The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  I took it out, set the needle on the record and it began to play, “In the Mood” by Glenn Miller. “Tad da ta, ta— dee ta ta ta. Tad, da, ta, ta dee ta, ta, ta.”

  I started dancing with a phantom Edith when I heard something “whoosh” by my ear and could feel the air tighten by my ear. It was as if some object had been there but when I turned to look the object had disappeared. I looked at the floor and nothing was there.

  So I danced again, and it happened again, but on the other side of my ear. I turned around, and there was Erich, holding a large, thick horse whip. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

  He held the whip in his right hand, smirking at me. He took his left hand and put the cigarette to his lips, pursing them for an enormously long, slow drag of smoke. He held in the smoke for a second and then let it out with a hazy sigh—blown through his grinning mouth. He was calming himself.

  “Move.”

  “What?” I couldn’t hear him because the record player was loud.

  He took the whip and threw it behind his back. I then realized that I needed to move from where I was standing—directly in front of him—and fast. I moved, and he cracked the whip through the air with great force. It landed on the record player, knocking it to the floor. It cracked the record and I at first thought it had also broken the player, but I still could hear a muted scratch that made a continuous scraping noise.

  He then paced the room. Going to the window facing the ghetto and back to the door he had closed. The room was a good size—but it was still only a bedroom and thus only five steps each way. His pace got faster and faster. He was scaring me and he was going between the two ways to escape—the door and the window. He was manic. He looked up at me as he passed and there was a wildness in his eyes—not a crazy man’s eyes—but a wild one’s.

  I shivered. When he looked at me he had stopped pacing, and like he was some defensive lineman in a football game, he was ready to block me from exiting as he stood just perfectly between the door and the window—in the middle. He held the horsewhip, which I looked at anxiously.

  “Charles, what have you done? Why have you made this mess? You have broken a perfectly nice record player? And for what? So you could play music by American Jews?”

  “Glenn Miller isn’t Jewish though.”

  “Ah, but you miss the point. That is beside the point. Those that spread and make music from a sound created originally by Jews and niggers, and are represented and financed by an industry infested with Jews, from a country (this he shouted) run by Jews! This music is Jewish music. It is the sound of it, the very core of it, the very heart of it. Is Jewish. It addles the brain. It makes it sick and full of animal lusts and reasoning, it dulls the intellect. It will not be played in my house. By my nephew!”

  “Yes, Uncle, never again, Uncle …”

  “I can see a question in you, nephew,” he said calmly, “you wonder if I will use this whip on you. You wonder if I will cut your back with it and beat out this dance and the love of this music that your mother has infected you with. Hmm?”

  He continued, “I am asking you a question, Charles. What do you think I should do to you?”

  I thought and, scared as I was, I blurted out, “Please let me keep the record player—it is the last thing I have of Mother’s.”

  He went up to my face and looked me in the eyes, glaring at me—inches from my face.

  He said, in an even voice, “Charles, you don’t understand, do you? I was never going to beat you. And I had already planned on taking your record player. I just wanted to know if you thought I was going to beat you, I wanted to know if you knew I cared for you. I won’t beat you this time because I am fond of you—I have a sort of love for you because you are my nephew. You should know I wouldn’t beat my nephew with a horsewhip with no warning. I would never do that, no, that would make me a cruel man without mercy. And I am a merciful man, which is why I did not beat you with it. But make no mistake, Charles, hear me now.

  “You see, Charles, we have discovered a great disease that has heretofore not been understood as a disease. The Führer said that ‘… the discovery of the Jewish virus is one of the greatest revolutions that has taken place in the world.’ Hitler has given us both the problem—the disease which are Jews, and the solution—revolution. Which is to say, one is part of the revolution, Charles, or one is part of the disease. You don’t have to be Jewish to be part of the disease, my dear Charles. You just have to not take part in the revolution once knowing about the discovery of the illness. Oh, I know you are Aryan and my nephew, but my first and primary loyalty is and must be to the Aryan race, and the apex of that race—my country.”

  I was only half following his ramblings as my mind wandered back to his horsewhip—a terror not unlike when I found Mother building in my chest. Making the insides of me feel too large against my ribcage. I looked in his eyes and saw more than utter contempt. I could tell my status had dropped with him and my fear was great. My stomach hurt; I didn’t want to do or say whatever he might view as the wrong thing. I was quiet.

  “I won’t beat you because this is our first conversation where I have explained about the virus and now you know about it. But if you listen to this American music again, or if I catch you dressing like a pansy Englishman, I will whip you with this exact horsewhip. The same horsewhip I have used to lash many Jews to death. So, I will take your record player to dispose of it. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, Uncle, I respect you.”

  His eyes recognized me again, and he smiled; I was less fearful already.

  “That is a good boy, Charlie. A good boy indeed. I love you and want you to know that I only do this for your edification and out of love. Have a good night with Edith.”

  He shut the door quietly as he exited the room.

  Chapter 8

  For my night out with Edith, I put on one of my new suits, a traditional one, no zoot suit. I had thrown them all away. I had my hair cut shorter to meet Erich’s approval. I met her where she had said to—but I had to ask locals where the Steinerne Brücke, the Stone Bridge, was. I was to meet her at the highest point of the bridge.

  Edith had passed me a note at dinner, secretly, telling me where to meet her. It all felt unnecessarily clandestine to me and made me uncomfortable. I was excited to meet up with her nonetheless and had no private way to communicate a different place to meet, like the coffee shop she had lied about when Erich had asked where we planned on meeting. I didn’t want to meet at a coffee shop either.

  I was walking in the night and it was a chill evening as fall was almost upon us. I could feel the wind, even in my suit and jacket. A couple of people passed as I started climbing the Stone Bridge. I looked for this carving of a man after reaching what seemed to be the highest point of the bridge. I didn’t see this stone carving, this Bruckmandl. I wondered if she was playing some trick on me and thought perhaps she was going to leave me here like a fool, in the light rain that was starting to fall on my face.

  Then I heard, “Psst,” and looked toward where the sound had come from. I saw a small figure in the night—the specifics of her features obscured by the darkness. But I could tell it was her from the intimacy of her call, and the shape of her shadow. I looked up high above her to confirm that it was her as I then saw the stone carving of a man. It wasn’t as large as I had imagined it would be.

  I approached her and said, “Edith, look, how was I supposed to see you or that small carving in the dark? It isn’t even directly under the light. I was standing over underneath that light …”

  I pointed in the direction of the light and then she put her hand over my mouth and silenced me, as she pulled me into an alcove, sheltering us in the darkness. She pointed to two men that were wearing suits and standing underneath the light that had been illuminating where I had stood moments before.

  She quietly said, “They have been following you as you came up the bridge. I can see down the slope and, as you walked, they did too, and
as you paused, so did they.”

  I examined them and they both wore fedoras, looking like American businessmen or something. They didn’t look like Erich’s spies. Yet they started looking into the Danube river as if I had jumped into it.

  One of them said to the other, “I think he has gone.”

  The other one, in the darker suit, said, “Where?”

  “I am not sure, maybe we should retrace our steps.”

  “Ok, let’s do that.”

  And they walked back down the opposite side of the bridge, melting into the dark, misty night.

  Chapter 9

  I said to Edith, “Are we safe to leave—who are those men?”

  “Are you dumb, Charlie Beck? They are obviously dressed like Americans and they were speaking English and looking for you. Unless you are a criminal, they probably want to use you to spy on Erich.”

  “I, well, I wouldn’t ever do that.”

  “And why not? You don’t like your Uncle, I can tell.”

  “No, I detest him. He is a son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Never mind, we should leave here and talk later,” she said.

  She pulled me by the arm until we walked, arm linked in arm, together down the bridge toward the street. Upon reaching the street, we walked down an alleyway and she stopped in front of two doors that were largely made of glass shaped like an oval, surrounded on the periphery by wood. Someone came outside staring at his watch.

  He looked at Edith, ignoring my presence, and said, “You’re late, dear.”

  The boy—who looked our age, sixteen or so—embraced her and she abruptly pulled her arm free of mine. He kissed her on both cheeks and then for a moment on the mouth!

  “Oh, Tommy, don’t,” she said, while so obviously pretending to be offended, “it isn’t like we are together.”

  She then turned to me and said, “Tommy, I would like you to meet Charlie.”

  Tommy looked unimpressed. “What kinda suit is that—you look ridiculous.”

  Edith said, “Tommy, he is a friend, leave him be.”

  “Alright, well, if you are a friend of Edith’s, then you are a friend of mine.”

  “You speak German with an awful American accent,” I said.

  He smiled proudly, saying in English, “That is because I am American. I am the ambassador’s son, Tommy.”

  He reached out his hand to shake mine, and I in turn shook his. He had that annoying habit some men do of twisting your hand slightly—squeezing your knuckles together so that it hurts. They always do this, it seems, to show they have a superior grip. My knuckles ached slightly, but of course I smiled, pretending I was enjoying meeting him, though I didn’t like him at all.

  Tommy said, “Let’s go in and get a seat and a drink. You drink, don’t you, Charlie?”

  “Now and again.”

  “Well, it is now, I don’t think it’ll be now again anytime soon. Hey, doll,” he said, turning to Edith, “let me open the door for you, my lady.”

  He thought he was cute, and he was a handsome boy, though I hated to admit it even to myself. And he was charming in a sarcastic-ass sort of way.

  When we entered, it seemed that everyone knew Tommy and worshiped him, guys and girls. They all said hello as we passed and gave him handshakes like he was some dignitary. They knew Edith also, people said hello or waved to her, but she was not held in the popular esteem the entire crowd seemed to hold Tommy in.

  A band was playing a swing song and Tommy asked Edith to dance in the plain but large dance hall. And he pulled her toward the dance floor. I had thought we were going to sit for a drink, but that was not what Tommy wanted to do initially. He wanted to strut on the dance floor, flipping Edith around, showing her bloomers to the world, owning her publicly. I was jealous and followed the crowd to watch the entire song and dance play out. The music was coursing through me. Neither of them knew that I could dance, I could dance better than he had. Edith was talented and so was he, but I was better than him and I knew it. So, right as the song ended and as the band began another tune, I walked up and tapped him on the shoulder to cut in.

  He shocked me as he pushed me—not hard enough to push me over, but hard enough to let me know to lay off. I tapped him again, this time harder.

  He then pushed me on the ground, shouting so everyone could hear, “Ya think you can dance, kid?”

  Everyone had stopped dancing, the band had ceased playing, and they were all staring at me—yet the music still pulsated through my mind.

  “I know I can dance.”

  He cupped his hand to his ear, yelling out, “I don’t think everyone can hear you, kid—say again?”

  “I know I can dance!” I shouted.

  Everyone laughed.

  Tommy held his hand up to silence them, and as if pre-planned and on cue, they all stopped laughing at once.

  “I will let you prove yourself a fool and you can dance with Edith all night. IF you impress us.” He motioned to the crowd surrounding us.

  “Or what?”

  “Or I teach you a lesson in manners—that’s what.”

  I looked at the band and shouted, “Louis Prima.”

  “Which one?” shouted the band leader in return.

  “‘Sing, Sing, Sing (With a Swing),’ of course.”

  The man looked at me and grinned. “That is a fast one, buddy.”

  I glanced at him as my eyes went to Edith’s lovely hips and up to her face.

  “Exactly,” I said, “exactly.”

  “Tum, tum, tum—Tum tum ta tum,” went the drums.

  I started shaking my head up and down with the beat. The beat—it awoke a wildness inside me.

  Then the trumpets joined the beat—whining and tempting me to dance. I had to wait just a little longer. I locked eyes with Edith. She was beautiful, but I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about the moment that was coming. It was almost there. Not just yet—just another beat or two.

  The entire orchestra joined in and I started to swing my arms and danced toward Edith. I grabbed her by the waist and we were one. The throb of the song was all I felt, and all I saw was the deep blue of her eyes. And we swayed for a moment before a crescendo came and I twirled her body into mine and flung her back out. I then grabbed her waist. My eyes not leaving her eyes. I swung her to my side and then to the other side, and then flipped her over my head. She knew how to dance. She knew how to swing. She was born for this. With every movement, she showed no resistance, but rather moved in perfect step to the beat. She trusted me to catch her and not to drop her. Her body partially yielding to me—Edith never really yielded to anyone fully.

  I had not noticed that everyone had stopped dancing. Everyone was clapping and tapping their feet as we danced. As the song ended with “doo, doo” from the trumpets, I twirled her one last time and we stopped. Breathing heavily and still locked onto her bright sapphire eyes, I didn’t notice that everyone was clapping for us. Edith grabbed my jaw gently and forced me to look to the crowd and the sound of their collective clapping and whistling suddenly flooded my ears.

  Someone, a male voice, yelled, “What’s his name?”

  Edith shouted, answering, “Charlie, he’s American.”

  A female voice said my name as if a proclamation, “Charlie!”

  “Charlie, the American,” someone else yelled.

  I was being crowned, and Tommy looked dejected, like I had defeated him and they had forced him to cede power to me. He bowed. But I could see the contempt in his eyes, in his half smile. I didn’t care, I just reveled in it, for a moment I reveled in the admiration. I looked at Edith and my heart jumped. Tingles, lightly brushing my arm as if kissed by a soft breeze.

  After the dance, I sat down with Edith and Tommy at a table to drink a beer. Everyone around me had come up to say hello. I felt like a celebrity. Tommy glared at me; I think he tried to hide it from the others with a smile that was unconvincingly painted on his face. But I could tell that he loathed my very being.


  Then my heart skipped three beats as Edith leaned over to me and said in my ear and over the music, “They are here—to your right.”

  I turned and saw the fedora-adorned gentlemen approaching me from the right. Strangely they didn’t even acknowledge me, but went over to Tommy, who was facing us on the opposite side of the table. Over the loud trumpets and beating drums, I couldn’t make out a word of what they were telling him. I did notice that his expression changed slowly as he focused on me—ignoring Edith and all other things in his peripheral vision completely. His hate turned to wide-eyed curiosity and then to what looked like resolve to me. I didn’t know what he had resolved to do until he stood up, passing Edith and leaning down next to my ear.

  He said in English, “Hey, Charlie, your uncle is Erich Beck? Obergruppenführer Beck?”

  I nodded.

  “And you are American?”

  I nodded again, unsure what this all had to do with anything.

  “Last question, do you love America or Germany?”

  “What—what do you care?”

  He said, annoyed, “I have my answer then.”

  I practically shouted, “America, I love America!”

  “Shh, not so loud,” he said, as he put his finger to his lips, “that is all I needed to hear.”

  He continued, “Could you follow me, brother? You aren’t in any trouble. We are your friends, your countrymen, we just need a favor from you, perhaps.”

  I nodded to signal that I would follow him—I was too curious to say no.

  I looked at Edith, who looked confused.

  Tommy went up to Edith and whispered something in her ear that satisfied her curiosity, I supposed. She smiled at me.

  I got up to follow Tommy.

  Tommy led me through the hall, to the back of it, through some door that led to another alleyway. Deserted. It was almost black, and I regretted coming out here even if they were Americans. The two men in fedoras stood ominously silent, blocking the way back into the club.