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

by Sharon Maas

  Here, in Alsace, war was no more than a sinister presence, a dark cloud hanging over them all, yet still far away, planting in everyone’s heart a deep sense of foreboding, as if it could all erupt in the wink of an eye. Colmar swarmed with ever more soldiers. Everywhere, tanks and armoured cars and motorbikes and swastikas. In every public building, life-sized photos of Hitler. People on the street could be stopped and searched for no reason – just for fun, it seemed. Everyone had to speak German, whether they were fluent or not. All the books in the shops, all the signs, all the names of everyday objects: all were translated into German. She, too, had a new name.

  Her name was, officially, Viktoria. Viktoria Gauss. All their friends and acquaintances, and Margaux’s customers, had new names, and one had to be constantly conscious of using the right appellation; there were stories of people being denounced for speaking French or using the wrong name, which could result in an arrest; the Germans spoke of re-education, of ridding the population of their habitual thought processes and replacing them entirely. French-think had to become German-think, and disobeying the new rules, ordained by a few on the many, could be disastrous. One had to watch one’s language, even one’s thoughts, and be careful to whom one expressed even slight disenchantment with the new world order. It was as if one could deny one’s entire upbringing as a Frenchwoman, and overnight become a German, just by speaking this new language and thinking these new thoughts.

  A fog of gloom had settled over a once-pleasant land of rolling hills and fairy-tale villages, an ugliness in stark contrast to the beauty of the landscape and the former contentment of its people. Outside the borders, the war showed no sign of letting up. This year, it was worse than ever. Headlines in German newspapers screamed of great victories. The Deutsche Welle blared out exaggerated reports of every little skirmish, and always it was the Germans who were winning. Der Stürmer, the Nazi propaganda tabloid newspaper available at all the newsagents, waxed lyrical as it revelled in German victories in Europe and elsewhere. The only lifeline they still clung to in the Château Gauthier was Margaux’s own secret wireless, tuned to the BBC. They took courage from those defiant broadcasts.

  And they prayed. There was little else they could do. It might not change the course of the war, but praying brought the strength to face each new day without despair.

  * * *

  Victoire hardly ever saw Eric. His work, now, centred on the safe evacuation of Jews, who came clandestinely through the Colmar route over the Rhine as well as Strasbourg, strategically located just across the river and just minutes away from Kehl in Germany. Throughout that summer, Eric escorted four parties, individuals, couples and, in one case, a family, down from Strasbourg to the chateau and then, after a night or two, over the Vosges. Victoire longed to go with them – indeed, to be the guide over the mountains herself – but Jacques remained adamant: she was too young, too inexperienced and, most of all, too female.

  ‘What does being female have to do with it?’ she asked repeatedly, and always the reply was, ‘The Nazis can do worse things to a woman than to a man. I cannot allow it.’

  Her Red Cross course came to an end, and now Victoire’s only contribution to the cause was caring for the refugees Eric delivered into her hands. She’d rather be out there, living rough with the other maquisards, risking her life. Killing Nazis.

  Not that they actually fought Nazis, much less killed them, as far as she could tell. Jacques, it seemed, had already assembled a ragtag group of young men keen to do whatever they could. But, without weapons, without military training (though some had survived the French army the previous year), there was no actual fighting; instead, they indulged in small acts of sabotage. Removing or exchanging road signs, to confuse Germans; puncturing jeep tyres; throwing home-made bombs into buildings known to be Nazi lairs. So far, nobody had been caught.

  She wanted to go the whole way, as Eric and Jacques did, Juliette and Nathan. Put her life on the line, because she loved that life so much.

  Love and death. They were so closely aligned. Once you loved someone you were vulnerable, deeply so: Maman and her children. Juliette and Nathan. Jacques had warned her about Eric, not to get too attached: ‘What he’s doing is dangerous, Victoire. It’s better to remain unattached in wartime. Love can distort our decisions, our reasoning. Keep him at a distance, if you can.’

  ‘Did you tell that to Juliette as well?’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s different. Juliette and Nathan have always loved each other. There was no distance to be kept. They were already as one when they finally got together. But you, Victoire, all your life is before you. Eric put his own life on the line even before I met him. I don’t want you to get hurt.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve never had a girlfriend, Jacques? So as not to get hurt?’

  He’d shrugged it off, not answered.

  * * *

  Summer progressed and the grapes ripened and grew plump and sweet. The summer reached its zenith and began to recede towards autumn. The grapes swelled to their climax and the vendange came and went – this year a sober business, a far cry from the celebration of the pre-war years.

  They were all weary, so weary of a war that seemed to dangle at the periphery of their lives, spreading its sinister net above them, holding them captive but never actually closing in. A war that was so far, and yet so near.

  Forty-Three

  Marie-Claire

  My dear Marie-Claire,

  * * *

  It was wonderful, to receive and read your letter. I admit I wasn’t happy to hear that you’re working for the Nazis, and particularly for the Kreisleiter, yet I understand your reasoning and accept the inevitable. I am happy that you were able to be promoted, and proud that you are fast becoming a confident and independent working woman, even if I’m not so happy about your employer. But obviously I am realistic and these days one can only adapt to the unfortunate circumstances of war and hope it all works out in the end. It really is each man for himself, these days, isn’t it? But in your case, each woman for herself!

  Now for the bad news.

  You know I would love to have you in Paris, knowing it has always been your dream. But the time has never been right, and now it is more so impossible. I’m sorry, but you cannot come right now. There is the question of accommodation: I am no longer living at the postal address you have used. It is now rented out to a friend of mine, and any post forwarded to me. I’m sorry, darling, but where I am living there just is no room for you. You would not feel comfortable here. It’s very complicated and I really can’t go into details, so you must take my word for it. It is absolutely out of the question. I also cannot find alternative accommodation for you right now. It’s very hard for all of us and as a newcomer to Paris, looking for a job, you would be out of your depth and I am extremely busy and unable to help you. Paris is not what you think it is and I must advise you, very strictly: please do not come. Perhaps in a year or two it would be feasible but definitely not now, not this year.

  I’m so sorry I cannot be more accommodating, my dear; it’s a long story and one day I shall tell you what is going on, but at the moment it is all quite out of the question.

  However, I am willing to help you, of course – perhaps you could move to Strasbourg? The wine trade is doing fairly well at the moment and I would be quite willing to send you some money if you’d like to move there, and also contact some friends of mine there who might be able to help you find a new job. Just let me know…

  He rambled on for several more paragraphs. About wine and fashion and other matters that right now, Marie-Claire couldn’t care less about. She didn’t finish reading the letter. With a cry of annoyance, she scrunched it up into a ball, and pitched it against the fireplace. It missed by a long shot, knocking a vase to the floor, where it cracked apart. Several of the girls looked up.

  ‘Bad news?’ asked Erika. The commiseration in her voice was false. Marie-Claire could always tell. Could always detect the Schadenfreude, t
he barely disguised invitations to reveal more, offer more insight into her plight. Once the excitement over the rape itself had died a new topic had raised its ugly head: whether or not the Kreisleiter had impregnated her. A topic they worried to the bone while she silently listened.

  It was, in fact, a secret fear of her own – but how did you know for sure, and how soon? Marie-Claire was woefully ignorant on such matters, and so, while contributing little to such conversations, she kept her ears pricked for solid information. She hoped Klara was right. ‘You can’t get pregnant the first time,’ Klara had said with some authority. Klara had an older married sister who had taken months to get pregnant.

  ‘Months!’ said Klara. ‘It’s not so easy. It doesn’t happen right away, not even if you want a baby.’

  Marie-Claire had perked up at those words, but then Erika had countered, ‘That’s a myth. My mother told me you can. It can happen any time. It all depends on your time of the month. When did you have your last time of the month. Marie-Claire?’ And all eyes turned to her, and everyone discussed her Tage, her ‘days’, and how long ago they had to be before ‘intimate relations’ for Marie-Claire to be safe, and how long since her last Tage would she know whether or not she was pregnant, and if the next one was late, how would she know for sure, and if it was very late – what then?

  All of this Marie-Claire had agonised over in her own head, calculated and recalculated, trying to glean, from the titbits of information the girls offered, whether or not she was safe. In fact, she was terrified. If she was pregnant, then what?

  She hadn’t been keeping count, couldn’t remember, but living in such close proximity to other girls, it seemed that they had been keeping track, watching her, calculating, and it seemed that, according to their reckoning, there was a possibility. Maybe a probability. And yes: then what?

  In the weeks and days before Papa’s letter had arrived she’d felt confident that, if the worst came to the worst, Papa would take care of it. Papa moved in circles where such things could be dealt with discreetly. Progressive circles, in which an unwanted pregnancy was a mere inconvenience, and certainly not a reason for marriage to the wrong person. Papa would help her out, without judgement, in such a case. She wouldn’t even have to tell him who the perpetrator was; he’d wink and let her know that her secrets were her own, and to be more discreet next time, and even, perhaps, give her a little lecture on protection. Papa was liberal on such matters.

  But now, after today’s letter, if the worst had indeed come to the worst… what then? Who would help? Certainly not these girls, whose only solution was marriage. And certainly not Maman. Marie-Claire knew Maman’s likely reaction. She’d rage and fume, and threaten to shoot the Kreisleiter for rape – Maman would have no doubts that it was, indeed, rape – and come down heavily on Marie-Claire for putting herself in such a position in the first place by working for the enemy: she should have known! The Nazis are not to be trusted! Everyone knows they think nothing of raping women! I told you so! would be Maman’s final verdict. But she’d never, ever, countenance getting rid of the baby. Maman was a Catholic; she would want Marie-Claire to go through with the horrendous duty of bearing her rapist’s child, and then either give it up for adoption, or raise it, slap bang in the face of societal censure, in the chateau. Maman cared not a whit for what society thought – she’d listen to her conscience.

  Marie-Claire had a fleeting thought of returning to the maternal nest, burying herself in the warmth and safety of the chateau, burrowed away into a cocoon of maternal love. A yearning for the latter rose momentarily into her consciousness. But no! It could not be! That rebuke, I told you so! That was what she could not face. Anything but that.

  ‘So what do you think, Marie-Claire? What will you do?’

  She returned to the present, to the girls’ gossip, with a jolt. ‘Huh?’ she said.

  Ursula, the kindest of them all and the only one who, from the start, had seemed genuinely concerned about the pickle she was in, repeated the question.

  ‘What will you do if you are pregnant? You said earlier you didn’t want to marry him. Would pregnancy change that?’

  ‘And what was in that letter? I saw it had a Paris postmark – was it from your papa? Did he say you can join him?’

  ‘Obviously not!’ said Klara. ‘That’s why she had a little hissy fit and tried to throw the letter into the fire!’

  ‘And missed!’ said Erika with a titter.

  ‘Oh, leave her alone!’ said Ursula. ‘She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s basically nobody’s business but her own.’

  ‘We’re only trying to help! Offer her sound advice!’

  ‘Yes – we’re all she has, and she needs support.’

  ‘If she is pregnant, she really doesn’t have any choice, does she!’

  ‘You mean, she’ll have to marry him?’

  ‘It would be the best outcome. The safest for her.’

  ‘She said she doesn’t even like him, much less love him!’

  ‘All that can change once you’re married. It’s normal for a woman not to be madly in love, but in time come round to caring for her husband. My mother said that’s how it was with her.’

  ‘Yes – my aunt too married against her will and now she adores her husband.’

  ‘Especially since he – the Kreisleiter, I mean – practically proposed already. It’s not as if it’s one of those men who run off at the first mention of a child. She’s lucky in that. She already has a solution.’

  ‘Yes. There really isn’t another option, is there – and she is very lucky. He’ll step up and marry her. He’s obviously besotted.’

  Marie-Claire felt suddenly, violently, sick; felt the bile rising within her. They were talking about her as if she wasn’t in the room, and that in itself forced her to step back, to dissociate herself from the situation, to see it all from a neutral, unemotional viewpoint. Perhaps the girls were right. Perhaps marrying him was the obvious, the easiest, solution. IF. Such a huge IF.

  She stood up and rushed to the door, into the hallway, to the downstairs lavatory, where she threw up every last scrap of her paltry dinner.

  Could it be? Could one have morning sickness in the evening?

  * * *

  No, morning sickness did not come in the evening, not only. It came in the morning, and sometimes all day, stopping some time in the afternoon. And then came the tender, swollen breasts, and oh, the fatigue, which, in Marie-Claire’s case could very well be caused by the utter despair in which she found herself just a month after the definitive encounter with the Kreisleiter.

  She had only seen him once since that day, because now, more and more, he was up in Strasbourg for, according to him, talks relating to his imminent promotion. In addition, she had – having developed a sudden keenness to do this job – several times had the excuse of delivering Mein Kampf to engaged couples in remote villages. It removed her from the office, from him, gave her empty time to reflect on the sometimes hours-long bus or train journeys into the countryside. The hundred copies of the first delivery were almost at an end, now; she would have to arrange for a new delivery. Anything to keep her out of the office.

  On the one occasion she had been unable to avoid him, he had summoned her to his office. There she had met a completely different man to the one who had been her domineering director. It was a supremely awkward meeting, giving Marie-Claire the solid suspicion that his absence from the office was not entirely work-related, but that he had no idea how to pick up the pieces left by their last encounter.

  And so he had at first continued as if nothing had happened. For the first two hours it was indeed a continuation of the formal, neutral boss-and-secretary relationship. She took dictation, closed the shutters against the brilliant morning sunshine, stoked the fire, brought him coffee, just as she had in the time before he had overstepped the mark. It was as if the rape – if rape it was; Marie-Claire still wasn’t quite sure – had never happened. She had even started t
o hope. If there was no mention of marriage, or even of accompanying him to Strasbourg as his secretary, if they could return to normal, whatever that was, then she could, eventually, recover.

  If – and that was a big IF – she were not pregnant, of course.

  But then, towards midday, he had quite suddenly flung the file he was holding on to the desk and exclaimed: ‘Verdammt nochmal!’ Damn it!

  She looked up, and flushed. It was over, the respite. He had risen from his chair, and, his already gammon-coloured face now the shade of beetroot, was staring at her with unmistakeable purpose. He took a stride towards her, leaned over, took her hands in his, pulled her to her feet.

  ‘Fräulein Gauss, it’s imperative that we discuss the, er – the matter I broached last time. I admit that I may have overstepped the mark and pushed the, er, the – your – decision a little more to the foreground, so you must be wondering where we both stand on the little matter of – er – Strasbourg. I originally offered you a job as my personal secretary but as you may have correctly guessed in the aftermath of, er… subsequent developments, that was only an excuse for a far more intimate involvement. I had in fact already made up my mind to offer you marriage, which I subsequently did on that day, though the situation, er, rather unprecedently led to an unfortunate precipitation of the salient desired outcome, which I would eventually have made after a more appropriate courtship. I merely wanted to prepare you for the move to Strasbourg in advance of a formal proposal. You can now consider that as having been made, though in rather – er – unconventional circumstances. Please accept an apology for my admittedly indefensible and ungentlemanly behaviour as inherent in that proposal. The thing is, I shall be moving permanently to Strasbourg as of next week to take up the intended position. My promotion has been approved, subject to a few conditions that I am in the process of resolving, and shall commence with immediate effect. I only have to tie up some loose ends here so there will be little opportunity left to formalise the, er, matter, always assuming, of course, that your decision is in the affirmative; which, considering the great advantages offered to you, I am allowing myself to take for granted.’