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

by Sharon Maas

  As she straightened up she simultaneously heard a slight puff, like an out-breath warning her of danger as he, too, rose from his padded chair. She swung round.

  Too late. With two strides he was before her, his hands heavy on her waist and pulling her to him, his lips forcing themselves on to her cheeks, her neck, her mouth, a wet tongue prising her lips apart. A cry of shock rose within her but his mouth on hers muffled the sound. She struggled, but her movement seemed to incite him only further.

  Dull fear overcame her then, fear of this hulking beast of a man and his overpowering grasp. She froze under his hands, her cries died in her throat, and all of a sudden she went limp, as the realisation took hold that her puny strength was nothing to him. She was a matchstick in his hands. Resistance was futile.

  Stiff as the poker that had fallen from her hand, she allowed it to happen, unable to resist though everything in her screamed no! No to the kiss, no to the gasping and fumbling and moaning, the groping hands all over her body. But no sound came from her lips.

  He pulled her down onto the carpet, right there in front of the fire, and grasped and pulled and pinched at her body. He moved his wet slobbery mouth all over her face and neck, moaning and groaning. He grabbed the hem of her skirt and, now panting, dragged it over her hips. Thick sausage fingers inserted themselves into the elastic of her drawers and pulled and fought with the material before dragging them off her body. He threw himself on top of her, pumped and heaved at her for what seemed like an eternity and then exploded into her with a shout: ‘Oh mein Gott!’

  And then he rolled off of her while the fingers continued to probe her body, and he crooned at her and the words came, words spoken into her dishevelled hair, words spoken between wet kisses, words that were supposed to excuse what had just happened but instead only amplified the horror of it all.

  ‘Fräulein Gauss – may I call you Margarethe now? – my dear Margarethe. My dear, dear Margarethe. You must, I insist, forgive me for my – um – my overenthusiasm this afternoon. I am sorry I momentarily lost control – but how could I not, with such a lovely creature as you in such close proximity? Believe me, I have over the past months done all I possibly can to control the impulse that this afternoon overcame me with such fervour – please believe me that it is your loveliness alone that incited me; you must know of the effect you have on men, the animal desire that you release in the male psyche! Look at me – no, don’t turn your face away, look at me and tell me you accept my apology. Trust me, I had been hoping for a more sedate courtship, a more dignified approach, but it is plain that in the end it all boils down to this one thing: I need you, I must have you.

  ‘No, please, don’t turn away again. Why are there tears in your eyes? Why do you tremble so? Margarethe, I meant no harm. Quite the opposite. Yes, I had hoped for a kiss – come, here is another one – but you must understand me, you must realise that as a man in high position I have to remain somewhat disciplined when it comes to women and was completely overwhelmed by your charms. I am certainly not the kind of man to dishonour a respectable woman, and I know you are respectable; I know, from officer gossip in the Rote Löwe that you have not allowed any man to court you, though many desire you, and I greatly admire you for such restraint, for your breeding, your culture. For this reason alone I have singled you out; I abhor a loose woman, a woman who preys on the weakness of men, a weakness that, sadly, I cannot claim to be exempt from.’

  On and on he talked, his fingers kneading various parts of her body all the while. She kept turning her face away, he kept turning it back, licking away the tears that escaped from her eyes, squeezing her breasts, probing the more intimate areas of her body. She let it all happen, the turning away of her face, the closing of her eyes her only defence. Her lips trembled, but she said not a word. There were just no words.

  He still had plenty. Words, empty words, gushed from his lips.

  Though he was plainly sorry to have moved a little too quickly, he explained, and he would have preferred a nice soft marital bed for the act, one had to understand that a red-blooded man couldn’t always control himself, and that was that. A good woman would understand, sympathise.

  And yes, he had asked her to accompany him to Strasbourg for exactly this reason. It was a ruse, an excuse. He didn’t want a personal secretary – they were a dime a dozen. He wanted, needed, a wife. The Führer encouraged marriage. The Führer believed in happy, wholesome families with a multitude of children, and single men were less likely to be promoted, and he had chosen her, specifically. She, Marie-Claire, herself had of late been delightfully engaged with newly-weds and he hoped that this task had encouraged her to think of her own future, her own opportunities. This was what he was offering her: opportunity. Surely she didn’t want to be stuck forever in this backwater, Colmar? Strasbourg, for him, was just a rung on the ladder of promotion. The world was open for him. Munich, Berlin, Paris. Once the war had been won, London. Open for him, and for her too. She would be privileged. She was privileged. It was a magnificent offer, a promotion.

  Eventually he stood up and pulled her up behind him. She still had not offered a word or protest or rebuke, or even a simple no. The word simply would not come. She hung her head in shame, unable to look him in the eye. He helped her get dressed, picking up her drawers and holding them open as she stepped in, one foot, two feet, and even cracking a joke about her beautiful legs and sweet triangle of pubic hair (Schamhaare – hair of shame), and he tried to tidy her dishevelled chignon but advised her to go off to the ladies’ room, as it needed more than a pat or two.

  And then he pulled on his own drawers and trousers – yes, he’d been disgustingly half-naked all this time – and tightened his belt. He looked utterly ridiculous, striding about to pick up the strewn clothes, with his long thin hairy legs poking out beneath his shirt-tails. The girls would have roared with hilarity, had they seen him. For her it was no laughing matter. It took all her strength to hold back the tears. She could not let him see her cry. It was a matter of pride. Pride was all she had to cling to. He smiled at her fondly, patting her on the shoulder.

  ‘I must go now. I’ll go first; we don’t want the security guards to jump to conclusions. Goodbye, my dear. We’ll discuss the future in more detail in the coming days.’

  And then he was gone. That was when she broke down, collapsed on the carpet before the dying fire as her body erupted in great racking sobs and howls emerged from her throat and all she could do, now, was pummel the carpet.

  * * *

  That was how Madame Guyon found her, later on, when she came to clean. And Madame Guyon cleaned not just the office but Marie-Claire too, dried her eyes and embraced her and whispered words of comfort to her, interspersed with curses and furious utterings: they are brutes, these men! And Madame Guyon cleaned her up in the ladies’ room and made her hair respectable, and brought her a chair and made her sit in the room to regain her composure while she, Madame Guyon, cleaned the office, which happened to be her last task for the night. Returning to Marie-Claire, she said: ‘Mademoiselle, this is my private opinion and excuse me if I am too forward, but this is an abomination. You must quit this job. You cannot work for this beast any more. I will speak to Jacques, if I may, and tell him you cannot—’

  ‘No! No! You must not tell him! Please don’t tell him! Jacques cannot know this happened!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Promise me you won’t tell him, Madame Guyon! Please! Promise me! I will deal with it myself.’

  And Madame Guyon shrugged and gave that promise and together they walked downstairs and past the smirking security guards into the street, and Madame Guyon accompanied her to the corner of rue Stanislas before bidding her goodbye.

  ‘Tell Jacques yourself,’ she whispered in Marie-Claire’s ear. But Marie-Claire only shook her head. Jacques must never know. The shame would be too great. ‘Thank you, Madame Guyon,’ was all she said.

  She slunk upstairs, unable to face the girls. Crept into her bed
. Tossed and turned there, churning between utter revulsion, guilt, shame, hatred, fear and sheer helplessness. What was she to do now? How could she possibly ever return to work? Where was she to go? Curled up in a ball, she silently sobbed into her pillow.

  * * *

  Later that night Ursula, who shared her room, came in to find her sobbing into her pillow. She felt Ursula’s hand on her back, gently rubbing, Ursula’s soft whisper; and, Ursula being a compassionate young woman with strong maternal qualities, comforted her and slowly, bit by bit, drew the story out of her.

  ‘Don’t cry, Margarethe; it will be all right, you’ll see. Tomorrow you’ll feel better. Tomorrow you’ll be strong again. Many of us have to put up with that sort of thing – it’s disgusting, but that’s life. I’m here for you. We’re all here for you, all the girls.’

  Sure enough, by the next morning the whole house knew.

  Reactions were mixed. Ursula called it rape, but Gertrud argued it couldn’t be rape since Marie-Claire had not resisted, had not fought, had not even once uttered the vital word no. Erika said that Marie-Claire was anyway to blame because she had led him on, by dressing provocatively the entire time, and only recently had tempered that look by more modest and less seductive clothing.

  ‘But-but… it was all a game! A joke! We were all involved! You were all egging me on!’

  ‘Ah, but you went ahead, didn’t you? You flirted with him – encouraged him! You should know what that does to men! You should have known what it might lead to!’

  ‘But…’ But the girls all nodded wisely. Marie-Claire must accept some responsibility.

  But there was a silver lining to the whole disaster, as Klara pointed out. Klara was only interested in one thing: he had proposed marriage: ‘You need to put it all behind you and move on, move forward! You must use this to your own advantage, Margarethe!’

  All agreed she was in no state to return to work that day. They all persuaded her she should report sick that day; they were the witnesses.

  That evening, too, they talked and talked. And the final conclusion, among all of them, was that yes, it might, at a stretch, be described as rape, since Marie-Claire had clearly not wanted it; but: a): who would she report the crime of rape to, since Kurtz was the final authority in Colmar? And, b) she had not resisted, and she had in many ways led him on, and he had apologised and even offered marriage. So it was a very forgivable rape; even, some said, a fortunate rape, as it cut out the whole courtship ritual and Marie-Claire had already extracted a proposal, which was, after all, the best outcome of all.

  In the end they were unanimous in their final evaluation of her situation: as Klara maintained, she couldn’t change what had happened, and the best thing was to see the positive side. She was luckier than most; he had proposed marriage, which was not a thing an actual rapist would do. She should pull herself together and use Kurtz’s indiscretion to her own advantage. There was a good side to this and she should straighten her back, lift up her head and do the right thing. They all agreed as to what the right thing was. They advised her to put it all behind her and move on. Move to Strasbourg, marry Dietrich Kurtz. In the end, she’d wrap him round her little finger and drag him off to Paris. This was her pathway to the top. She was in an enviable position.

  But Marie-Claire wished, above all, that she could go home. Back to the chateau. Tell her little sister, kind, caring Victoire, all about it. Tell her mother. Have her mother take her in her arms, express outrage and tell her to come home. Come home, baby. This will always be your home. I will always be your mother. Put that all behind you. This is where you belong.

  That’s what Marie-Claire longed for, above all. But would Maman be so compassionate? Wasn’t this exactly what Maman had warned her about? Wasn’t it all her own fault, for disregarding Maman’s warning? Would Maman even, perhaps, gloat, because she’d been right?

  A weekend followed. In spite of her longing for home, she remained in Colmar. She longed for Margaux’s arms round her, but simply could not face her mother’s I told you so. In spite of everything, Marie-Claire still had some pride left. She would cling to it as to a lifeline. She could not go home.

  Her biggest fear, for the moment, was coming face to face with Kurtz again. She took a second sick day, this time with less approval from her friends, some of whom thought she was making too much of a drama out of the whole thing. ‘Pull yourself together and move on,’ was the clear consensus.

  She had no choice but to follow their advice.

  * * *

  Kurtz was not at work on Monday, and more fruitless discussions with the girls followed her into the new week. She no longer sat with them in the downstairs salon, laughing and gossiping. Now, she knew, she was the subject of all the gossip. Resentment flared up within her – how dare they! The knowledge that they were all wallowing in her pain and helplessness, that they hid their glee under a thin veneer of commiseration, was an anathema to her. The stink of Schadenfreude was strong. Serves her right, they were all thinking, and some were almost saying it.

  But then it came to her, one early dawn after another restless night: the solution, fully formed and staring at her. Why on earth hadn’t she thought of it before! Maman’s words, loud and clear before her: when you’re twenty-one and an adult, you can do whatever the hell you want.

  In clear terms, that meant: you can go to your father. In Paris.

  She would be twenty-one in less than six weeks, and free to go. She’d go to Paris, to Papa, and put all this behind her… the best outcome of all. That was how one turned a disaster into victory. In the house in the rue Stanislas, she’d have the last laugh. She’d be off to Paris before any one of them could say, Oh you poor thing but you deserved it again.

  She couldn’t wait to put her plan into action. She slipped out of bed, put on dressing gown and slippers and hurried down the stairs as silently as she could. The rooms downstairs were cold, though there were some embers left in the salon fireplace – she presumed that the girls had, once again, gossiped deep into the night.

  There was a desk shoved up beneath the window and that was where they kept their stationery. Writing paper, pens, blotting paper, ink, envelopes, stamps – it was all there. The girls all wrote home frequently, and bent over this desk was where they did so. Marie-Claire had last written to her father in November, just after the invasion, and had not received a reply. Now was the time to renew her claim on his affections – she was, after all, his favourite child, his firstborn.

  It had been a disappointment that in the past he had refused to let her come without Maman’s consent; a stupid inconvenience, a mere formality it would have been easy to defy. Who cared if Maman let her go or not? They surely wouldn’t ask for such approval on the train to Paris – she could just go. But Papa had said no. I don’t want trouble with your mother, he said. If she says no, then it’s no. Wait till you are of age, and then we’ll see.

  Well, she wasn’t quite of age yet, but it was just a matter of time and she might as well prepare him. She was off to Paris, at last, leaving behind this cursed place and awful people, forever. Removing the writing pad from its drawer, refilling the pen with ink, she set to work:

  Darling Papa,

  * * *

  it’s been a long time since I last wrote and I’m sorry for that, but so much has happened in the meantime I’m sure you’ll forgive me! And anyway, you never replied to my last letter, did you? Anyway, I’m writing with good news. As you know, I’ve been waiting with bated breath for my birthday in March and finally, finally, I’m almost there so I was thinking it’s time to make plans, because at last I’ll be coming to Paris, at last I can be with you, at last I can leave behind this dreary province, the boring chateau, and join you in the City of Light! I hope you’re looking forward to it as much as I am, though I have to say, so much has been happening in the last few months I’d almost forgotten that we’d decided I could come after my birthday. I feel as if a whole new life is about to begin, and I just can’t
wait!

  As for what has been happening – I don’t know where to begin! You know I was able to transfer to Colmar as a bilingual secretary – well, after the Nazis moved in it turned out that people like me are in great demand, and…

  * * *

  She went into great detail about her work, her colleagues the girls, making it sound, on the one hand, as if she were immensely in demand, indispensable to the running of the Mairie, on the other as if this was all far beneath her abilities and only in Paris could she grow wings and fly. She did not mention Dietrich Kurtz.

  Not once.

  By the time she had finished, signed and folded the several pages of her large, neat writing and placed them in the envelope, addressed the letter and pasted a stamp on it, it was beginning to grow light outside and footsteps could be heard on the floor above as the girls woke up and prepared for the coming workday. Marie-Claire slipped the sealed envelope into her dressing gown pocket and made her way back upstairs to prepare for the day. She’d post it tomorrow. He’d get it next week; if she was lucky, she might have a reply by the end of that week. Maybe, even, he’d be so eager to have her he’d send a telegram. Come at once, it might say, I’m waiting!

  Forty-Two

  Victoire

  Winter morphed into spring in an outburst of abundant, glorious nature, an overture of colour and sunshine and birdsong. At the chateau, life that year went its own placid way. It was hard to believe that out there, a war was raging, people were killing and being killed. It was even more difficult to imagine that, outside of their little Alsatian bubble of relative safety, the world was on fire. Reports of the London Blitz, delivered to them through clandestine BBC reports, rendered them heartsick. They had close friends in England – were they safe? And if Germany should defeat the Allies, what then? Poland, it seemed, was lost: the German scourge was expanding eastwards as well as westwards. North Africa, the Middle East: all seemed to be one huge battlefield. And as for Asia: Allied forces seemed exhausted, depleted of soldiers and hardware after two full years of war with Germany, and the battle-hardened Japanese seemed to be making mincemeat of them.