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

by Sharon Maas

  Marie-Claire chatted on for a while. Now it was all Dietrich this and Dietrich that, and my husband this and that. Finally, Victoire asked, in a conversational tone, ‘So, what is he like, your Dietrich?’

  ‘Well, he’s very, um, very sort of – strait-laced? I’m not sure that’s the right word. He likes order and… and punctuality. That sort of thing.’

  Victoire chuckled. ‘And he likes you, obviously! I do hope it’s mutual. I do hope he’s good to you, Marie-Claire!’

  ‘Oh! Oh yes! He’s very good. He gives me everything I want. I could not have found a more generous husband. I mean, look at this place! He does take care of me. And one day, even, we might move to Paris. You know that’s what I always wanted, and—’

  ‘But what about you, Marie-Claire? Do you love him? Are you happy?’ Victoire looked around, her forehead creased, and went on, ‘You know, I really don’t want to lie to you, so my honest opinion? This is a bit like a gilded cage, and I wonder if it’s what you really wanted. I don’t know, we weren’t talking much back then so you didn’t tell me, or any of us, how you and Dietrich got together. I don’t want to pry or overstep the mark and maybe it’s none of my business, but I am your sister and I love you and I just hope he’s good to you. I mean kind. Caring. Good enough for you. And that you love him.’

  Marie-Claire said nothing. Victoire took another forkful of cake, another sip of coffee.

  ‘I’m sorry. That was rude of me. It’s really none of my business and I’m sure you don’t need my opinion— Marie-Claire! Marie-Claire! What’s wrong?’

  She flung away her fork, scraped back the chair as she leapt to her feet, and rushed round the table to where Marie-Claire sat bent forward, her own plate with the uneaten cake pushed away, head buried in her arms on the table, back heaving with uncontrolled sobs.

  Victoire managed to lift Marie-Claire’s upper body so that her sister could fall into her arms, a blubbering heap of misery.

  ‘Come, come, let’s go to the sofa,’ said Victoire, and, arms round Marie-Claire, led her away from the table. They sat down.

  ‘I hate him! I hate him with all my heart! He’s horrible!’ bawled Marie-Claire, and then the whole story came out, from the beginning, between sobs and sniffs and abject wails of I’m so unhappy! I want to go home!

  ‘Then come!’ said Victoire. ‘Come with me, now, today. Just walk out. You owe him nothing!’

  ‘You don’t understand! I can’t! I can’t leave!’

  ‘But why not? Why not, Marie-Claire?’

  ‘Because – because I’m pregnant!’

  ‘What? I thought you said you’d lost the baby, a couple of weeks after you got married?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did and it was terrible. But I’m pregnant again. At least, I think I am.’

  ‘Well, who cares! It doesn’t matter. I’d love a little niece or nephew! And Maman—’

  ‘Maman hates me! She’d never have me back!’

  ‘Of course she would! Don’t be silly. She loves you. She’s your mother. She’d have you back with open arms.’

  ‘But anyway, I can’t leave him. You don’t know him! He’s very… very possessive. He wouldn’t let me go.’

  ‘How can he stop you?’

  ‘You don’t know him. He’s a Nazi, Victoire! A powerful Nazi and he takes what he wants, he gives orders and people obey! He doesn’t take no for an answer! If I left him, he’d – I don’t know what he’d do. He just takes what he wants.’

  ‘Just like he took you, on the carpet. Raped you.’

  ‘No, no – it wasn’t rape, Victoire. I didn’t protest. I didn’t fight. So it wasn’t rape.’

  ‘You don’t have to fight for it to be rape, Marie-Claire. I might be young and inexperienced but even I know that. If you didn’t want it, then it was rape.’

  ‘No, but I was a tease. I used to dress up, and on that day, I was – um – provocatively dressed. Deliberately! I just wanted to play with him a little. It was a dare, the girls, the office girls, had said – you see, he was such a stone statue, and we used to laugh at him behind his back, and we secretly thought we’d see if we could arouse him, if I could, and I did – it was a dare! So it was all my fault to start with.’

  ‘No, Marie-Claire. Just get that out of your head! He took you violently, on the carpet. That is so, so wrong. And then you felt guilty – am I right? – and thought you had to marry him?’

  ‘Yes. It was obviously all my fault! And all this, this life here – oh, Victoire, you can’t imagine what it’s like, every weekend, in that bed with him!’ She flung out a hand towards the bedroom. ‘He’s – he’s like a ravenous, raving monster!’

  She shuddered, and so did Victoire. ‘Oh, Marie-Claire! If I’d only known earlier! You should have reached out—I’d have come running! You know that.’

  ‘I was so ashamed! I felt so guilty!’

  ‘You’re lucky it’s just the weekends, though. But let’s get back to your leaving him. You must! Especially if you’re pregnant. You must come home.’

  But Marie-Claire was adamant: ‘I can’t. It’s just not possible.’

  ‘Everything is possible, if you put your mind to it. Within reason, of course – you can’t fly to the moon or become the king of England overnight!’

  ‘That’s just it. He’s beyond reason. He’s like a god in his realm.’ She paused, gulped and continued. ‘You don’t understand. I-I think he’s dangerous, Victoire. If I were to run away, I don’t know what he’d do. I’m afraid of him. I’m trapped, Victoire! I’m really trapped! My life is ruined.’

  She wailed again. And then she blew her nose on the handkerchief Victoire had given her. ‘That is… there’s one thing that helps, that would help, and that’s this baby. It’s my one anchor, Marie-Claire. The one good thing. And I must stay with him for that.’

  Victoire sighed. ‘If that’s really your decision, Marie-Claire, I’ll accept it. I suppose a baby will be some comfort to you. Though you never struck me as the maternal type.’

  Marie-Claire managed a chuckle. ‘I know! It’s strange, isn’t it! But all the other girls here, my friends, I mean, they all have babies and children and they’ve convinced me it’s the best thing. A baby will be something, someone to love. I can’t wait!’

  ‘Well then, I look forward to being an auntie! Now, then, wipe away those tears. If you’re determined to stick it out, then you must make the best of it. Hardships make us strong. It’s what we’re all discovering in this bloody war.’

  ‘How is everyone, Victoire? Maman? The boys? Jacques? Juliette?’ She snorted into the handkerchief. ‘It’s funny, I’ve been thinking so much of home lately. So much. I never used to, I couldn’t wait to leave. And now – now, even more than Paris, it’s what I dream of. Home is home. I wallow in good memories – they keep me going. When we were all children together and we didn’t have any cares at all. All one big happy family. So tell me – how are they all?’

  Victoire hesitated, a little too long. She had come to Marie-Claire expecting to find the woman she had known: superior, confident, proud, a woman in charge of herself and her life. And that was the Marie-Claire who had first greeted her. Now, she knew, it had all been an act. This Marie-Claire was a broken woman, one who needed help herself. How could she now request help of her? Nevertheless, she must – how else could she save Juliette?

  ‘Victoire? What’s the matter? I’m sorry, I’ve been talking all about me the whole time. How is everyone? They’re all right?’

  Victoire coughed, awkwardly.

  ‘Well, actually, no. They’re not all right. There’s… there’s a problem. It’s actually the reason I came, to talk to you about it.’

  Marie-Claire’s eyes opened wide. ‘Jacques? Has something happened to Jacques? I know he’s in the Resistance – it’s so dangerous! Did they catch him?’

  ‘No, Marie-Claire. It’s not Jacques. It’s Juliette.’

  She told Marie-Claire the devastating news. And how she, Marie-Claire, could help.


  * * *

  ‘So,’ said Marie-Claire, ‘you didn’t come here to see me. You didn’t come because you wanted to know how I was doing, because you cared about me. You didn’t come to reconcile, you came to ask me for help. Because you thought I might be useful to you.’ Her face, so animated just minutes earlier, so reflective of every emotion passing through, now seemed carved in stone.

  ‘Oh, Marie-Claire! Don’t take it like that! It wasn’t like that at all! I’ve always worried about you and hoped you were all right, but it was always so hard, knowing how to approach you…’

  She reached out to take Marie-Claire’s hand, but her sister pushed her away.

  ‘No, I understand. I’m only really important if I can be of use to you, is that it?’

  ‘Please don’t take offence! It’s not like that at all. It’s just that—’

  ‘It’s just that your beloved Juliette is in trouble and you think I can rescue her. You always preferred her to me anyway. She was always your sister, not me.’

  This was definitely not the time to reveal scandalous family secrets. But anyway, Marie-Claire had stood up. Her voice now was cold, distant.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help. Dietrich can’t help. We never, ever, talk about his work. I can’t even mention it. It’s as if it doesn’t exist. He leaves on Mondays and returns on Fridays and I have no idea what he does in the meantime and I don’t care. I would never, ever intervene on Juliette’s behalf, and if I did – well, he would probably fly into a rage, which wouldn’t help at all, would it?’

  ‘Because, Victoire, and this is something you won’t understand, men empty themselves, their rage and their anger and their filth, into women. That’s what they do. We are their laundries. That’s their whole role in life, and it’s our role in life, to be receptacles for the junk they don’t want, to clean them out. It’s what I’ve figured out, all on my own, because it’s exactly what my husband does. And it’s quite bad enough as it is. So, no, I won’t intervene on Juliette’s behalf. My own burden is bad enough; I won’t carry Juliette’s as well. And now I’m going to be rude enough to ask you to leave.’

  The look the concierge gave her when she stepped out of the lift on the ground floor was downright venomous. Victoire even wondered if she had some kind of hidden microphone in the apartment, and had listened in to the entire conversation. Anything was possible in a house of Nazis. She walked out into the road with a deep sigh of despair.

  The visit had been in vain. She was not one step closer to rescuing Juliette. And her relationship with Marie-Claire, another lost sister, was worse than ever. She had failed, dismally, to help her parents’ plan to heal all that was broken.

  Before she returned home she went to see Jacques, who was in Strasbourg again. He had asked her to come. ‘There’s someone I think you should meet,’ he’d said.

  She found him by following the strict directions he’d left her, and a tattered map, and using a password that made her feel that she, too, was a conspirator, a Maquis, a spy. She met him up in an attic room in a backstreet of Strasbourg, and reported her failed mission. Jacques was disappointed, but not angry.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, Victoire. You did well. Marie-Claire was always difficult, always moody, and there was always a chance she’d refuse to help. That’s what she’s like. Unreliable.’

  ‘You’re so – so dismissive of her, Jacques! Didn’t you hear what I just told you? She was raped, by that monster of a husband! Doesn’t that upset you at all? She’s desperately unhappy! Don’t you care?’

  ‘Yes, I care, and I suspected something of the kind – Madame Guyon dropped a few hints that she and Kurtz… well, that it isn’t exactly a love marriage. But, you know, Marie-Claire made her bed, and now she has to lie in it.’

  ‘You’re so heartless, Jacques!’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe I just have other priorities right now. Anyway, I didn’t ask you here to discuss Marie-Claire.’ He looked at his watch. ‘He should be here any minute now.’

  * * *

  ‘Victoire, I’d like you to meet Marcel. Marcel, this is my sister, Victoire.’

  They shook hands. ‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ said the young man before her. Like Eric, he was about her own age; unlike Eric, he didn’t at all fit the image of the fearless guerrilla leader Victoire had built in her mind. She had heard about Marcel Weinum, of course: both Jacques and Eric had filled her head with stories of the intrepid teenager who had organised Strasbourg’s youth into a force to be reckoned with. She had imagined a bearded, burly anarchist type, slightly uncouth, a bit of a ruffian, to judge by the actions of his Resistance group, the Black Hand. Instead, before her was what looked like a clean-cut, well-adjusted student, or an academic, perhaps, complete with glasses. She simply could not imagine him out there in Nazi-land, throwing Molotov cocktails over the fences of Nazi installations and slashing the tyres of SS vehicles. Perhaps it was better so: his disguise was his authentic self.

  ‘I’ve heard so much about you!’ she said. ‘And I wish I could join you. I would in a flash, but…’ She pointed to Jacques, and scowled.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Marcel. ‘Please don’t be offended. The work you are doing, hiding Jews and helping them escape, is just as worthy and just as dangerous. Do not think of it as a lesser task. There is not a hierarchy of bravery in the Resistance. We appreciate what you do and honour you.’

  ‘But I’d prefer to be out there, doing things! Killing Nazis!’ said Victoire. ‘I know for a fact that there are women in the Resistance. I’d love to join you.’

  ‘One thing at a time, Victoire!’ said Jacques. ‘Maman would kill me if I involved you. When you’re eighteen, we’ll reconsider. Right, Marcel?’

  ‘Right. It’s a promise, Victoire. If we haven’t won the war by then, you’re in. You’ll join the Black Hand.’

  ‘Two more years! Will it really last two more years?’

  ‘The way things are now, I’d say that’s a generous estimate.’

  * * *

  Victoire returned to the chateau in a cloud of gloom, a cloud that settled in and darkened as the year went from bad to worse. Jacques went completely underground. Leon and Lucien moved to Colmar and Strasbourg respectively, where they both found jobs in the retail wine branch, Leon in his mother’s own little shop and Lucien in a larger agency involved in shipping Alsatian wine Germany-wide. None of them came home that Christmas. Margaux and Victoire, alone in their despair, did not celebrate beyond Midnight Mass in Ribeauvillé, joined by Maxence and Tante Hélène.

  Late that year, the news broke that Marcel Weinum had been arrested. The Black Hand had attempted to blow up a vehicle in which, they’d thought, the Gauleiter of Alsace, Robert Wagner, was a passenger. He and nine further Black Hand boys – for boys they all were – were now in the hands of the Gestapo. Victoire, distraught, wept at the thought of that fine young man she’d so recently met and admired. Nathan, Juliette, now Marcel.

  She feared for Jacques. She feared for Eric. She feared for herself, and Maman. And she feared for Marie-Claire. They were all, every one of them, in jeopardy. Would it never end?

  Prayer was all she had left. Her last anchor.

  The year 1942 broke, and nobody cared. The war was endless, and Alsace was a sinking ship, a ship with a Juliette-shaped hole in its hull. It could hardly get much worse.

  Fifty-One

  1942

  But it did get worse.

  Marcel Weinum and the other Black Hand boys were hauled in March 1942 before the Special Court of Strasbourg. With remarkable equanimity and extraordinary eloquence, Marcel took upon himself responsibility for all the past activities of the Black Hand. He was condemned to death, and appealed. The appeal fell through.

  In April, Jacques turned up at the chateau with the terrible news: ‘Marcel is dead. He was beheaded yesterday, at dawn.’

  Victoire could not withhold a cry of horror. She fell into Jacques’ arms.

  ‘We must be strong, as he
was,’ said Jacques, stroking her head. ‘He paid the ultimate price, Victoire. He went with his head held high. He took Holy Communion before he went, wrote his parents a long letter – they let me read it. And before the tribunal, he said, loud and clear: I am proud to give my life for France. I go with a pure heart. Marcel is a hero, Victoire, and we must hold him in our hearts and take courage from those words.’

  Victoire wept. She wept for Marcel, and she wept for Juliette. She wept as if all the oceans of the world were contained within her being. And yet, she refused to abandon hope for Juliette.

  ‘Surely,’ she said to Jacques between her tears, ‘surely Juliette’s crimes don’t even come close to Marcel’s? She didn’t blow up anything, did she. She didn’t try to kill Nazis, or anything. Surely she has done nothing at all? Surely we’d have heard, if something terrible had happened to her? I mean, she’s disappeared, but she must be alive somewhere, in one of their camps, or something? Wouldn’t they inform us if she was dead?’

  ‘No,’ said Jacques. ‘Marcel was a prominent figure in the Resistance – they had to make an example of him. That’s the only reason we heard of his execution. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of prisoners are executed without a trial and without a defence all over Germany. Juliette could be anywhere. She could be dead. We just don’t know.’

  ‘I’d know,’ insisted Victoire. ‘I’d know if Juliette were dead. I’d feel it in here.’ She placed her hand on her heart. ‘I’d know.’

  But Jacques only scoffed. ‘You and your women’s intuition!’ he said. ‘It just doesn’t work in Nazi-land.’

  ‘I’d know,’ insisted Victoire. ‘I would.’

  And yet still, the agony of not knowing for sure gouged a hole into her being, a black hollowness that consumed her day and night. She yearned, she wept, she prayed. And all that came back was silence.