The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  The city was burning. All around her, Londoners were emerging from shelters and tube stations to find their homes in flames, shops destroyed, roads decimated. Today seemed particularly bad. People milled about, picking their way through the rubble, some glassy-eyed and exhausted, others distraught as they searched for loved ones. Last May, Prime Minister Chamberlain had stood aside and been replaced by Winston Churchill and now Churchill’s promise of blood, toil, tears and sweat was certainly being realised.

  Catriona trudged home past the smoking bomb sites. She wondered if this raid would be on the front page of the Daily Express today. The reporters wrote endless copy on the brutish behaviour of Hitler and his Nazis, but they were scant in the detail of London bombings, passing it off as much less catastrophic than it actually was. Morale was bad enough and anyway, they didn’t want Hitler to think they’d been cowed.

  As Catriona made her way back to her own street, flames, smoke, the smell of smouldering materials filled the air. A water hydrant had been hit and some ARP wardens were trying to fix it as she skirted around the spray. At least their house was still standing. The terraced redbrick had its windows taped and the downstairs window had cracked but remained in place. She’d try to patch it up with more tape after work.

  She let herself in and turned on the gas heater to take the sting of cold out of the air. The tea caddy stood beside the empty bread bin and she groaned when she discovered there was less than a teaspoon of tea left. The rations were never enough, even when Kieran was away and she had double. She spooned the precious leaves into a cup and put the kettle on the gas ring, which miraculously still worked.

  While waiting for it to boil, she went upstairs to dress for work, trying to ignore her lovely warm bed. She would give anything to crawl under the covers and sleep but that kind of behaviour didn’t win the war. As she peeled off her filthy dressing gown and nightie, black with smuts and fumes, the hem soaked because she couldn’t avoid the puddles, she heard a knock on the door downstairs. Probably one of the neighbours checking up on her. They knew she was alone, and they were very kind. Something about war made people more considerate for each other, she’d found.

  She popped her head out of the upstairs window but she didn’t recognise the man in the hat and coat below. ‘Hello?’ she called down.

  He looked up and took a step back to see her better. ‘Catriona McCarthy?’ He appeared to be in his fifties, short and heavy and he had a French regional accent which sounded familiar but which she couldn’t quite place.

  ‘Yes, look, hang on a tick, I’ll come down.’ She pulled a dress over her head, slipped her feet back into shoes, and went down to open the door, stepping outside rather than inviting him in. She didn't want to be rude, but something about this stranger made her uneasy. She held the front door half-shut behind her.

  ‘I’m Catriona McCarthy, can I help you?’

  ‘May I come in? I have a question for you.’ His eyes showed no expression and her feeling of unease grew stronger.

  ‘I’d rather you just asked me here, in the street.’

  He hesitated, and then said, in his accented English, ‘I wish to know, do you know where your father is?’

  Catriona nearly ran back into the house and slammed the door. She knew her father had enemies all over Europe – but here, in London? Maybe one of Hitler’s henchmen had tracked him down...

  As if sensing she was about to flee, the man caught her wrist and whispered, ‘Mademoiselle, c’est très important, il faut que je vous parlez. Je suis un ami personnel de Gaston.’

  Catriona stifled her panic. Now he’d told her where he was from, she realised it was true: he definitely had the accent of Saint-Émilion. But why would her mother’s brother Gaston, of all people, send a strange man to enquire about her father? Due to her grandparents’ distaste for their daughter’s husband, the two men had barely met.

  ‘Comment connaissez-vous mon oncle?’ she asked, suspiciously. How do you know my uncle?

  * * *

  He glanced surreptitiously around, still holding her arm. ‘Nous travaillons ensemble.’

  That wasn’t good enough. Gaston was the vineyard owner now, since Mémé and Pépé had retired to a manoir on the estate. He was the boss. People worked for him, not with him. Still though, something stopped her from screaming out loud for help.

  ‘What is his son called?’ she asked quickly, in English, shaking off the man’s hand.

  He answered promptly, ‘Loic.’

  ‘And which is his best vintage?’

  The man smiled. ‘The ’37 of course. He keeps twelve full cases in the back of the deep cellar behind the water tank under the lilac tree. My family have a vineyard in the same Department as yours, though I am a professor of Greek at the University of Bordeaux. You do not need to be afraid of me, Mademoiselle Catriona. I do not plan to harm you or your father. I wish merely to ask …’

  ‘Which vineyard is your family’s?’ she interrupted. She wasn’t going to give away anything, not until she was sure.

  ‘Chateau de Riseau. It has a black railing all around and an ornamental pond in the front with... how do you say it… le martin pêcheur…’

  ‘A kingfisher!’ she cried, in amazement.

  ‘Yes, yes, a kingfisher. I recall you fell in that pond when you were a child.’

  She was smiling now. ‘My cousin Loic was chasing me and I tripped.’ Still very surprised, but now sure this man was telling her the truth, she opened the door and allowed him to pass by her into the house. In the kitchen, the kettle was boiling and she switched off the ring: if anyone saw her wasting gas like that, she’d be in trouble. ‘Would you like tea, Monsieur…?’

  ‘Jean-Claude de Riseau.’ He had removed his hat; he was nondescript looking, with slightly thinning sandy hair and a prominent nose. She began to think there was something vaguely familiar about him. Even the name rang a distant bell.

  ‘Tea, Monsieur de Riseau?’ she asked again.

  ‘Non, Mademoiselle.’ Then he corrected himself: ‘I am sorry, no thank you.’

  ‘We can talk in French, if you prefer.’

  ‘No, I must practise, I studied here, at Oxford and I graduated in 1925 but I forget much of what I learned. It will return but I must speak it. After all, ostensibly I am here to connect with an old colleague for a book I’ve been working on.’

  ‘The Germans let you travel?’

  ‘Nobody suspects an old teacher, and the German officer running our area is not the worst. Because we are in the unoccupied zone, I think allowing me to travel was a gesture at trying to convince us nothing has changed, but of course everything has been altered so drastically. Though that is not the real reason I am here… May I?’ He gestured to a kitchen chair.

  ‘Of course, but come into the sitting room, it’s more comfortable.’

  Leaving the tea, she led him into the large room at the front of the house and sat on the sofa while Jean-Claude took the fireside seat, perched on the edge of it with his hat in his hands, his brow furrowed.

  ‘So Mademoiselle Catriona,’ he said, ‘I have been sent to you by your uncle Gaston to ask where is Kieran McCarthy.’

  She shook her head, puzzled. ‘Why does Gaston want to know my father’s whereabouts? They’ve barely ever spoken to each other.’

  ‘Let me explain. Some time ago, your father was badly beaten by the SS and barely escaped with his life…’

  Catriona jerked upright in her seat, horrified. She remembered well her father’s story about an angry husband. How stupid she’d been to believe him! ‘He didn't tell me…’

  He inclined his head. ‘Of course not. He wouldn’t have wanted you to worry. But that is what happened, and when he escaped, he made his way to the Chateau Saint-Émilion to hide while his wounds healed. Your uncle was happy to help your father for your sake, Catriona – even though hiding a wanted man from the Nazis was dangerous. The two of them talked a great deal about Hitler and the occupation and realised they were true br
others, not just reluctant brothers-in-law. Gaston was adamant that if the French only knew what was being done in their name, by Maréchal Pétain and the rest of the treacherous puppets we have to call our government, they would do more to resist the Nazis. And so Kieran decided to use his journalistic skills to...’

  ‘To help the Resistance?’ She felt her stomach churn in fear.

  ‘Exactly. Only in September he was at Dakar in French West Africa where the Free French were trying, with the British, to attempt to land…’

  Her heart missed a beat, ‘No, you're wrong – he’s been in America since the third week of September!’

  He shook his head. ‘No. He has been in Africa and France. The navy, under orders of the Vichy traitors, opened fire, and the expedition was called back. So your father wrote a pamphlet about the attempted landing, and the Vichy response of bombing Gibraltar, and I got it printed at the university, and we distributed it…’

  ‘Oh!’ The danger took Catriona’s breath away, and her stomach churned in fear for Kieran.

  Jean-Claude nodded gravely. ‘And he had other projects planned. A few weeks ago, he heard Hitler was meeting Pétain in Montoire to make sure Vichy was in line with the Nazi regime. Your father had seen what that meant in real terms in Germany and he was determined to let the French know the reality of what they faced if they didn’t resist. But now nobody has seen him or heard from him in over a fortnight. And if he hasn't turned up here in London…’ He stopped, staring down at the carpet.

  Catriona stood up, her heart hammering. ‘Please tell me what you mean, Monsieur.’

  ‘I mean, we fear he’s been… betrayed.’

  Catriona heard the words, but it was as if they had come from far away – underwater almost. Her father was all she had. Kieran had talked of the fate of those who went against the Nazis and were caught, yet somehow she never believed he would come to any harm. He was a daredevil, he took chances, his stories were often hair-raising and hilarious in equal measure, but he always got out. She said wildly, ‘So at least he’s not dead? He’s still alive, in prison – or they might have let him go and he’s disappeared to stay safe?’

  Pity and sadness warmed his brown eyes. ‘Catriona, I do not want to give you false hope.’

  She collapsed on the sofa, and Jean-Claude came and sat beside her. He put his arm around her and she allowed her head to lie on his shoulder, but no tears came. She was frozen.

  After what seemed like a long time, she felt strong enough to stand up. ‘Thank you, Jean-Claude, for coming over to tell me. It means a lot. That was a hard job.’ She could barely get the words out of her mouth. She wanted to be alone and he seemed to sense that. He stood up and gently placed both hands on her shoulders, kissing her on both cheeks.

  ‘Merci, Mademoiselle Catriona. You may have an Irish accent and an Irish passport but, vous etes une franҫaise fidèle. I wish I could take you home, to be with your family. But France, I am sad to say, is no place for anyone now. Here, Hitler’s bombs rain down, but you live as free people. Cherish it and repel them when they come.’

  He saw himself out.

  After he left, she crossed the room to the fireplace. On the mantelpiece was the photo of her and her father, taken on a day trip to Brighton. She picked it up and looked at his handsome, smiling face.

  ‘Don’t leave me, Kieran, I need you,’ she whispered, and only then did she allow her tears to fall.

  Chapter 4

  December, 1940. London

  She walked quickly along Horse Guards Avenue, in the direction of Whitehall.

  It felt strange to be back among people again. For days after Jean-Claude had left her she’d stayed at home, sleeping or sitting for hours staring into space. She hadn't even contacted her work to say she wouldn’t be in. No-one from the Daily Express had contacted her either. Probably they assumed she’d been killed or injured in an air raid. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to go back to work. There was still a little money in her father’s bank account, to which she had access. She contemplated using it to return to Dublin, and perhaps make contact with her father’s family. But his parents had never shown any interest in their half-French granddaughter and she barely knew them – so how could she just walk into their life?

  From time to time, she tried to face the fact that Kieran might be dead. She even made an effort to picture her parents together in heaven – as the nuns had taught her to believe – but she couldn’t. She had no sense of them, no feelings that they were near her. If they’d both left her, she was totally alone in the world.

  This was why she was going to Whitehall, to the war office. She needed someone to tell her what to do, and how to go about finding a missing person in France. Undoubtedly they would look at her like she was mad, but she had to try. If her father was alive, and she had to believe he was – despite what Jean-Claude might think – she needed to do something to help him.

  The government building took up almost the entire street, with two ornate turret-style structures on either end. She pushed through the enormous door and went inside. The foyer was busy with lots of people, many in uniform, milling around. She made her way through the crowd. Cream and black marble pillars stood to her left and right, and black and white chequered tiles covered the floor. At the back of the imposing foyer was a massive marble staircase. A girl around her own age was descending the steps. Catriona waylaid her at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Excuse me…’

  The girl paused and looked enquiringly at her.

  ‘I need to speak to someone…’

  ‘Who?’ snapped the girl, her brow furrowed. All around them were people walking very fast – everyone here seemed to be rushing somewhere.

  ‘I... I’m not sure. I want to ask about...’ She stumbled over her words. What did she want to ask about? ‘A missing person, how to find them.’

  The girl sighed. ‘With the bombing and everything people are all over the place, so I have no idea – but look, I must get on. Perhaps you should try the police?’

  Catriona stood feeling like a fool as the girl clipped away on high heels across the tiles. Then she turned and left the building, her cheeks burning. This was stupid, she thought, as she walked despondently up Whitehall in the direction of Trafalgar Square. Everywhere were piles of rubble and abandoned bits of furniture. It was coming up to Christmas but it didn’t feel like it. There were hardly any decorations and the rationing meant there was little chance of anything but a meagre feast on Christmas Day. Margot had invited her to spend Christmas with her family but she had declined. She had told nobody that Kieran was missing and she couldn’t face the questions from Margot’s well-meaning parents.

  She wracked her brain. Who else could she ask about her father? She had already contacted Reuters, but since Kieran McCarthy was a freelance, they only had dealings with him when he was submitting copy and had no way of knowing anything else about him. It was as if he’d never existed.

  Passing the fogged-up windows of a Lyons Corner House, she realised she was hungry. It had been two weeks since Jean-Claude’s visit and she’d barely eaten. She pushed the door open and immediately was greeted by a friendly waitress. The smell of cooking and the hubbub of chatter was strangely comforting. The Londoners sitting at the tables were clearly shattered and many were injured, but they no longer looked as traumatised as they had at the start of the Blitz. There was a growing resilience to these people that she found fascinating.

  Kieran had told her it was the same in Ireland when her country had been occupied by the British, and terrorised by the Black and Tans and the Auxiliary forces up until 1921. There was defiance and a toughness there. Perhaps it was the way with all humans when faced with serious adversity? She didn’t know; she certainly didn’t seem to feel it herself.

  She took a seat at one of the few empty tables and ordered tea and toast. The food and her drink arrived and she took a bite but suddenly her hunger was gone. A familiar wave of despair passed over her. She fought the p
anic. She could not fall apart, she needed to go on. She caught the eye of a harassed-looking woman in her thirties who was trying to feed two children some very fatty-looking bacon and greasy egg, cut up and mashed together with watery tinned tomatoes.

  ‘Please Olivier, you’ll get very sick if you don’t eat.’ The woman was clearly exasperated but the little boy of about five stubbornly refused to open his mouth. Then the woman tried the other, slightly older child. ‘Why don’t you at least taste it, Valerie? It’s nice!’

  ‘C’est degoûtant,’ said the little girl, wrinkling her nose to show her disgust.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what that means but please, merci, oh blast it anyway, that’s the other one – See Vou Play?’ she tried, but both children shook their heads obstinately.

  Intrigued, Catriona called over, ‘Can I help? I speak French.’

  The woman smiled at her gratefully. ‘Please do. They were found outside Paris but we don’t even know who they are or who their parents are. My father-in-law was there on business when the Nazis invaded, and he came on these two lost in the chaos, they sort of latched onto him and he felt he had no option but bring them back here. My husband is away in the navy and we don’t have any children of our own, so I’m trying to take care of them. But it’s a disaster. I can’t speak to them, they won’t eat properly for me, they refuse to learn English, I’m at my wit’s end.’