The Darkest Hour Read online

  The days passed in a blur. She was given a new name, Emilie Barrau, and as each day passed Catriona McCarthy seemed further and further away. She neither spoke nor heard any English. In French and German, she learned each rank of German soldier based on his insignia, and she was interrogated on her cover story relentlessly.

  One night, she was pulled from her narrow bed in one of the attic rooms and brought roughly downstairs. Sitting at the battered desk in the front office were two men she’d never seen before, wearing civilian clothes. They interrogated her, switching seamlessly from French to German to English, constantly trying to trip her up. Despite feeling disorientated, she maintained her story, answering when they spoke in French or German but never when they spoke in English.

  ‘Wer sind deine Eltern?’ one of the men barked in German, demanding to know who her parents were.

  ‘Henri und Camille Barrau,’ she responded in German.

  ‘Dates of birth?’ another asked, in English this time.

  ‘Je ne comprends pas l’anglais...’

  ‘Date de naissance de vos parents?’ His accent was bad, definitely not a native speaker.

  ‘My father was born on the third of January 1899, and my mother on the twelfth of March 1901,’ she replied in flawless French.

  The French man who interviewed her on one of the first days she was at Baker Street, told her handlers that her accent wasn’t entirely pure but the story that she was from the French-speaking part of Belgium should cover it. The danger wasn’t the Germans, because such subtlety of accent was beyond even those who were fluent in French; the danger was with French collaborators. The French were very sensitive to even the slightest discrepancy in accent, so her back story would have to reflect that.

  ‘Where?’ the first man asked, again in English – but this time quietly, almost bored.

  Catriona shrugged, in that Gallic way she’d always done.

  ‘Où?’ he asked in French.

  ‘My father is from Lyon, Rue Sainte Justine, my mother is from a small village in Belgium – Pont Veille, in the Ardennes.’

  One of the men came up behind her and spoke quietly into her ear, ‘And why are you in Bordeaux?’ in English.

  She didn’t reply. He repeated the question in German.

  Catriona trotted out her story, word perfect – she was here to work – but jumped as the other man brought his fist down on the table forcefully and shouted at her. ‘Lügnerin! Liar!’ She tried not to look terrified.

  ‘We know you are not who you say you are!’ Spittle from his lips landed on her cheek and she could smell his sour breath. She felt tears prick the back of her eyes.

  ‘Je ne comprends pas...’ she began again, a teardrop escaping.

  The man grabbed her face and squeezed her jaw, forcing her head to turn painfully. He repeated the statement in German this time.

  For the next hour they shouted questions at her in all three languages, in rapid-fire succession, and though she felt flustered and confused she didn’t make a mistake. Eventually they let her go back to bed. She had passed the test.

  The remainder of the days went by in a blur. Every single item of her own was taken and stored. She was given a whole new identity, a new wardrobe, a French hairdo. One frightening day, she had a tooth hollowed out and a lethal cyanide pill inserted. It was covered in a rubber casing to prevent accidental death if swallowed inadvertently. The dentist explained that all she would need to do was dislodge the false tooth and bite down hard. The glass ampoule would crack and the poison would enter her bloodstream very quickly. Death, he assured her, would be instantaneous.

  ‘Let’s pray you never need to use it, but if they do capture you, then take it.’

  The following day, she was told she was being flown over to France.

  She was dropped by Lysander into a field south of Libourne on a moonlit night. There had not been enough time to train her to parachute so they mercifully allowed the plane to touch down for a second or two where she was dumped unceremoniously out, and before she knew what was happening, the Lysander was airborne again. She was met by a very gruff Frenchman who did not introduce himself. He was in his sixties, she guessed, with a bald head but very bushy eyebrows. He took her bag and pulled her into the shadows, his hand clamped on her forearm. He was strong and wiry and had a very pungent body odour, which made her gag. Without asking how she was or anything about her, he pulled two bicycles from a hedge. Shoving one at her, he fixed her small suitcase to the back of his. She would take to her grave the look of horror and disgust on his face when she told him that she didn’t know how to ride a bicycle, because the nuns thought riding bicycles was unladylike.

  ‘What? Are you serious?’ he hissed the words at her in the corner of the dark field. ‘What kind of a moron can’t ride a bicycle? Listen Miss Ladylike,’ he spat, ‘there has been no petrol here for months now, so the only way to travel is on a bike. If you can’t cycle and a German sees you he’ll smell a rat instantly. He’ll take you in, torture you and then kill you. Simple as that. So I’d suggest you pick it up pretty damned fast.’

  ‘But how…’

  ‘Just do it.’ He exhaled in frustration and lit up a cigarette, nodding in the direction of the second bike.

  Twenty minutes of furious, hissed instruction later, and four or five heavy falls, and she was wobbling along on her own. Under any other circumstances, she was sure it would have taken her much longer but her instructor was not a person to be trifled with.

  They cycled over rough farmland until the morning sun began to streak across the sky. Despite the terrifying situation, Catriona felt strangely happy to be back in France. Before dawn gave way to morning he ushered her into an old barn, told her to go right down to the back and cover herself with hay.

  ‘Someone will come for you later. In the meantime, sleep and be quiet.’ And he was gone.

  Catriona tried to ignore the scurrying of mice in the barn, or what she hoped were mice and not rats, and she did as she was told. She was bone tired, her legs aching, and she hadn’t slept properly once she knew she was going to France, yet she didn’t imagine sleep would come. She was too on edge.

  ‘Catriona! Wake up! Wake up!’

  She felt her shoulder being shaken and blearily she opened her eyes – then sat up with a gasp. ‘Loic!’

  She recognised her cousin crouching beside her instantly – the cousin who had once caused her to fall into the pool of Jean-Claude’s family chateau. Though she’d not seen him for three years, he was unforgettable with his dark curly hair and flashing dark eyes, almost black. Their grandmother used to call him her little gypsy. He looked nothing like his big brawny father and only a little like Marie-Clare, his mother. He was as lithe and tanned as when they were children, back in the days when he always out-ran or out-climbed her as they played in the huge trees around the chateau.

  He was grinning at her. ‘Yes it’s Loic, and you are Emilie, and you look nothing like my cousin Catriona who was an annoying little girl and not a skinny sophisticated woman like yourself. Now come on, we must go, quickly.’ He pulled her up.

  The muscles in her legs ached and her buttocks were so numb they felt like they belonged to someone else. ‘Please tell me we aren’t going by bike,’ she groaned and he chuckled.

  ‘Maurice was not too happy with you, I can tell you. He works for us and is a great help but he is not known for his patience. But no, no bikes today. I have a pony and cart outside.’

  ‘Oh thank God.’ She brushed the straw from her dress and tried to rearrange her hair, while Loic scrutinised her from head to toe.

  ‘You look far too glamorous for a job in a vineyard. Papa thought you might arrive dressed wrongly, so he gave me these for you.’ He handed her a grey overall dress and a pair of flat shoes; a washed-out cotton headscarf completed the look. ‘Change quickly, I’ll turn around.’

  Catriona did as she was told. The dress was horrible and smelled of stale sweat but she buttoned it up and tied the sc
arf around her head. As she dressed, he spoke again, barely above a whisper although they were alone in the barn:

  ‘They are everywhere, the filthy Boche, and they are very observant. They are particularly on the lookout for new faces, so if we run into anyone we’d better have our story straight. You’re one of the workers for the vendange. We don’t employ people in large numbers for the harvest until September but we do have about twenty casual people at the moment. None of them are local, so they won't recognise you from your holidays in the chateau. Make sure you stick to your story. You were born in French-speaking Belgium and educated in a convent in German-speaking Belgium. You moved to Paris to find work. In Paris you got talking to a guy called Armand. Armand’s real, by the way, and don't worry about him – he’s one of us. Anyway, Armand told you he was coming here for the vendange and gave you the address because the vineyard is always looking for new workers. Especially now, as so many of the local men and women have been sent to work camps.’

  ‘Should I put these other clothes in my suitcase?’

  ‘Yes – but don't show them to anyone. How do those fit?’ He turned to look – and burst out laughing. She pulled a silly face at him but then became business-like.

  ‘Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go.’ This was not a game of dress up; she was here to do a job. Though how she was going to attract the attention of any man in this get up, let alone a high-ranking German officer, she was at a complete loss to discover.

  The journey to the chateau was only nine kilometers, but once they had passed through the town of Libourne, Loic kept the cart to the back lanes, sometimes crossing through other vineyards rather than going on the main road, so that the journey took a full two hours. Out in open countryside they spoke quietly about their extended family and the new reality for France. But when they arrived at the chateau, Loic just dropped her off at the workers’ quarters as he would have done with any other casual employee.

  All day, Catriona worked – weeding, checking the leaves, nurturing the vines. The buds were breaking out now so it was important to train them along the correct lines and also to tie the clusters up between the wires. The Parisian, Armand, showed her how to thin the clusters, to remove the flowers. That night, as they went into the kitchen of one of the outbuildings where the staff were fed, he made a point of saying, ‘So you made it out of Paris, eh? I’m glad you did, it was crazy back there.’

  The other workers were all within earshot but they didn’t seem to notice. They were too busy serving themselves their thin cassoulet, made up mostly of turnip, potatoes and bread made from chestnut flour from the large bain-marie, all washed down with water where once there would have been wine. The people in London had warned her that food shortages in France were even worse than England but nothing had prepared her for the hunger. All food producers, from the large farms to the cottage industries were forced to hand over much of their produce to the forces of occupation, leaving very little for themselves.

  Taking her cue, Catriona replied, ‘Yes and thank you for telling me about this place, I had nowhere to go otherwise.’

  He shrugged. ‘No problem. Any news of your family?’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘No, nothing. I’ve written and now that they have this address perhaps...’

  Armand patted her on the shoulder. ‘Please God it will work out for you.’ He left her to join some of the older men at a long table. She sat with some women and girls her own age. She tried out her back story as they ate their meal and they accepted it without question. One woman from Lyon was curious about her accent so she explained about her Belgian upbringing and convent education, and her story was accepted and the conversation moved on.

  Days passed in back-breaking and tedious work. She did it without complaining but she was frustrated. There was no point to this: she’d come here to do a different job and she desperately wanted to get on with it. She hadn’t seen this Schroeder, nor any other German for that matter, in the five days since she got here and had spoken to nobody about her mission.

  At night – tossing and turning on her hard mattress – she hankered after her soft bed in the chateau nearby. Nor was it just her bed that she missed. She longed to see her grandparents, and her uncle and his wife, even though she knew they weren’t allowed to acknowledge her as family.

  The following evening, Loic approached her with an order. ‘The boss wants the cellars cleaned in preparation for the new vintage. Be there with your cleaning equipment in half an hour.’

  ‘Oui, Loic.’ Delighted, Catriona collected a mop and bucket from the servants’ quarters and made her way up to the magnificent chateau, whose image was represented on so many bottles of De Clairand Grand Cru. Crossing the lawn, she was surprised to see a familiar face – Jean-Claude de Riseau, the man who had come to her in London. He was deep in conversation with her uncle and neither man gave any hint of recognising her as she passed within a few yards of them.

  The cellar door was open. She stepped inside and tiptoed cautiously down the dark, damp steps. Halfway down, she felt someone touch her arm. It was Loic, who had been waiting in one of the many alcoves. Wordlessly, he took the bucket from her and she followed him down a passageway off to the right. The cellar was ancient and smelled faintly of damp and earth and fermentation. It brought her instantly back to her childhood. The area under the chateau and the grounds was comprised of several tunnels that opened up into caves where the wine was stored. Some of the caves were locked behind a metal grill, and it was into one of these that Loic brought her. He pulled a cord on the ceiling and the small space was flooded in weak yellow light from a single bulb.

  As her eyes adjusted, Catriona burst into sobs of happiness: her beloved grandparents were here to meet her! ‘Mémé! Pépé!’

  ‘Gaston arranged it…’ Pépé embraced her, struggling to hold back his sobs. ‘You’ve grown up, Catriona. You look so like our darling Eloise, it’s as if she were standing in front of us…’

  Tears were also running down Mémé’s wrinkled face. She clung to Catriona. ‘Ma p’tit chouette. Oh how we have longed to talk to you, it has been so hard, knowing you were here on the estate and not being allowed to see you – but Gaston insisted it was for your safety. Everywhere someone is watching, taking everything in. Oh Catriona, you’re so thin, you need proper feeding.’

  ‘Catriona, how wonderful to see you!’ Gaston’s gentle little wife, Marie-Clare, came running into the cellar and embraced her as well, kissing her lightly on both cheeks. Gaston and Jean-Claude followed.

  ‘How nice to see you again, mademoiselle!’ cried Jean-Claude, shaking her hand.

  Gaston swept Catriona up in a warm, strong hug. ‘I am sorry for ignoring you earlier, my dear, but any activity out of the ordinary is seen as suspicious and if anything were to happen to you…’ Close up, her uncle looked older than she remembered, his large brow furrowed with care and his black hair more grey at the temples – but he was still her bear-like uncle Gaston. He used to carry her and Loic on his back and when she was a little girl she thought her uncle was the biggest man in the world. His wife Marie-Clare was tiny by comparison.

  Hugging him back, she said, ‘Thank you. Thank you so much for letting me see everyone. Just knowing you are all here, even if we can’t acknowledge each other in public, gives me courage.’

  Her grandmother burst into fresh tears. ‘Please my darling, whatever you’re doing here, be careful...’

  Her husband put his arm around his wife. ‘She is a brave girl and whatever she is doing, I am sure it’s for the best.’

  ‘But she is so young! Anything could happen to her!’

  Catriona kissed her grandmother’s wet cheeks. ‘Mémé, I’ll be fine. Now everyone, I need to talk to Gaston, alone.’ She’d had it drilled into her from London: never discuss her mission with more than one person. The fewer people knew the details, the safer everyone would be.

  Her grandmother protested at being banished so soon, but her grandfather kissed Catriona’
s forehead – just as he had always done since she was small – and murmured, ‘Bon courage, ma chérie’ before leading his weeping wife away. Marie-Clare followed, with Loic and Jean-Claude.

  As soon as she was alone with her uncle, she said in a low voice, ‘I have instructions from London. I need you to introduce me to Oberleutnant Frederik Schroeder as soon as possible.’

  Her uncle shuddered. ‘I’m afraid for you, Catriona. I have to admit, I also think it's far too dangerous for you, a young girl...’

  ‘Maybe so, but that is my mission. My father was on the point of recruiting Schroeder as an agent, before he disappeared. I’ve been sent here to complete the job.’

  He frowned. ‘Schroeder has a reputation as a man who turns a blind eye and bends the rules to spare the unfortunate. But you have to wonder... Is he as good as he seems? Your father believed in him, yet Oberleutnant Schroeder was probably one of the last men to see Kieran alive.’

  ‘Oh…’ The loud beating of her heart and a sudden wave of nausea made it hard for Catriona to answer right away. Finally, she whispered, ‘So you think my father is definitely dead? And you think Schroeder may have had something to do with it?’

  Gaston sighed and shook his head. ‘We don't know. Nobody knows. Kieran has made no contact, though he had many ways of getting a message to me. The fact that I’ve not heard a whisper from him is not good, I have to be honest…’

  It was hard for Catriona to restrain her grief, but she managed to say in a louder voice, ‘Then that’s all the more reason why I need you to help me get to meet this Schroeder. Maybe I can find the truth. I know it’s not the purpose of the mission – I was told that a hundred times in London – but I need to know if my father is alive or dead. One way or the other.’

  Gaston groaned. ‘Very well. We will invite Schroeder for dinner. As far as the Germans are concerned, we de Clairands are – if not actual collaborators – at least not hostile. This suits us. We need to know what they are doing and the only way to do that is to be close to them. We often invite them here, fill them with wine – not the best you understand, but they are so uncultured they imagine it is – and listen carefully to their vulgar nonsense. You will be asked to serve at table. Wear your own clothes that you brought from London. Loic tells me they’re very pretty. Then it’s up to you. If he notices you, try to encourage him.’