Her Darkest Hour: Beautiful and heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction

by Sharon Maas

  ‘Underground is good. I have been in an attic up till now and that can be freezing. Of course, one must choose between them: cold and light, or warm and dark.’

  ‘Well, it’s not actually warm, just not cold. But very dark, I’m afraid. But I expect you won’t be staying long. Jacques and Eric are coming and I suppose then they will help you escape over the mountains.’

  But he shook his head. ‘No. I am not here to escape. We have other plans, but I think it is better if Jacques explains it all to you.’

  ‘Other plans?’

  He nodded. ‘I am one of Jacques’ Maquis team. I have been working with him for many months now. And with Juliette.’

  ‘Juliette? Juliette Dolch? Jacques’ sister?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. She too is part of the team. She is my friend. My close friend, if you understand.’

  ‘You – and Juliette? And you are Jewish? Oh, my goodness! I never knew, she never told me…’

  ‘Of course not, she has not seen you for a long time and it has all been very clandestine and dangerous. But now – well, they are all coming and you will see. Jacques is holding a meeting with all of us.’

  ‘With me too?’

  He nodded. ‘You too, Victoire. You are to be part of the team. We have a plan, and you are to be part of it, and that’s why we are meeting now. In a few days. When Jacques comes.’

  * * *

  In fact, Jacques came the very next day, bringing Juliette with him, and Eric arrived the following day. Victoire became aware of something big, something grand, something vital coalescing around her, and she was a part of it. Unaware still of the details, there was an atmosphere of conspiracy, formless yet, and optimism in the chateau. Maman, aware of it, kept a distance yet kept a protective watch over them all, like a mother hen spreading open a wing to enfold her precious young.

  ‘I trust you,’ she said. ‘Do good. But don’t tell me.’

  Once Eric had arrived, Jacques called a meeting, to be held in Nathan’s cellar, at night. And under the dim glow of the dusty light bulb, Jacques spoke.

  ‘It’s time,’ he said, ‘the war is not going to end this year, and probably not next year. We all thought it would be over by now but as we know now, it’s worse. All of us here: we are young, and our futures are at stake, the futures of all Alsatians and all the French and all Europeans, of the whole world, because Hitler will never stop if we don’t stop him. So, we have to stop him. That’s what I’ve been working on over the last year. This has to be better organised.

  ‘I’ve been working with various groups with just that aim, and now we have our own little group – this one, within the family. I’ll get back to that, talk about us and what we’re going to do, but first, this: we are working on many levels, in many ways, and this meeting is to let you all know what your roles are, and how we can work together and separately. For me, it started with the Black Hand, the Resistance boys in Strasbourg. Their work will continue, but I’ve taken it upon myself to expand, to bring it down here to the Haut-Rhin and, especially, Colmar. I am working at building up the Maquis here; finding young men willing and able, and organising their actions. Nathan is going to be my right-hand man in that, coordinating the action, but he cannot stay here, it is too rural. Right now, Nathan, I’m trying to find a suitable hideout for you in Colmar. As soon as I’ve found it, you will move there from Strasbourg.

  ‘Juliette, you will be a courier. As a woman, you can move more freely and are less likely to be arrested. There’s just one problem: your hair.’

  ‘My hair? Why should it be…?’

  ‘It’s too conspicuous; too long, too black. You look Jewish. Didn’t that soldier accuse you of being Jewish on the very first day of the invasion? Don’t they keep stopping you, asking for papers?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘I’m sorry, we can’t risk it. You can’t wear it loose, and you can’t spend time on hairstyles. You’ll have to cut your hair, Juliette. I’m sorry. You’ll be a better maquisard with short hair.’

  All eyes turned to Juliette. She was not a vain person, but everyone in the cellar knew that her hair was her one weakness. Juliette loved her hair. Everyone loved Juliette’s hair. People stared at Juliette’s hair, longed to touch it, to stroke it, run their fingers through it, hold strands of it up and watch how it would cascade from their fingers, ribbons of it snaking out of their grasp to fall in satisfying silken bands. Juliette doused her hair in herbs – rosemary and nettle – to retain its strength and its shine. She brushed it steadfastly to maintain its health and that of her scalp. She carefully tended its ends, snipping them if they split and wrapping them in warm herbal poultices to keep them strong. She washed her hair with a home-made lemon shampoo that balanced the oils; not too frequently, just often enough to remove excess oil and dust. Even now, after weeks of living rough, Juliette’s hair shone as if it had been pampered by a Parisian coiffeur. Beyond the careful snipping of ends, she had never cut it. And it was black, so deeply black. Its sleek blackness was the epitome of its splendour.

  Juliette gulped. She and Nathan looked at each other, exchanged a silent message. And then she met Jacques’ gaze with steady and steadfast compliance. The hesitation was less than a second.

  ‘Oui,’ said Juliette. ‘I will do it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jacques, and moved on. ‘So, that’s that. We will discuss the details later. The next area of our work – well, this is where Eric comes in. And you, Victoire.’

  He looked from one to the other, and they both nodded. They were sitting next to each other on folded blankets, holding hands. Eric squeezed hers.

  ‘You’ve already started, actually. This work involves the evacuation of Jews from Alsace. As we know, not all of them left early this year when they were called to do so, and those that remained are now in grave danger. We have to remove them. We’ve already got Leah and Estelle out of Alsace, thanks to you two. But there are more, and they are all over the place. I’m in touch with a Jewish organisation based in England that has found safe houses in France and a safe route to Vichy, and is taking care of the financing of such flights. Here in Alsace, we have to build up a network of safe houses and help them to get here. Victoire, you will look after them until their escape route is set up and Eric can take them over the mountains. You understand?’

  ‘But—’ Victoire was about to protest, but Jacques pre-empted her.

  ‘Victoire, I know you want to do the escorting. I know you are capable. I know you know the way, even better than Eric does… but no. You are only fifteen, still a child – no, don’t deny it, because it is true – and I have a responsibility towards you. I have promised your mother; so, no. Your time will come. One day you will be a hero.’

  Thirty-Six

  Marie-Claire

  It was good to be back in Colmar, a world away from the stuffiness and stodginess of the chateau. It was good to be back at work, to know that she was useful and appreciated and admired. And now, after the mortifications of the Christmas season, it was absolutely necessary for her emotional well-being. She could look back on the last few days only with a shudder. She had almost died of humiliation – rejected by two men, and upstaged by Victoire – Victoire of all women! – over a third. It was beyond crushing. It was death: the death of her confidence and self-esteem, a complete devaluation of her worth. Yes, a little death. Something had to be done.

  Up to now, she had lived in two spheres: one foot still firmly stuck in the past, in the old familiar orbit of the chateau, which had extended to Colmar in the form of Tante Sophie. The other foot, or rather, her entire existence, had moved on and into the future, into the Era Germanica, as confirmed by her workplace, the Mairie. This was the reality. Maman and the rest of the family might reject it all they wanted, but history had moved on, and they had to be on the right side of it, move on with history. They were all still stuck in the past. She was already being pulled into the present and the future, and the last little bit of her old self had to
be unstuck. Yes, that dreadful book Mein Kampf had shocked her, but it could be dismissed as the ramblings of a madman. Other people were sane, the people actually driving this forward, like the people she worked with. The first thing she did, on returning to work, was to request to move in with the German secretaries, in the house they shared on the rue Stanislas.

  ‘But of course!’ said Ursula, a big blond girl who had always courted friendship with Marie-Claire. All the German girls were friendly towards her, unlike the Alsatian women she had worked with previously. Marie-Claire knew exactly the reasons behind her popularity: on the one hand, as the Kreisleiter’s chosen personal assistant, she was ranked the highest and thus had, among the girls, the most influence within the Mairie. It was plain that the Kreisleiter trusted and appreciated her, and it was in everyone’s interest to be associated with her.

  The second reason was more personal.

  These women, Ursula in particular, lacked that certain je ne sais quoi that Marie-Claire exuded from the tips of her fingers to the bounce of her hair and the bow of her lips and the long sweep of her eyelashes. Ursula was big-boned and inelegant in an indefinable way. She tried so hard, too hard. Like all the German girls she had access to cosmetics and clothes, unlike the French, and yet she could not throw off the aura of frumpiness. Paris chic was the pinnacle of achievement for these women, but Marie-Claire was the only one who actually embodied it, and she knew it.

  She also knew this advantage could go two ways. It could cause jealousy and antagonism. It could also go in the opposite direction: obsequiousness. In the weeks before Christmas, while Marie-Claire was working at establishing her position within the Mairie, she had opted for a neutral stance: neither encouraging the would-be sycophants nor giving the would-be opponents cause for alarm. She had remained aloof, courteous but distant. There was always Jacques, lurking there at the ground of her consciousness, luring her back into the family fold. Jacques, and that impossible love that somehow, some day, could be made possible. Jacques, the ultimate goal. And so Marie-Claire had kept her options open, hoping, dreaming, and at Jacques’ request, even spying. For him.

  No longer. Jacques had dealt her a blow from which there could be no recovery, and this catapulted her into a new life. Marie-Claire had made her choice. Alsace was now German and it was not only futile to resist, it was dangerous. Her way forward was clear.

  And so, on her second day back in Colmar, Marie-Claire moved into the house on the rue Stanislas and accepted the friendship of Ursula, Gertrud, Klara and Erika. It was a new beginning, a radical new life. It basically meant a parting of the ways, the rejection of her home and family – for there could be no compromise, the disapproval from that quarter would be absolute and final – while she forged forward boldly into this new world.

  The girls accepted her into their fold with not a single reservation; it was as if they had been only waiting, eagerly anticipating this new, classy member of their clan. That first evening they cooked for her, a German potato dish they called Schupfnudeln. Her own contribution to the meal was a bottle of Château Gauthier-Laroche Riesling she had helped herself to from Tante Sophie’s cellar. (And no, it wasn’t stealing. She had a right to her mother’s wines.)

  There was only enough for one glass each with a top-up, but it was enough to loosen everyone’s tongue and raise the general mood, and soon she was laughing and joking with them all as if they were long-lost friends.

  The conversation, of course, swirled around the obvious: the girls were eager to know how and where from Marie-Claire was in possession of such stylish Paris fashions. She told her story, and they oohed and aahed over her almost divine good fortune at having a father in Paris who could be of such help in keeping her up to date, through the regular delivery of Vogue and the coincidentally named Marie-Claire.

  ‘No, of course I wasn’t named after the magazine! It was named after me!’ said Marie-Claire, and they all roared with laughter, and Marie-Claire promised to somehow get hold of her collection of copies from the chateau and donate them to the house. ‘And some more wine!’ she promised. ‘We need more wine!’

  They all agreed, of course, and Marie-Claire frowned for a minute, raking her brain for a way to get hold of said items; could she smuggle herself into the house one day, and take them? She still had a key, after all… The main problem was finding transport to the chateau; she’d need a car, as she couldn’t possibly bring everything back on a bus.

  ‘Oh, that’s easy!’ said Klara. ‘I’ll just ask Franz. He can use one of the officers’ jeeps.’

  All eyes turned to Klara. It was well known that she had been stepping out with a Wehrmacht lieutenant, and the other girls were curious.

  ‘Really? He’d do that for you?’ asked Gertrud. ‘I mean, it’s a bit frivolous, isn’t it, and not your things he’d be fetching.’

  Klara blushed. ‘Well, actually, he owes me a favour, you see. I’ve decided to be a bit more… generous.’

  All the girls tittered and teased. ‘Go on, tell us more! What are you up to? Did you let him…?’

  But Klara only smiled enigmatically. ‘Get your own officer, girls, and don’t be so nosey! All I can say is: that film on at the Gloria – Wer küßt Madeleine? – is – well, how shall I put it? Quite inspiring, if you get what I mean!’

  They all laughed and whooped. Klara was the prettiest of the lot. She wore her long blond hair in milkmaid braids wrapped around her head, and her eyes were a charming shade of dark green. She was petite, the very opposite of Gertrud, and before Marie-Claire’s acceptance into the house the acknowledged beauty among the German secretaries, as well as the one most likely to challenge Marie-Claire’s own standing. She, Marie-Claire, had recognised a certain glint in Klara’s eyes, which she interpreted as on the brink of hostility. She’d have to tread carefully here, but she knew exactly how to win Klara for herself.

  While the other girls joked and teased Klara and discussed the officers they had their eyes on, and who was flirting with whom (Nazi officers, they had all ascertained by now, were actually, at heart, all quite ordinary red-blooded men, no different from the farmers’ sons and bank clerks of civilian life they had all dealt with adequately in their hometowns and villages), Marie-Claire remained silent and her eyes narrowed. She watched Klara, with a smile carefully adjusted to demonstrate benevolence and magnanimity. She was thinking. Finally, she spoke, and the other girls immediately fell silent and listened.

  ‘Klara,’ said Marie-Claire, ‘I have quite a bit of make-up in the chateau, which I don’t use any more. My father sent it from Paris – you know, bits and pieces discarded by models and such. Also, some clothes and shoes I don’t wear any more. Granted, none of the latest fashions – even Papa can’t get hold of those – but some quite lovely dresses, skirts, blouses. I can fetch those as well, and you – well, all of you…’ (here, she made a sweeping gesture to ensure everyone was included) ‘…might like to have a look? I know how such things are difficult to get hold of in these hard times, and I know how lucky I am to have a father in Paris, who has connections. So, I’d love to share.’

  The excitement those words produced – well, if Marie-Claire had ever doubted her admission into the closed circle of German secretaries, or feared their rejection – such doubts and fears were immediately abolished by a volley of squeals and whoops and even, surprisingly, hugs. She smiled smugly to herself. Really, vanity, she thought, is the easiest portal to a woman’s heart. (But then she remembered other women she knew. Victoire. Maman. Juliette. And a slight scowl nipped at her lips, but only for a fraction of a second – those women didn’t count.)

  The conversation, quite naturally, progressed to the other officers, the higher-uppers, the ones beyond reach. Some of these were married, and lived with their wives here in Colmar. But some were single, and, the consensus filtered through, there was no more desirable outcome to this rather drab Colmar posting than to nab a senior officer, a military man or a political one, not just for a kiss at the ba
ck of the cinema, or a fumble against a wall in a narrow, cobbled Colmar Gasse, but for marriage. Marriage was the firmament, the starry sky above. And not too unattainable; after all, surely these men were lonely, and surely the whores in the Rote Löwe could not satisfy all their longings? Didn’t the Führer himself recommend marriage and progeny? Surely these men were looking for wives, and surely they, yes, they, the ladies of number 19 rue Stanislas, were in prime position for such a promotion?

  Who were the unmarried among these men? And who were the most obvious targets? And who were the opposite: the unassailable?

  And of the latter, one stood out, head and shoulders above the other. The Kreisleiter, Marie-Claire’s own personal boss: Dietrich Kurtz.

  ‘I’m sure if anyone could win him, it’s you, Marie-Claire!’ That was Ursula, the most sycophantic of all the girls, who looked on Marie-Claire with glazed and adoring eyes.

  Marie-Claire laughed and shook her head. ‘He’s not a man, he’s a robot!’ she said. ‘He’s probably even a virgin – impossible to imagine him with a woman. Just the sight of him makes you think of a machine rather than a man.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s what makes him so interesting!’ said Erika. ‘Me, I love a challenge, but unfortunately, I’m modest enough to know I lack the kind of allure necessary to break that armour. Now you, Marie-Claire…’

  ‘Me? You must be joking. I wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole. He’s old, for one, and ugly.’ Jacques’ face, unsummoned, rose in her mind’s eye, but she quickly pushed it away.

  ‘He’s not that old,’ said Gertrud. ‘Only about forty or so.’

  The cries poured in:

  ‘He’s at least fifty.’

  ‘He doesn’t have grey hair, so that can’t be true.’

  ‘I’d bet he’s around forty-five, give or take a year.’