“Here we go!” she said brightly. “Some growing-up juice and a lovely breakfast to warm you up!” She slid the plates off the tray and plonked the glass down in front of Jacob, who was shyly looking back down at the table. “Come on now, eat up! ’Ere, give me that case so the dog can see the rabbit!” She took the case from the boy, who gave it up more easily than he had done earlier that morning.
“Now then, would you like some hot buttered toast and—oh!” She stopped, frozen in midair as she was reaching for some butter to offer the boy. Rossett glanced at her and then back to the boy, confused by her shock.
“What is it?” he asked, looking down at the boy’s plate and then his own.
“He’s a Jew.” This time she spoke quietly, conscious of the others in the canteen. “He shouldn’t be here, Mr. Rossett. You of all people should know that.” She looked around nervously and twisted the tea towel that was hooked into her apron.
“He’s a child.”
“I could get into so much trouble, Mr. Rossett. He’ll have to go. I’m sorry.” She paused. “I’m so sorry.” This time she spoke to the boy, who looked from her to Rossett and then back again.
“Nobody is going to say anything about a child eating for ten minutes. Who are you going to get into trouble with?” Rossett leaned back in his chair, the frustration of an already stressful day becoming difficult to contain and his head starting to throb. He took out his cigarettes and slid them onto the table, a conscious statement declaring his intent to stay.
“Please, Mr. Rossett, I don’t want to end up losing this job. People can cause such a fuss about these things; I have to be very careful now.”
“Who is going to cause a problem for your serving food to a child? Who? Tell me who?” Rossett snatched the cigarette pack back up into his hands as he looked around the canteen, desperate for someone to point a finger at.
“You.”
The accusation hung in the air between them; Rossett looked from the canteen lady to the boy, who was staring openmouthed right back at him.
“I wouldn’t cause you a problem about something like this,” he said quietly, confused.
The canteen lady twisted her apron some more and eventually shook her head and turned back to the counter.
Rossett watched her go and then turned to the boy, who was still staring back at him.
“Eat.” Rossett gestured to the plate as he fumbled the cigarette packet open, his own appetite defeated by his twisted stomach and his banging head.
The boy’s head dropped again, but Rossett was relieved to see him pick up some toast and slide a tomato onto it. Rossett turned away from the table and scanned the room again; this time a few dared to look him in the eye for a moment, so he turned back to the boy and lit a cigarette. He watched the boy for a while as he nibbled at the tomato and toast, and considered his options.
He needed to get rid of the child as soon as possible. There was no hope of catching the train. He wasn’t even certain where it would be unloading. He’d always just assumed it was Dover, but even if he found that out for certain, he’d have to establish if there was some sort of holding camp or whether the boat was waiting and ready to sail straightaway.
He checked his watch: nine forty. Maybe he could drive the boy to Dover and reunite him with old Galkoff, but it didn’t take him long to dismiss that option. It was a long journey that might prove fruitless. He drew deep on his cigarette, watching the boy, then imagined staring the old man in the face as he pushed the child toward him.
He shook his head and picked up his mug of tea, rubbing his forehead with the hand that held the cigarette.
I wonder when I became a coward? Rossett thought to himself as he watched the boy eat mushrooms one by one with his fork, chewing them carefully while staring straight down at the plate, as if he was scared to look away in case the food ran off.
“The boy shouldn’t be eating that.” A voice from behind. Rossett swiveled angrily in his chair to confront this latest busybody, only to find Koehler. The German stepped closer to the table, reached across, and picked up the boy’s plate. Jacob looked up, watching it go.
“This is pig,” Koehler held up a thin sausage with his fingers and studied it, wrinkling his nose. “Well, at least some of it is. The boy is Jewish; he shouldn’t be eating this.”
“I wasn’t going to eat it. I was eating the other things, not the sausage,” Jacob said, staring longingly at the plate and then at Koehler, who smiled, took a bite out of the sausage, and put the plate back down.
“Eat the egg,” said Koehler softly, like a father, as he pulled a seat from an adjacent table and sat down opposite Rossett immediately to the boy’s right. Rossett watched as Koehler dipped the sausage into the egg and took another bite. He then looked back at Rossett and shook his head.
“You’ve got yourself a problem, John.” Koehler spoke quietly as he chewed.
“The boy was hidden. His grandfather told me where he was as he got onto the train. By the time I’d found him the train had gone. How did you . . . ?”
“Gruber telephoned me. That prick isn’t going to let anything happen without letting me know,” Koehler replied. He looked toward Rossett’s uneaten breakfast and, taking the cue, Rossett slid the plate toward him. Koehler picked up the sausage and placed the plate between himself and the boy, gesturing for the boy to help himself.
“What are we going to do about you, little piggy?” Koehler turned to the boy. “What is your name?”
“Jacob,” the boy replied brightly to his new friend, and Rossett blushed, realizing that he hadn’t used the boy’s name once.
“What are we going to do about Jacob?” Koehler took another bite of sausage and looked again at Rossett.
“I haven’t decided; I thought maybe downstairs?” Rossett didn’t want to mention the cells by name. He was certain Koehler would understand what he meant and would realize he didn’t want to scare the child further.
Rossett took another drag on his cigarette and then tapped it against the ashtray, even though it didn’t need it.
Koehler nodded. “It’s an idea. There is another train due on Sunday; it wasn’t scheduled for a collection, but it will be refueling. I can arrange for the boy to be on it.”
“Will I get to see my grandfather then?” said Jacob, his mouth full, staring up at Koehler.
“Of course, you will,” Koehler replied, lying smoothly without the slightest hint of deceit in his voice. “Sergeant Rossett will arrange everything for you. He can even drive you to the station if you would like?”
Jacob nodded, and Koehler looked across to Rossett. “It is the least the sergeant can do for you, isn’t it?”
Rossett nodded dumbly at the boy before stubbing his cigarette out into the ashtray.
“Yes.”
“You see, little piggy? Uncle John has solved all your problems!” Koehler spoke to Jacob but looked at Rossett. He dipped again at the egg and leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and beckoning Rossett in closer. “Is everything all right, John?”
Rossett suddenly regretted stubbing out the cigarette and looked at it before shrugging.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? You look tired.”
“I am tired.”
“This is hard work we do; it can drain you if you’re not careful.”
Rossett nodded but didn’t speak.
“If there was a problem you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? As well as being your boss, I like to think we are friends. We are friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes . . . we are.”
Koehler stared at Rossett, letting the silence run long and do its job.
“I have dreams,” Rossett heard himself saying.
“Dreams?” Koehler replied quietly.
“Nightmares.”
“About what?”
Rossett
shifted in his chair and pulled his tie slightly before picking up the cigarettes again. He noticed Jacob was watching him, slowly chewing, curious. Rossett pulled at his tie knot again, then opened the cigarettes and took one out.
“They are . . . they . . . they stop me sleeping.”
Koehler nodded. “All soldiers have nightmares, John.”
“I sometimes see faces, the faces of the people we send away.” Rossett looked at Jacob and then back to Koehler, who leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “They crowd me.”
Koehler rubbed his mouth with one hand and frowned, looking for words, before leaning forward again.
“Our job is . . . difficult. What we do has to be done. We don’t have to like it but we have to do it. Because, if we don’t . . . well . . . I think you understand?” Koehler whispered and tilted his head at the end of the sentence, making sure Rossett realized what he was saying. “I don’t want to treat these people like this; they aren’t animals. But if we falter, if we lose our drive, others will take our place, and that won’t be good for anyone involved. Not you, not me, and not the Jews.” Koehler’s voice was barely a breath.
Rossett nodded and put the unlit cigarette in his mouth.
“I understand.” He said, making the cigarette bob.
“Good. Try not to think too much, John. It isn’t good for you.”
“No.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No.”
“Good. That is all arranged then.” Koehler brightened and slapped his thighs, then stood up. He buttoned his coat while looking around the room. “Make sure you eat all of your breakfast, Jacob. I want that plate to be clean, yes?”
Jacob nodded and picked up some toast. Koehler smiled back at him and made to walk away from the table. As he passed Rossett, he paused and placed his hand on his shoulder, bowing slightly as he spoke softly.
“Oh, by the way, there was nothing else left in the house, was there?”
“No, just the boy.” Rossett stared up at Koehler, who was still looking around the canteen. His heart pounded and he was certain the German must have felt its percussion through his shoulder.
“And his suitcase, of course.”
“Yeah, the boy and his case, that was all.”
“Gruber mentioned he had taken the case from the boy.”
“He did.”
“But Jacob has it here?” Koehler looked down at Rossett now, his hand still in place on his shoulder.
“The boy needed it. It has his clothes.”
“Of course. Gruber is such a . . . what is the word?” Koehler carried on looking around the around the room as he searched for it. “Jobsworth. Gruber is such a jobsworth. Every detail has to be checked and double-checked.”
Rossett nodded, unsure of what to say.
“Men like me and you fight to create empires. Men like Gruber, they make sure we keep them.”
“Yes.”
“Well, as long as there is nothing else you need to tell me?”
“No, there is nothing else.”
“Good. I’ll be on my way then.” Koehler tapped Rossett on the shoulder and smiled at Jacob. “Good-bye, Jacob.”
“Good-bye, sir.”
“Good-bye, Sergeant.”
“Bye.”
Koehler walked away, his shoes clicking on the lino floor as he made his way through the benches on his way to the door. Rossett listened to the sound fade away and eventually realized he was holding his breath. He sighed, leaned back into the chair, and put his unlit cigarette into the pack again. He twisted and turned the packet in his hand on the table.
He blew out his cheeks and put the packet down again, drumming his fingers on it, thinking about the coins in his desk. The moment had passed for him to enter them into the property system. He’d had two chances to mention them to the Germans and both times he’d shied away from it, for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of himself.
I can book them as found property next week, he thought. I’ll make up a story about their being found in a pub or something. It was flimsy, but it would ensure that they didn’t have to stay in his desk for longer than was necessary.
Problem solved.
His stomach lurched and his fingers started to drum again as he remembered Baker, the young bobby he’d been with when he’d found the boy. He sighed out loud and rested his head in his hand. The boy stopped eating and looked at him.
“Are you all right?”
Rossett looked up at the little face through his fingers and nodded. “I’ve just remembered something I had to do.”
“Was it important?”
“Very.”
“Maybe we can do it now?”
“It’s too late now.”
“Will you get into trouble?”
This time Rossett didn’t reply, he just stared at the boy and sighed once more.
“My grandfather says that if you do something wrong it is best to just be honest and tell someone what you have done. He says that if you are always honest, you will not be punished.”
“What your grandfather tells you is true, most of the time.”
“But not this time.”
“No, not this time.”
Chapter 7
BY THE TIME Jacob had finished eating, Rossett had smoked two more cigarettes and drunk another cup of tea. He had taken the boy by the hand and walked him through the station, aware that even more people were watching as they passed. Word must have got around that the boy was a Jew and had sat eating in the canteen with the men who were supposed to be making sure he wasn’t seen again. Once Koehler had visited it would have flashed through the whole station like wildfire.
He’d originally planned to take the boy straight down to the jail but had decided to put it off for as long as possible. Rossett knew what it was like to sit on your own in a cell, how long it took for time to pass as you stared at the four walls. It was Thursday, so that meant Jacob would have three days of staring at those walls if all went according to plan. Rossett figured the longer he could put it off, the better it would be for the boy.
As he walked toward his office his heart sank to see his door was open. He knew he’d closed it, and the sudden thought that Koehler was in there and had opened the desk and found the coins filled him with a sickening dread. His step faltered, and Jacob glanced up as Rossett patted his jacket feeling for his desk keys. He felt them rattle but took little solace from the sound. How hard would it be to open the desk? He could do it with a spoon if he put his mind to it.
He guessed the German wouldn’t be so subtle.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” replied Rossett, disappointed that he’d given away his feelings so easily to the child again.
“Is it the thing you forgot to do?”
“Yes.”
They entered his office and Rossett found Inspector Brewer seated at his desk. Rossett’s eyes flicked to his drawer and saw it was closed. Brewer got to his feet as soon as Rossett entered and charged around the desk past Rossett to the door.
“What the hell do you think you are doing, Sergeant?”
“Sir?” Rossett watched as Brewer stuck his head out and checked the corridor before slamming the door shut and turning to face him.
“You know what.” He pointed at Jacob. “This! What do you think you are playing at? Bringing a bloody Jew here?”
“I wasn’t sure what else to do with him.”
“Do what you always do, man! Stick him on the bloody train and wash your hands of him! Christ al-bloody-mighty, Rossett, this job is already sensitive enough without you bringing bloody Jews here!”
“The train had gone, sir.” Rossett was uncomfortable with Jacob holding his hand; he gestured for the boy to take a seat in the corner on a small wooden chair.
“
Don’t make him bloody comfortable, man! Get him in the bloody cells! You’ve already fed and watered him from what I’ve heard.”
“I need to arrange a cell for him, sir. I was going to call down to speak to the jail first, as a courtesy.”
“A jail?” It was Jacob, his eyes confused, looking up at Rossett. “Are you putting me into prison? I haven’t been naughty.” The bottom lip trembled again.
“No—well, yes, but not like you think, it’s just somewhere to sleep until—”
“I don’t want to go to prison.” Jacob’s words tailed off, like feathers falling to the floor. Rossett put his hand onto the boy’s shoulder and knelt in front of him.
“It will be okay. It’s not really a prison, it’s—”
“For Christ’s sake, Rossett!” Brewer exploded. “Just bang him up and get on with your job!”
A shadow appeared through the frosted glass of the office door, followed by a polite tap. All in the room fell silent and looked nervously at the shadow, like three conspirators caught in a trap.
Eventually, Rossett stood and opened the door to find PC Baker. Rossett stared at the bobby, who stared back, notebook in hand.
“Sorry to bother you, Sarge.” He glanced over Rossett’s shoulder at Brewer, who was standing red-faced behind him. “I can come back later if needs be.”
“No, erm . . .” Rossett searched for his name.
“Baker, Sarge.”
“Of course, of course, Baker, what do you want?”
“My notebook, Sarge. You wanted to sign it, so as to confirm what we found when we searched—”
“Of course. Yes, give it here.” Rossett spoke quickly, panicked, and snatched Baker’s notebook out of his hand.
“Sergeant, can’t this wait?” Brewer sputtered, barely able to contain himself, but anxious not to have a bobby gossiping about him and Rossett.
“I can come back, Sarge, if it suits?”
Rossett ignored them both, scanning the pages of densely written copperplate. He inwardly cursed Baker’s thoroughness when he reached the part about the coins.
I witnessed Det Sgt Rossett remove some gold colored coins from a green pouch and let them fall into the case, the DS then collected the fallen money and placed it back into the pouch, which he then put in his coat. I do not know the exact amount of coins, which looked like golden sovereigns, but I would estimate that the pouch was five inches long and it appeared to be almost full. I did not see the coins again after the Sergeant took them.
The Darkest Hour: A Novel Page 6