The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  ‘What happened to him?’ Horst asked.

  ‘He was beheaded by the chief buccaneer, who feared his men would be converted to pacifism by the holy man’s impassioned preaching.’

  ‘Shame, I would have liked to hear him preach.’

  ‘You’re a thousand or so years too late!’ I said.

  He laughed, and the ice was broken at last. ‘Horst,’ I said, pulling away and anxious to seize the moment, ‘it feels awkward for me, to be seen with you. It will cause trouble with my neighbours and countrymen. You see, to them you are still the enemy.’

  ‘They will learn.’ His mouth set in a stubborn line. After a few more steps, he said, ‘They will get used to this way now. When they see how we Germans keep everything in order, how we make a prospering Heimat for us all, then they will learn our way it is best. And the quicker it come, the better.’

  Heimat. A homeland. ‘But we were all right as we were, Horst. Imagine how you would feel if the English took over Dortmund.’

  He frowned. ‘That will never happen.’ The bells of the church struck the half hour. ‘That time already? It is a shame. Time to get you home, before the curfew.’

  He led me back the way we came, and at the front of the hotel he asked a boy to summon the car. To my consternation, he then dismissed the driver. ‘I’ll drive you myself,’ he said, ‘then we can continue our conversation.’

  My stomach clenched. Would he expect to come in? Already my mind was skittering ahead, to Rachel, and whether she would be out of sight. The headlamps sliced through the dark as I took sideways glances at Horst’s face. He kept up constant talk of how he had seen Hitler himself talk at a rally in Berlin, and how inspirational he was, how he had such vision, and would transform the lives of the whole of Europe with his new ideas. ‘The old order is dead,’ he said. ‘Time to build a new world.’

  When he talked with such passion he had a kind of boyish charm. I could almost believe in it, this golden future, except for the fact I’d witnessed the Nazis’ far from golden treatment of their Russian and Polish workers.

  The car drew up outside the bakery. Thank God, no lights were showing.

  ‘You have coffee inside?’ Horst asked.

  ‘No. No coffee. Not what you would call coffee anyway. It’s acorns, ground into powder. Very unappetising. We can’t get coffee now.’ I hoped to put him off.

  ‘Is it very bad?’

  ‘Disgusting. You wouldn’t want to try it.’

  ‘On the contrary, it seems like I ought to taste this strange Jersey drink.’

  ‘It’s late, Horst, and I’m tired. I was up at five thirty to help on the farm.’

  ‘I won’t stay long.’ He was already climbing out of the car, and moments later the passenger door opened.

  Reluctantly, I unlocked the door and let him follow me inside. Think of Fred, I thought. He’d be pleased I was entertaining his brother. I willed Rachel to keep quiet and tried not to let my eyes stray to the stairs or the ceiling as I lit an oil lamp. No electric lights were allowed after curfew.

  There was no sign of Rachel, but the sitting room was warm, and the fire in the range blazing.

  Horst sat down in front of it and took off his driving gloves. ‘You like it so warm?’ he said.

  Oh no. Why didn’t I think of that? It was odd to have left the fire blazing whilst I was out.

  ‘I’ve been ill,’ I said hurriedly. Helpfully, a sweat broke out on my forehead. ‘I banked the fire up before I came out. It wouldn’t do to catch a chill again.’

  ‘Oh, you are ill? But why you not say?’

  ‘I didn’t like to refuse your invitation. Fred would have been disappointed if I didn’t come.’

  ‘I see now why you are tired and not like yourself.’ He stood up again. ‘I will leave you, but perhaps we could meet again soon. It is agreeable to have female company.’

  ‘Perhaps we can do it again in another week when I’m better.’ Or not at all. I went back through the shop, past the counter and opened the door.

  He took the hint. ‘I won’t embrace you,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind. Thank you for a delightful evening.’

  I watched him climb into the car and drive away, before collapsing against the door jamb. I was drained. Please, let him get busy and forget all about me. Maybe he would, once he got more involved with his odious job. But then, how would I get any news of Fred?

  In the sitting room I pulled the curtains tight shut and called out, ‘Rachel?’

  Rachel appeared, swamped in an old nightdress and dressing gown of Tilly’s.

  ‘You idiot,’ I said. ‘You banked up the fire. I had to explain why I’d go out leaving a fire blazing away.’

  Rachel sat down, leant an elbow on the arm of the chair and put a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh jeepers. Sorry. It was stupid. I just didn’t think.’

  I was exasperated. ‘Look, Rache, we have to be more careful. I can’t be worrying every time I go out, thinking you’ll have done something daft. And I saw the curtain move when we drove off.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ she flashed. ‘I told you you’d regret it.’

  ‘I don’t regret it. I’m just tired and stressed, and worried to death, that’s all.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just not used to being told what to do. And I hate being cooped up. You’re right about the fire; I kept it going because, to be honest, I don’t feel too good. I can’t get warm, and I feel sort of shivery. And I couldn’t find any other heating in the house.’

  ‘I know, they took away all our electric heaters to conserve power. You’re not getting ill are you, Rachel?’ Now I came to look at her, she did look awful. Pale, with red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘It’s probably just a cold. My throat’s really sore. I’ll be better once I’ve had a good night’s sleep. But I couldn’t sleep knowing you were out with that German. I kept worrying he’d come in and I’d snore or give myself away by falling out of bed.’

  ‘He thinks I’m ill. It was the excuse I gave him about the fire being so hot when we came back.’

  ‘Oh heavens.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s not going to be easy, is it?’

  ‘Look, you get back to bed. We can’t risk you getting any worse.’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, it would be a bit inconvenient, wouldn’t it, to have a dead Jew on your premises.’

  ‘About as inconvenient as having a live one, I’d say.’

  ‘Ha ha.’ But she got up and wobbled towards the stairs. Halfway up, she stopped and turned. ‘Thank you, you know I—’

  ‘Stop it with the thank yous. Or I’ll have to throw you out.’

  But the next morning, far from being any better, Rachel was worse. She had started a hacking cough in the night. The last thing I needed. Just after dawn I got dressed, boiled a kettle and took her a hot drink.

  ‘It’s the worst thing that could happen,’ Rachel croaked.

  ‘Can’t you stop the cough? Mrs Flanders’ll be here soon.’

  ‘I’ll try. But it just sort of takes me over. I’ll have to stuff my head in the pillow. Keep the door …’ another bout of coughing.

  ‘I know, I know, keep the door shut.’ I watched as she smothered her face with the quilt. I could still hear her, despite all her efforts.

  The noise of the van outside threw me into a panic.

  ‘Don’t let her in,’ Rachel said. ‘She’s got the biggest mouth on the island. If she finds out I’m here, we’ll both be …’ More smothered coughing. ‘Céline?’

  But I was already in my bedroom, throwing off my clothes and struggling back into my nightdress and an old jersey.

  I ran downstairs slapping my face to make it red. When I opened the door, I put on a forlorn expression and made my voice nasal. ‘Sorry, Mrs Flanders, I can’t come to work. I’ve got a terrible cold. I’ve been coughing all night.’

  If I expected sympathy, none was forthcoming. ‘Have you? According to Mrs Hedges, you were fine last night. She saw you on the promenade. Have you taken some onion water?’<
br />
  ‘I’ve no onions,’ I said.

  I kept the door between us, but Mrs Flanders was keeping her distance anyway.

  ‘Well we can’t get lemons, that’s for certain,’ she said. ‘And I don’t know anyone with any honey left. But I’ll see if I’ve an onion at home. Are you sure you’re not fit? A bit of fresh air might do you good.’

  At that moment I heard coughing from the room upstairs. Immediately I began coughing, though I was aware it didn’t sound very convincing. My face grew hot with effort.

  When I stood up from being doubled over, Mrs Flanders was looking up at the window with a suspicious expression. ‘When did it come on, this cough?’

  ‘Just last night,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Wouldn’t be anything to do with the fact you were walking arm in arm with one of those Germans, would it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Flanders, but I’ve got to go back to bed.’

  Another cough from upstairs.

  ‘Still in there, is he? You’re a Jerrybag, that’s what you are. And your man off fighting a war! I would never have thought it of you. That’s it. I’m done with you. You can drive the bloody van yourself.’ She flung the keys at my feet. ‘I’ll walk back to the farm, thank you very much. And don’t you dare show your face there again. You’re not welcome.’

  I watched her sturdy back retreating down the hill. What could I do? Mrs Hedges had obviously seen me and Horst, and now Mrs Flanders obviously thought he was still inside and the cough had come from him. I couldn’t explain without giving Rachel away.

  Suddenly it was all too much. I went to the drawer of the bureau and took out paper and a pen. If I was supposed to be ill, I couldn’t bake or do deliveries, could I? I scrawled a notice:

  * * *

  Sorry, closed today

  due to ill health.

  * * *

  After I’d stuck it in the window I relayed what had happened with Mrs Flanders to Rachel, who was still coughing.

  ‘Cripes. Do you think the Germans will come to see what’s happened to their bread?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve locked the doors and there’s a notice up saying I’m ill. I’ll have to telephone the Kommandant’s office to explain.’

  I picked up the receiver and dialled the switchboard, who put me through to the German Supplies Unit. Making myself sound hoarse again, I explained to the man on the other end that I was too ill to bake.

  ‘Hold the line whilst I speak to my supervisor,’ the man replied in English. In the background I could hear the clicks and whirrs of the switchboard and a whispered conversation, before he came back on. ‘Are you still there?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If it persists, they say they will have to send someone else to take over the bakery,’ the voice was clipped, official. ‘They say you have three days to resume normal production.’ Then, in a whispered undertone, ‘Mrs Huber? Don’t let them take over. You’ll never get it back. I hope you get better soon.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered back, ‘I intend to.’

  ‘‘V’ for Victory,’ he whispered.

  Rachel’s cough got worse, and then it turned into a terrible silent rattle. I began to fear she might actually die. Still dressed in my nightclothes in case anyone should call, I bathed her forehead to try to reduce the fever, but it was obvious she was really ill.

  By the afternoon, she was burning with fever and delirious. What was I to do? She needed medical help. I couldn’t trust Mrs Flanders, even if she’d speak to me, which I doubted. Was there a doctor I could trust? The doctor I’d had since childhood had retired and then been evacuated. I paced back and forth trying to work out a feasible plan.

  The insistent ‘brrring’ of the telephone made me run downstairs. I hesitated, agonising, my hand hovering over the receiver. Finally, I picked it up, not speaking.

  ‘Céline? Is that you? It is I, Horst. They told me you are sick and no bread comes today from you, so I ring to find out how you are.’

  ‘Worse.’ I made my voice weak and croaky. ‘I need something for a fever and a cough. Can you ask someone to send some tablets?’

  ‘I will come,’ he said. ‘I will bring a doctor.’

  ‘No! I mean, no need for that. Just some linctus, and aspirin or something to bring my temperature down.’ I was gabbling now, in a panic.

  ‘Asp—? What? You must not worry. I will take care of it. Go back to bed and leave the door unlock.’

  I backtracked furiously. ‘No, no! It’s really nothing. Don’t worry yourself. I’ll go straight back to bed, and I’m sure I’ll be all right in the morning. These things, they come and go, I don’t—’

  ‘Stop this protest. I will come at six, when I’m off-duty.’

  ‘It’s very kind, but there’s no need—’

  ‘You are family. It’s my duty to help. Now go back to bed.’ And he rang off.

  Hell’s teeth. It was a disaster. I’d have to hide Rachel somewhere. But where? And she was in no fit state to be moved either, and I couldn’t expect her to make any kind of decision. Which would be worse, to die of a fever right here, or to be transported to Germany to some unknown fate? I thought of those Todt workers and knew her fate would be worse than theirs.

  There was nowhere to hide her. The Germans inspected the storeroom most days, and they hadn’t been yet. But then I had an idea.

  The van.

  It was parked at the front, where Mrs Flanders had left it, but I could reverse it right to the back door to where the deliveries of flour were made to the storeroom. Nervously, I inserted the key and turned it. Nothing. After three attempts, and a lot of choke, the engine spluttered to life, and I inched forward a little until extra pressure on the accelerator resulted in a kangaroo jump forward. Please don’t let the neighbours catch sight of me, I prayed. After all, I was supposed to be ill. It would be typical of Mrs Galen to come out at the wrong moment. Still, it was a risk I had to take. Unfortunately, my driving lessons with Mrs Flanders hadn’t covered reversing.

  After a lot of grinding of gears and cursing, I finally managed to get the damn thing close enough. I unlocked the back doors of the van and left them standing open.

  Terrified Horst and the doctor might appear at any moment, I opened up the back door and dragged an eiderdown from my own bed and some cushions from the settee to make a sort of nest in the back of the van.

  Now to move Rachel.

  I tried to explain to her what I was doing, but she was distracted and didn’t seem to understand. She thrashed and groaned and mumbled some sort of gibberish about the sea. When I tried to help her out of bed, her legs gave way under her. Grim with frustration, I tried to drag her to the stairs.

  Thank goodness I’d spent all those months doing heavy farm work. I was fitter and stronger than I used to be, and Rachel was thinner. By now she’d gone flaccid, and her face had two bright spots of red on the cheeks. I’d have to carry her, I realised, and I didn’t know if I could. She was smaller than me, but she’d be a dead weight.

  I gritted my teeth. By stepping down a few stairs and dragging Rachel towards me by her arms, I managed to turn her and hoist her over my shoulder so I could half crawl backwards down the stairs.

  A stagger, and I was out of the door and dropping her awkwardly into the van. She groaned and lashed out but then slumped. She’d have some bruises, but worse, her chest still made that rattle when she breathed, and now the rattle was worse, her skin clammy and cold. I tucked her up as best I could.

  Should I lock her in? I’d have to. But it would be pitch-black in there.

  I explained to her in urgent whispers why I’d moved her and told her to rest until I came to fetch her. ‘I won’t be long,’ I said. ‘Please, Rache, for both our sakes, don’t make a sound.’

  She showed no sign of having heard me. Maybe she’d sleep. I couldn’t think anymore; I was too scared to come up with anything better, so I shut the doors and locked them.

  It was a good thing I’d moved her so quickly because al
most immediately there was a knock on the glass pane of the shop. I shut the back door and glanced through the window. A man in a grey-green uniform was peering in at me, his nose to the glass, hand shielding his eyes. He had a doctor’s bag in his other hand.

  There was no sign of Horst.

  Warily, I opened the door. Standing before me was the young man who’d come with Oberstleutnant Fischer to fill out the registration papers. The one who’d taken my photograph.

  ‘Frau Huber? Your brother-in-law sent me. I’m a doctor.’

  ‘Oh. I thought you were a photographer.’

  ‘Ah, you remember me, Leutnant Müller. In wartime, yes. In peacetime I’m a doctor. Well, not yet. I’m student of medicine.’ He smiled.

  ‘A student?’ I remembered I was supposed to be ill. ‘A student?’ I repeated with a raspy voice.

  ‘All the real doctors are in France, or at the front, or in hospitals at home. I was the only doctor they could find. Are you going to let me in?’

  I opened the door.

  ‘Hauptmann Huber cannot come. Some … trouble at the camp.’ His expression hollowed and darkened, as if in pain, before he took on a brisker manner. ‘He said you were very sick. Please go back to bed. I’ll examine you there.’

  For a moment, I resisted. I’d heard rumours of women left alone with German men: the rapes and atrocities. And I was in my nightdress! But this one seemed courteous, even a little nervous, his light hazel eyes shifting around the shop. I led him to the settee in the sitting room and sat down.

  ‘Have you brought something for fever?’ I asked.

  ‘Fieber? Ja. But I must take temperature first.’

  My chest squeezed tight. It would be normal. I should’ve made a hot drink, but now it was too late.

  ‘Open your mouth.’ He shook the thermometer and popped it under my tongue, then took my wrist to take my pulse. ‘Is a little fast,’ he said.

  Whilst we were waiting for the temperature reading, I took a good look at him. He was pale, with a prominent Adam’s apple and a slightly beaky nose. His hands were long and slender, and his wrists covered in a downy fuzz.