The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  ‘Let’s do it now,’ said Charles enthusiastically. ‘Let’s find somewhere and do it now.’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘You don’t have to… you can be my lookout… I’ll do it. Come on, you know you want to.’

  Henri thought for a while and then made a decision.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll be lookout for you.’

  The streets were full of people, going about their business and they saw the occasional German patrol pass by. No-one seemed remotely interested in the two youths, and as they walked the streets, Charles kept looking for a suitable wall on which to carry out his crime.

  After a short time they turned into an alleyway which led to the rear of a cafe. Crates and barrels pushed up against the side wall, filled the length of the walkway. Charles could see that they could either exit by the way they had entered or escape the opposite way, as it led to a street that ran parallel to the one on which they now stood.

  ‘Here,’ he said, pulling at Henri’s arm. ‘We’ll do it here. You wait at the top and shout if someone comes.’

  Without waiting for a reply, Charles skipped down the alleyway and stopped halfway along.

  Quickly taking a stick of chalk from his pocket, he jumped on top of a barrel and hastily drew a large V against the cafe wall. He looked down the alleyway and could see his friend hopping from one foot to the other, clearly terrified they were going to get caught. Charles was frustrated to see that instead of keeping watch, Henri was staring down the alleyway at his friend, watching him.

  Manically, Charles waved his arms at him, indicating for him to look for anyone who might catch them and upon realising his error Henri turned away to resume his lookout duties.

  For good measure, Charles quickly scrawled ‘Vive La France’ below the V and then jumped down, putting the chalk back into his pocket as he did so.

  Henri looked back to him and Charles beckoned him to join him.

  Henri jogged to his friend and the both of them looked at Charles’s handiwork.

  ‘It looks a bit rubbish,’ said Henri. ‘The lines don’t look straight.’

  ‘It’ll have to do,’ replied Charles, affronted at his friend’s criticism. ‘We need to get out of here before somebody sees us.’

  They headed away from the street where they had entered the alleyway and a few minutes later they were back in the park, sitting at the same bench they had sat earlier. The old woman with the Chihuahua was nowhere to be seen.

  It started to rain and as it did so, Charles looked down at his shoe. He could see his sock beginning to protrude from the hole and realised that maybe now was a good time to head for home. Now that the adrenalin had worn off he was starting to feel a little tired and hungry.

  He said goodbye to his friend and agreed to meet again the next morning.

  On his return home he found that his uncle Michel had left and his mother was attending to his grandmother, assisting her into the living room. Probably been to the toilet again, thought Charles. Pierre sat on the floor playing with a toy car that he had received for Christmas, making motoring noises as he pushed it along the threadbare carpet.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ said his grandmother cantankerously as she sat heavily into the chair by the fireplace. She pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders. ‘You look like you’ve been up to no good, young man. I can see it in your face.’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said sharply. ‘I’ve just been out with Henri. That’s all.’

  He went to his room and lay on his bed, picking up his copy of The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, which was his favourite book. However, after a few minutes, he realised that although he was reading, the words were not sinking in and he found himself re-reading the same paragraph over and over again. Eventually he gave up and put the book down.

  Do I really look so guilty? he thought. Is it so obvious that I’ve been up to mischief?

  He vowed that in future, he would not get so excited over daubing a few chalk marks on a wall that very few people would even see anyway.

  As he lay there with the noise of his grandmother moaning at his mother permeating through the walls, he realised that he was feeling something he had never felt before in his life. He understood that this feeling was pride. He felt pride in himself and what he had just done and he vowed to himself that even if this was a one-off thing for Henri, it would be the start of something for him. He would do this again… and again… and again, until the Germans were gone and France was once again French.

  And then maybe he could become a French soldier.

  The following day he met Henri outside his apartment building. It had been raining overnight and there were puddles on the ground which Charles tried to avoid as best he could. However, despite his efforts, his foot soon became sodden due to the hole in his shoe which soaked his sock causing squelching noises as he walked along.

  They headed immediately to the alleyway where the previous day they had carried out their crime.

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Henri, looking up at a blank wall. ‘Has somebody washed it off? Why would they do such a thing?’

  Charles stepped forward, squinting his eyes.

  ‘No. If you look closely you can just about see it,’ he said. ‘It's probably the rain that's done it. It poured down last night.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Henri, moving to his side. ‘I see it now… just about. I doubt anybody saw it anyway.’

  ‘We’re going to have to get something a bit more permanent,’ said Charles thoughtfully, ignoring his friend’s negativity. ‘Maybe if we can get some paint or something.’

  Henri frowned nervously. ’Oh, hang on a minute. I thought this was just a one-time thing. I don’t mind telling you that I was a little scared yesterday. If we get caught doing this we could get in serious trouble. My father would kill me if he knew what we were doing.’

  ‘I wish my father was around to threaten me like that,’ said Charles matter-of-factly and then instantly regretted rebuking his friend in this way.

  ‘Sorry about that, Henri,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ interrupted Henri. ‘You’re right… but we can’t carry paint and a paintbrush around with us, can we? Everyone will wonder what we’re doing… and where will we get it from anyway?’

  ‘We’ll have to do it after curfew,’ replied Charles. ‘We could steal some paint and a brush and go out then. There’ll be nobody about. Nobody will see us.’

  ‘Apart from the gendarmes and the Germans,’ snorted Henri. ‘That’s a daft idea.’

  There was a sudden shout from their left.

  ‘Hey, you two, what are you up to?’

  They turned to see who was shouting at them. A large, bearded man wearing an apron, his hands on his hips, was staring at them from a few yards away. He must have left the rear of the cafe and had a bag of trash in his hand which he was about to place into a receptacle.

  Charles and Henri looked at each other and then started giggling nervously. Before the man could approach them, they turned and ran along the alley and out onto the main street. They did not stop running and laughing until they had reached the park near their apartment buildings, generating curious looks from everyone whom they passed. By the time they got to the bench, they were both doubled over with laughter.

  Chapter 4

  Living on the ground floor made it easier for Charles to sneak out at night. The room he shared with Pierre backed onto an unlit rear yard with access, via a narrow entryway to the front of the building. The curfew currently carried from ten o’clock in the evening until five in the morning giving him seven hours to carry out what he had planned, and with it being the winter months, the whole of that time was in complete darkness. He had agreed to meet Henri under a tree not far from the bench in the park which had somehow become their base of operations. Charles believed that this would give them enough cover from any passing patrols whilst they decided on how to carry out the plan.


  When he was sure that Pierre was sleeping soundly Charles quietly pulled the curtain to one side and checked that nobody from the apartment building behind their own, that also backed onto the same yard, was looking from their windows. He was pleased to see all the blackout curtains drawn and the yard in pitch darkness. Carefully he slipped the catch, lifted the window and nimbly slipped out, closing it behind him, but leaving it open just a couple of inches to make sure he could get back inside later. The last thing he wanted to do was to lock himself out.

  He was surprised at how calm he felt. He stopped for a second in the entryway to check himself and was pleased to discover his breathing was normal, and although he could feel his heart beating slightly faster than usual, it was really nothing he felt he needed to be overly concerned about.

  He presumed that this calmness was due to his newfound determination to play his part. De Gaulle’s words had inspired him and the thought that just maybe his father had made it to England was now constantly on his mind. He wanted to be able to tell him, when he finally returned home, that just like he had done, Charles too had never given up. He too had done his bit to frustrate the Nazis.

  Quickly, Charles made his way to the park, cautiously moving between the shadows, careful to keep away from the dim glow of the street lamps. He found himself constantly checking the windows of the apartment buildings as he passed them, relieved to see that no lights shone from any of them and, as far as he was aware, nobody was looking down onto the street. He could hear the sound of vehicles a few streets away, the Germans or gendarmes on their nightly patrols or doing whatever it was that they did, and only once did he have to hide behind a wall as a lorry drove by. As it passed him, he could see, through the open tarpaulin that covered the rear, two rows of German soldiers sitting, tired looking, on benches as they were transported to wherever it was they happened to be going.

  Eventually he arrived at the park and headed for the group of trees and bushes where they had agreed to meet. As he approached he became aware that somebody was already there. He could see someone standing to the side of a large bush, his back to Charles, the light from a nearby streetlamp casting a shadow back towards him. He felt his heart skip a beat and quickly moved to a tree, from where he could observe whomever it may be.

  Henri had told him that his father kept a few old tins of paint in a storage cupboard in their apartment that he had used the previous year when decorating the hallway and that he would try to spirit one away.

  After a few moments the figure turned and Charles was glad to see that it was his friend, Henri, and he held something in his hand.

  Quietly, Charles moved towards his friend, who was as yet unaware of his presence and, when only a couple of yards away, he said in a deep voice, ‘And what do you think you’re doing here, young man?’

  Henri jerked his head around, dropping the tin of paint he was holding to the ground. Realising it was his friend he became annoyed.

  ‘Jesus, Charles,’ he said angrily. ‘You scared the living daylights out of me. That’s not funny.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ said Charles. ‘Somebody might hear you.’

  Charles instantly regretted his moment of fun and looked around nervously, fearing they may be overheard.

  ‘There’s no-one about,’ said Henri through gritted teeth. ‘And you should have thought about that before you made me jump. This is serious, you know. If my parents find out what I’ve done, it won’t be the Germans I’ll need to be worried about.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ apologised Charles, looking down at the pot of paint that Henri had now picked up. ‘Anyway… did you get a brush too?’

  ‘Of course I got a brush too,’ replied Henri. It was clear that he was still annoyed with his friend. ‘What do you think I am? An idiot?’

  ‘Come on,’ said Charles, ignoring the question. ‘Let’s get this done so we can get back home and to bed before anybody realises we’re gone.’

  Charles led his friend further into the park until they came across a statue of a distinguished looking man sitting in a chair, an old monument to somebody they had never heard of. They stopped. They had walked past this statue a hundred times before and never taken any notice of it. In fact, nobody had. Maybe after tonight people may look at it with a little more interest.

  ‘Here,’ said Charles. ‘Give me the paint and keep watch.’

  Henri handed him the tin and after a few moments of watching him struggle to get the lid off, he handed Charles a screwdriver he had taken from his coat pocket.

  ‘Here, try this.’

  A moment later the lid was off and Charles used the screwdriver to stir the paint, after first having to break the top where it had set like rubber.

  ‘How old is this stuff?’ he asked.

  ‘Just get on with it, will you,’ replied Henri. ‘Hurry up.’

  ‘Stop going on,’ moaned Charles. ‘I’m going as quickly as I can.’

  Dipping the brush into the paint, Charles then daubed the base of the statue with a large letter V. He stood back to admire his work.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘What do I think?… I think it’s a V, Charles. Please, hurry up.’

  Moving around the base of the statue Charles repeated the graffiti on all four sides.

  And then he had an idea.

  Dipping the brush into the paint once more he wrote, ‘Vive La France’ underneath the V and then moved around the base again. Another ‘Vive La France’ and then to complete the job, he added ‘Vive de Gaulle’ on the two remaining sides.

  ‘There,’ he said finally. ‘Done… now let’s get out of here.’

  They quickly returned to their hideout near the trees and took stock of what they had done.

  ‘Can we go home now?’ asked Henri. ‘I really think we need to get home before our luck runs out.’

  ‘I think we should do more,’ replied Charles. The adrenalin was now in full flow and he was starting to enjoy himself. ‘What do you think? Shall we go out of the park and find another place.’

  ‘Listen,’ whispered Henri suddenly. ‘Can you not hear it.’

  Charles stopped talking and listened. He did not know what his friend was referring to.

  ‘Hear what?’ he whispered. ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘Shhh… be quiet and listen.’

  Charles was grateful for his friend’s acute sense of hearing. He could now make out the sound of two people talking. They were some distance away and it was coming from the other side of the railings, in the street nearby. There were people just outside the park and their voices were getting louder. Charles realised that louder meant nearer.

  Crouching in the bushes they were able to make out two German soldiers walking along, around a hundred yards from where they were hiding. As they passed a streetlamp he could see them both and they were carrying machine pistols. They stopped under the light and one of them took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He offered the pack to his colleague who also took one. The first German then lit his friend’s cigarette with the match he had used and then they carried on with their patrol, passing close by to the two children hiding in the bushes on the other side of the railings.

  ‘If we had a rifle now we could have killed them both,’ whispered Charles once they had gone.

  ‘Well, it’s a good thing we haven’t a rifle then,’ replied Henri. ‘I really think we’d better get off home.’

  They left the paint and brush hidden under some leaves in the bushes and decided to discuss what they had done the following evening after school.

  Charles was able to make his way back to the apartment building without incident and climbed through the window and back into his bedroom. As he turned to close it behind him, a voice cut through the darkness, startling him.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  He had thought his younger brother was still asleep.

  ‘Nowhere for you to worry about, Pierre,’ he replied. �
�And nothing for you to tell Maman about either… now go back to sleep.’

  He quickly undressed and once under the covers, he found it hard to sleep. Thoughts of what he had done were running around his head and new ideas were already forming in his mind of what he could do next. It had all been so easy. Maybe luck had been on their side, as Henri had suggested, but this whole thing had made him feel alive. It also made him feel proud of himself again.

  Tomorrow, when the people of Paris awoke, some of them would see the words he had written on the old monument in the park and it would make them think. It would make them realise that not everyone was the same as they were. Not everyone was willing to accept defeat and there were still some out there who believed in France. There were still some who believed in an eventual victory and that one day, the Germans would be kicked out of France like the rats that they were.

  ‘Vive La France’ he had written. Long live France. V for Victory.

  As he finally drifted off to sleep he decided that he would think up more slogans to write on monuments, walls and anywhere else he cared to do so. He would write them for all to see. They would see and they would take note of what he was saying and, eventually, all of Paris, all of France, would rise up and teach the Germans a lesson. He would make sure that when his father returned home it would be to a France he would once more be proud of.

  He had the feeling that tonight’s adventure was only the start of things.

  Chapter 5

  For the next week, wherever and whenever he could, Charles used the chalk he had taken from Monsieur Daubec’s desk to draw Vs and write slogans on walls, streetlamps, parked cars and buses. He would discreetly pull the chalk from his pocket and quickly draw the sign of resistance along with either ‘Vive La France’, ‘Long Live de Gaulle’ or ‘Death to the Nazis’, often adding the Cross of Lorraine if time and bravery permitted. Although he knew that the weather or the authorities would eventually wash them away, he was sure that enough people would see them before they disappeared. Even in school, he had drawn the sign in the bathrooms and on the playground and corridor walls, always ensuring that he was not being observed when he did it.