The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  The defence lawyer had been appointed by the court and after a short address thanking the judge for the opportunity to attend court, merely stated that he would be looking for an act of clemency. Charles was shocked by this. Before the trial had even started his friends’ legal team had already conceded defeat. No wonder they all looked beaten and somewhat indifferent to what was happening around them.

  The session lasted only a couple of hours. The prosecution brought forward the evidence, namely copies of the pamphlet that were discovered in the apartment and the printing machine that had been used to produce them. The Gestapo officer who had arrested them appeared to give evidence, confirming that he had discovered them all about to conduct a meeting.

  Upon seeing him, Charles sank down behind the person sitting in front of him. He did not want to risk the man recognising him, even though the man had only caught a fleeting glance of him as he had cycled by and then would have only seen the back of his head after that.

  Charles held his breath as the man described how he had seen a boy cycling past the arrest and how Lucy had shouted for that boy to run. He also went on to say that a bicycle had been found but the boy had got away. Upon saying this Charles noticed how Lucy smiled, the first sign of emotion from any of them.

  He wanted to shout out to them. To tell them that he would continue the fight but he knew to do so would mean his capture and so he had to bite his tongue and sit quietly. At one point a middle-aged man sitting next to him told him to stop fidgeting but he ignored him, his concentration on the proceedings below that would determine the fate of his friends.

  At the end of the session the court was adjourned and they were told it would reconvene later that day.

  Charles spent the time between sessions doing very little. His mother thought that he was at school but he could not go back there, not now, not while the trial was going on. He hung around outside the building, drinking water from a bottle he had brought with him and eating the sandwiches his mother had made for him that morning.

  When he returned to the courtroom a little later, the defence were putting forward their case. The lawyer accepted that the group was guilty of what they were being accused of. However, he said that as French citizens then it could be argued that they had a right, as combatants in a war they believed still to be ongoing, to act as they had.

  This was dismissed by both the prosecution and the judge and Charles knew then that if there was any hope at all for a positive outcome, then that hope was now dead.

  It was a few days later that the court was reconvened for sentencing. Charles had managed to get a seat in the public gallery once more and looked down as the five accused shuffled into the room. If anything, they looked worse than they had done when he had first seen them a few days previously.

  However, this time, instead of looking downhearted and beaten, there was an air of defiance about them. Each of them held their heads up and stood as upright as their injuries allowed. Bernard even looked around the room, glaring at the judge and prosecution lawyer and then openly smiling at those in the public gallery.

  And then his eyes fell upon Charles and for a brief moment Bernard’s grin grew a little wider. He turned his face away from him and faced forward, towards the judge, but Charles could see that he was talking out of the side of his mouth, letting his comrades know that their friend, Victor, was there. One by one, his former resistance comrades turned their heads to look up and each time, their eyes met with his, every one of them giving a small smile or a friendly stare, acknowledging his presence and support for them.

  Eventually, after more deliberation and bluster from the prosecution lawyer, the judge passed his sentence.

  Despite expecting it, Charles found it difficult to hear.

  As each sentence was passed, Charles felt the bile rise in his throat.

  Each of them a sentence of death.

  A death by firing squad and that sentence to be carried out the following week.

  When the last of the sentences was read out, all five, in unison, began to sing ‘La Marseillaise’. Loudly and clearly they sang and despite the protestations and shouting from the judge, they continued to sing it, even when the SS guards forced them from the courtroom and back to the cells where they would await their fate.

  Charles found out, through a short article in the newspaper a few days later, that the sentences were carried out two days early due to logistical issues. Each of them killed by firing squad as sentenced.

  He cried like he had never cried before.

  Chapter 10

  24th August 1944

  Seventeen-year-old Charles Mercier held the rifle steadily. Charlotte held onto his arm, but not so as to cause him to lose concentration or to interfere with his aim. He could feel the sweat run down the back of his neck despite a slight chill in the early evening air. From the third floor window he could see that the soldier was pinned down from all sides, using the bullet-riddled car in the centre of the square for cover.

  For a brief moment Charles felt a little sorry for the man who was not much older than he was, but this moment of compassion was only fleeting. He lined up the backsight with the foresight as he had been taught by the English agent, and when he felt that he had a good shot, he fired, the stolen Karabiner kicking back into his shoulder as the bullet exited the barrel with a loud crack. He saw the dust rise from the cobbles to the side of the soldier, the bullet ricocheting harmlessly away.

  He dropped back into the room and pulled back the bolt, releasing the spent cartridge into the room beside him, before chambering another round. He adjusted the black armband, which had come loose on his jacket, ensuring that the letters ‘FFI’ were clearly visible.

  ‘Did you get him?’ asked Charlotte enthusiastically.

  Charles wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘No, I missed.’

  She looked disappointed.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him,’ he stated seriously. He moved back into position and took aim again.

  He could hear the sound of gunfire from across the square and see the bullets pinging off the car and ground all around the SS soldier. It was clear that the man had now been hit. As he attempted to crawl away from the danger, his left leg dragged uselessly beside him, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

  Charles fired again and was gratified to see that the soldier’s arm jerked violently away from his body, throwing the pistol he had been attempting to protect himself with from his hand and away, out of his reach. Realising that the only way to survive was to get as far from the centre of the square as possible, the soldier redoubled his efforts to get to the shelter of the buildings to the left of where Charles looked down on him, dragging himself with his good arm as best he could.

  Back in the room Charlotte pressed him. ‘Is he dead, Charles? Have you killed him?’

  ‘Step back from the window… Do you want to get yourself killed?’ he replied irritably. He did not feel in any way good about what he was doing and the girl was beginning to irritate him, although he knew her attitude was totally warranted.

  He moved back to the window and looked down. The man had stopped moving and was lying still. The gunfire from across the square had stopped and he could hear the faint sounds of cheering coming from the apartment building facing him. Charles watched as the tricolour, the flag of the country he loved, was unfurled from one of the windows, flapping loosely in the breeze and could see movement in the window, his comrades dancing in celebration at the killing of the SS man.

  He took a sigh and sat down, placing the weapon to his side.

  He looked across at Charlotte who kneeled on the floor to the side of him.

  ‘It’s done. They got him.’

  A tear ran down her cheek. ‘Oh, Charles… is it over?… is it really over?’

  He stroked her face. ‘I do believe it is…’

  She buried her head into his shoulder and sobbed. He did not know what words to say and so said nothing. Inst
ead he gently stroked the back of her head. Was it over, he thought. Was it really over?

  Would it ever really be over?

  Chapter 11

  25th August 1944

  ‘Look at them all,’ said Pierre, holding onto his brother’s arm. ‘Look at them all, Charles. Isn’t it wonderful.’

  ‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘It is the best of days.’

  The Free French 2nd Armoured Division had entered Paris the previous day, and, after brief skirmishes, had taken the official surrender of the German garrison only hours earlier. However, there were still pockets of German resistance throughout the city but the rumour that the Nazis would raze Paris to the ground had proved unfounded, or possibly ignored by the German commander, Dietrich von Choltitz. Charles could hear sniper fire some distance away but nothing was going to spoil this day for him or take away the feeling of elation that he and his fellow countrymen were now feeling.

  Charles stood to the side of the road, not far from the spot where he had witnessed the German army triumphantly goose-stepping along the Champs Élysées four years earlier and watched on as the free army of his fellow countrymen passed by. At their head the general whom he had idolised, ever since hearing him for the first time broadcasting on the BBC on his mother’s old radio. It all seemed so long ago now, he thought, almost like another person, another life.

  It appeared the whole city had turned out. There were so many people. The French flag openly being waved by a population that had been oppressed for the past four years. Those who had fought in the Great War wearing the medals they had won with pride once more, marched confidently along behind, followed by more of the population who just wanted to be a part of it all. Those, like Charles’s small group, who were standing to the side of the road watched on as their fellow Parisians headed along the thoroughfare towards the Place de la Concorde.

  De Gaulle was exactly how Charles had expected him to be. He looked every inch the general, standing at well over six feet tall, with an air of superiority that, in Charles’s mind, was completely founded. He was immaculately dressed, wearing the uniform of the French army. His nose was slightly bigger than Charles had thought and the small moustache beneath was neatly trimmed.

  He marched along confidently, the people cheering and chanting his name as he walked by. An occasional outburst of La Marseillaise could be heard among the noise of the crowds which made Charles feel an immense sense of patriotism. He had never known anything like this. This was the best day of his life, of that he had no doubt.

  He looked at his brother who had a smile glued to his face and to the girl at the side of him. Charlotte had been through so much, he realised. Maybe now she could find some peace. She had suffered more than most and he hoped that the future was going to be bright for her and for all of them. In fact, now that the Germans were gone it was only a matter of time before the Allies entered Berlin and put an end to all of this, once and for all.

  As the impromptu parade continued along the road, he heard a familiar voice calling to him.

  ‘Charles… Charles…’

  He looked over to see his old friend, Henri, shouting over to him. He was with a group of friends, some of whom Charles recognised from school.

  ‘Come on, Charles… join in… don’t just stand there.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlotte grabbing his arm. ‘Come on… you deserve this as much as anyone… If not more.’

  ‘I so wish they were here to see this,’ said Charles sadly.

  ‘I know,’ replied Charlotte. She looked up to the sky. ‘Maybe they are…’

  At first Charles did not feel compelled to join the throng but after some tugging and pulling and gentle persuasion, he stepped out, and with the sound of cheering and La Marseillaise ringing in his ears, he strode confidently towards the Place de la Concorde and towards a brighter future.

  * * *

  The End

  About the Author

  John R Mckay was born and raised in Wigan, England and after serving in the Royal Air Force and Greater Manchester Fire and Rescue Service, he took up writing in 2014. He has so far released five novels, four of which are historical fiction and one a contemporary black comedy. He is married to Dawn and has two grown-up children, Jessica and Sophie.

  * * *

  Read More from John R McKay

  Discover John’s other work, including the acclaimed ‘The Absolution of Otto Finkel’ and ‘The Sun Will Always Shine’ at:

  www.johnrmckay.com

  Sound of Resistance by Ryan Armstrong

  Synopsis

  SOUND OF RESISTANCE

  A swing dancing American teenager is sent to live with his Nazi Uncle when his mother dies, when his Uncle turns to violence against a Jewish girl he cares for, will he risk his life to save hers?

  * * *

  Charlie is an American sixteen-year old from Long Island, who loves to dance, just like his mother. His life is tragically altered when his mother is murdered. He is sent away by his greedy aunt with only the clothes on his back. He journeys to live with his Uncle, Erich, a high ranking and sadistic Nazi leader in Regensburg, Germany in 1940. He becomes interested in a part Jewish girl named Edith. Unfortunately, his Uncle is interested in her too. His Uncle tries to rid Charlie and Edith of their love of swing music. Swing dancing causes them grave consequences, but also offers a place to hide. When Charlie’s Uncle turns to violence, he must decide whether he will be brave and risk his life for Edith, or sit back and watch his Uncle’s hateful wrath destroy them all.

  * * *

  Disclaimer: This novella has some mature language and explicit material that may be a trigger for some. The material is not gratuitous and serves a narrative purpose – to condemn Nazis as they took advantage of their power over others for their own gratification

  Prologue

  1928, Regensburg, Germany

  ERICH

  My brother Hans and I were running down the hill that separated our parents’ estate from the Bavarian Forest. We made our way to an old abandoned cottage that lay at the foot of that hill. It was dusk, and the night was beginning to encircle us.

  “Hans, go inside the house and count to one hundred. I will stay out here.”

  “No, Erich, you told me you saw a ghost in that house—I cannot go in there.”

  I pushed Hans to the ground and whispered into his ear, “You are a sissy boy, I am the only one who should frighten you.”

  I stood up and helped Hans off of the ground.

  “Besides, Hans, really, you’re thirteen and should know there are no such things as ghosts. I will go inside.”

  I went inside the old cottage—the door I entered through was hanging half off its hinges. It had become dark and the gloom of the cottage enveloped me as I entered. I was afraid and suddenly realized it. With the small amount of light that the flashlight I had brought with me provided, I forced myself to explore some more. I couldn’t let Hans know that I was frightened. I began to count to one hundred but was surprised to hear something and started to tremble.

  I heard music and then saw a light up ahead that flickered from some candles. My fear left me, traded for curiosity, and I went into the main room of the cottage to see two older teenagers dancing to jazz music. I stood there, at the entrance of the room, watching them dance. I smiled and started tapping my foot—I had never heard music like this before and I felt an instant electricity. I started to move to it and when the music reached its zenith, I forgot what I was doing or where I was. I was one with this music. This jazz. I didn’t know the name of the music but it knew me and I was heady with it.

  However, when the music stopped, when the record was over and the scratch of the rotating needle was the only sound left, I didn’t notice and I gave a loud “whoop” sound of joy. This caused the teenage boy and girl to stop and stare at me. They stared hard, and I realized where I was and became scared again. I froze.

  The older boy approached me and said, “So you like jazz, huh, kid?”
<
br />   I nodded.

  The boy went over to the talking machine and gave me the black shiny disk—placed it into my smaller hands, saying, “Here, I have plenty of them, take this and just promise me you will listen to it.”

  I nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  “Sure, kid, now go on home, it is getting late and you know they say ghosts live here,” he said as he flashed a smile.

  My eyes widened at the mention of ghosts and I left promptly. I ran out of the house and past Hans—not stopping along the way until I was up the hill and on my parents’ estate. I was clutching the record and took a moment to look at it in the moonlight—it was a Louis Armstrong record. It was a magical thing to me and it seemed like the boy and girl that I had just seen, and who had given this gift to me, were ghosts. They didn’t seem real, nor did this new music that filled me with such joy.

  I walked into my parents’ manor house—through the back porch. I walked into my Father’s study and instantly put on the record. The sound came again and the waves of that sound hit my blood immediately. The music was a drug and put me into a trance. I started to dance to the sound and smiled with joy.

  In the grand dining room, my Grandfather and Father, were drinking beer after dinner and chatting.

  Hans went into the dining room and told me later what had transpired.

  Grandfather had said to my Father, “Carl, what is that sound?”