a watch on the officials, prisoners and those in the public gallery. Stony-faced beneath their slate grey helmets, they held their machine pistols at the ready alert to prevent any trouble from breaking out.

  From his vantage point to the right of the viewing gallery Charles had a good view of the lawyers’ desks and also of the dock, where the five prisoners would be brought as soon as the judge was ready for them.

  He had managed to get to the eighteenth century building reasonably early and had found no trouble in getting in. But then this was something that he simply could not miss. After all, those now facing a trial for their very lives were friends of his. He had abandoned them once and he was determined not do so again.

  After what seemed an age, a door to the right of the chamber opened and a short balding man wearing round, wire-rimmed spectacles entered the room, which immediately fell into silence. He was wearing a long black gown and carried a number of files in his arms. The officials, those acting for both the defence and prosecution rose in unison and bowed their heads in respect. The judge climbed the two steps to where his desk was located and raised his hands, indicating for them to take their seats.

  An usher on the opposite side of the room from which the judge had entered opened a door and a moment later five people were marched in, each with an armed SS guard to their side. Dutifully, they ascended the step and stood in the dock, observed by all in the room.

  Charles felt like crying.

  This was the first time he had seen them in almost six months and it was clear that prison had not treated any of them well. All five looked thin and pale, their once bright and energetic appearance now completely gone, taken from them by months of incarceration. They had heavy bags under their eyes and their clothes looked dirty and unkempt. He was shocked to see Lucy’s once lustrous and healthy-looking hair now matted and in need of a wash and cut. Bernard clearly had bruises to his forehead and cheek and Alain wore a dirty bandage around his head. His right arm was also in a makeshift sling. Jean-Claude bit nervously at his nails. Charles thought that they looked like a gang of tramps and not like the professional people he knew them to be.

  The judge was German and made his opening address in that language. The five defendants did not look up, each of them merely looking down at their shoes or at inanimate objects in front of them, none of them bothering to look at the crowd in the public gallery, or even at their own counsel who sat listening intently to the judge. A court official to their left translated the judge’s words for them. Once or twice one of them would shrug and at one point Alain openly yawned. Their indifference worried Charles. It was as though they all had already given up and accepted their fate.

  After a while the judge finished and the prosecution lawyer, a tall, thin Nazi with a hooked nose, stood to make his opening address. His voice was slightly hushed and it was difficult to make out what he was saying, as he had his back to Charles but what he was able to understand was that the evidence against his friends was overwhelming. They had all been caught red-handed at the apartment in the 14th arrondissement with materials that were subversive to the Greater German Empire. A printing machine had been found together with a typewriter that the prosecution would prove had been used to type the subversive publication ‘Pour La France’, a tract that openly advocated armed resistance against the occupier.

  The prosecution believed that there was a sixth person in their resistance cell, a youth by the name of Victor, but none of them would divulge his full name or his whereabouts. This lack of co-operation proved that they were hell-bent on causing acts of terrorism, he argued, and that letting such a dangerous individual run loose in the city was both a danger to the German army and also to the general public of Paris.

  Charles was stunned to hear this. He had not realised that he was such an important cog in the wheel. He had merely been a courier, taking messages from one place to another,
delivering copies of the pamphlet that they produced and leaving them in public places to be picked up by the public.

  But then he realised that the Germans really had no idea what they were talking about. None of his friends had given him up because none of his friends could give him up. They simply did not know who he was or where he lived. They had accepted him into their group because they had had to, and once he had proved his reliability and trustworthiness they had accepted him as one of their group. They had not wanted to know his real name or where he lived as without knowing those things they could never betray him if things turned sour. It had been an act of compassion to protect him from themselves.

  It was clear to Charles, as he looked at their injuries, that they had been tortured for this information, information that they could not give because they simply did not know it. He did not know whether to feel guilty or relieved. What he did feel was humbled. They had gone through all this for him.