The Darkest Hour (7 page)
“
w
HAT’S HE DONE?
”
The custody sergeant leaned over his high counter and peered down at Jacob, who was craning his neck up to return the gaze.
“Nothing. I’ve told you, he hasn’t done anything.”
“Well, he’s not going in my cells then.”
“Bernie, please, I have to lodge him somewhere, and at least here I can keep an eye on him.”
“If he hasn’t done anything he isn’t going in my cells.”
“It’s just till Sunday, Bernie. Come on, help out an old pal?”
Bernard Clark leaned back from the counter and crossed his arms over his fat stomach. Rossett didn’t speak. He’d let the old man have his moment of power and hope the big old sergeant would give in and let Jacob be lodged in one of the two youth cells behind the counter.
“Why can’t you take him home with you?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do.” Rossett didn’t want to point out the obvious, although he couldn’t understand whether that was for Jacob’s benefit or his own.
“I don’t.”
Rossett leaned forward onto the counter and beckoned for the sergeant to come forward so he could whisper; his heart sank when Clark merely raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.
Rossett was regretting this idea more and more as time went on.
“Bernie, look, as a favor to an old mate, just let him sleep here a few days; I’ll sort out his food and exercise. If you want, I’ll take him out of a day and keep him in my office. Just let him stay here of a night; I can’t have him all the time.”
“Why can’t he go home with you?”
Finally, Rossett’s patience gave way. “Because he’s a Jew.” He immediately regretted what he’d said and quickly looked around him. A few heads of passing bobbies turned to look at him, and he, in turn, looked down to Jacob, who shamed him by staring back and tilting his head.
“If he is a Jew, why don’t you ask your mates in the SS to let him stay in their cells over at Charing Cross?”
“They aren’t my mates, and you know they aren’t.”
“Are you sure?” Clark eyed the tiny Nazi-party badge on Rossett’s lapel. Rossett subconsciously reached his right hand up to touch it and then smoothed down his suit jacket front.
“You know it wouldn’t be right sending him to Charing Cross, Bernie; it’s no place for a child.”
“You’ve sent enough people there, Rossett. One more won’t make a difference. Besides, wherever he is being sent on Sunday will be worse, I’ll wager.” The custody sergeant picked up his mug again and this time risked a sip.
Rossett stared up at Clark and swallowed hard.
“I could make life very difficult for you, Bernie,” he said, aware now that quite a few people had gathered to witness his humiliation. His cheeks burned, not with embarrassment but with anger. “You are making this hard for the child, not for me. I hope you are proud of yourself.”
Clark stood up, collected a clipboard off his desk, and theatrically pulled a pen out of his tunic pocket before stepping down from behind the high counter. He walked around to stand side on to Rossett, who hadn’t moved. Clark leaned in close to Rossett’s ear and, for the first time during their exchange, lowered his voice so that only Rossett could hear him.
“I’m not making it hard for the child, mate.” Then a little closer. “You are, you bastard.”
Rossett turned his head to look at Clark; he’d known the man the best part of ten years. All that was forgotten right at that moment. None of it mattered.
He tried to think of a reply, looking into the face of Clark, who waited, expectantly, rocking on his toes.
Nothing came.
Clark shook his head and walked off to the cells to carry out his rounds, leaving Rossett and Jacob standing before an empty desk.
Rossett looked down at Jacob, who was also watching Clark walk away, his tiny suitcase resting at his feet. After a moment, Jacob turned to look up at Rossett.
“What did he mean, it’ll be worse for me on Sunday?” said Jacob, with that furrowed brow again.
“Pick up your case and come with me,” Rossett replied, already turning and leaving the jail.
W
HEN THE SS
had arrived in London back at the start of the occupation, they had immediately chosen several stations that suited their purposes and evicted the local Met Police within hours. Over time they had fortified these stations, and some had become small self-contained garrisons and jails rolled into one.
Charing Cross was one such place. Situated on Agar Street, the station was ideal because of the narrowness of the road outside the front entrance, which allowed them to set up barriers and sentry points at either end. The small triangular courtyard at the rear of the station also ensured privacy for the loading and unloading of prisoners.
It was a perfect location for the SS and Gestapo HQ in London.
Most useful of all was the small cell complex situated in the basement of the building, far enough from prying eyes or ears to provide discretion, but close enough to central London for convenience.
The buildings that backed onto the courtyard had all been requisitioned as admin offices, and most of the back windows that overlooked the yard had been either blacked out or boarded up to ensure privacy.
Rumors of occasional volleys of gunfire coming from the yard on Sunday mornings were mostly dismissed as resistance propaganda by those whose wage packet carried the imprint of the Nazi eagle.
The times required the judicious use of the blind eye and the shut mouth.
Koehler had offices on the third floor of Charing Cross, and Rossett had had cause to visit on many occasions to attend briefings and meetings. “A little piece of Germany,” Koehler had said as they walked out into Agar Street one morning, and Rossett had had to agree. As he had looked up at the red swastika banners that hung from the building’s eaves to the ground-floor windows, with black-clad sentries springing to attention, rifle butts cracking on the pavement, and German staff cars blocking the narrow road, it felt closer to Berlin than Brixton.
Today, as he pulled up at the sentry point in the Austin, it felt more like Germany than ever. A military brass band had formed up outside the station entrance and the barrier guards were in full dress uniform, a contrast from their normal caps and battle dress. Rossett wound down his window and cursed as it reached halfway, then fell at an angle into the door panel, dislodged from its runner again.
The young SS man leaned down, smirked at the crooked window’s position, then frowned at Rossett as he looked into the car. Rossett showed his warrant card and the sentry flicked a cursory eye at it, and then looked across at Jacob, who was craning to look at the band.
“What do you want?” He was asking Rossett but looking at Jacob.
“I need to see Major Koehler; it’s about the boy.”
“Today is a bad day. It’s the anniversary of the Beer Hall Putsch, that’s why the band’s here. You’ll have to park somewhere else and walk back if you want to go in.” The German turned away in that time-honored fashion favored by guards who only dealt in black and white and brooked no questions.
Rossett swore, jabbed the little car into reverse, and backed out onto Chandos Place, looking for a space among the Mercedes staff cars that were parked all around. The Austin found a home, and after wrestling with his window, Rossett finally alighted. Taking Jacob by the hand, he walked back to the sentry post.
He waved his warrant card at the sentry, who merely stared at him as he ducked under the barrier and walked toward the front entrance to the HQ.
As they walked, the band struck up a tune he didn’t recognize, and a group of uniformed and nonuniformed dignitaries walked out of the building and took up their places on the steps, blocking the entrance.
To avoid pushing through, Rossett decided to wait. He led the boy some distance from the door and found a place among the assembled office workers and SS men who had come out to listen to the band and the long speeches that Rossett guessed were bound to follow.
A group of secretaries parted to let them stand near the railings, away from the front of the crowd. Jacob leaned forward to look at the band, twisting on the end of Rossett’s arm. The boy’s head bobbed as he tried to see through the adults gathered around him. Eventually, one of the secretaries glanced down and then, smiling at Rossett, took the boy’s hand and led him to the curbside so he could better see what was going on.
Rossett thought about protesting but instead took out another cigarette and cadged a light from a blonde who smiled and allowed her gaze to linger a little longer than was polite before looking downward with a flicker of eyelash. He drew on the cigarette and studied the blonde out of the corner of his eye. She looked familiar, and he remembered seeing her in Koehler’s office. He wondered for a moment if he still was attractive to women. He was only thirty-five, still lean, a little over six foot, and his face, aside from an old scar under his left eye, uncreased.
It seldom occurred to him that he missed a woman’s company; he had Mrs. Ward for his household needs, such as they were. There were times when he thought about another relationship, some nights, long nights, lonely nights of drinking, when he wished he had someone who loved him to tell him to stop.
But he didn’t.
He just drank alone with his pain, his memories, and his loss.
He shivered and dragged on the cigarette, then took it out of his mouth and studied it. He noticed the yellowing of his fingers from the nicotine and wondered when that had started to happen.
The band was in full swing, or as close to swing as a brass band could get. He sighed and looked at his watch: almost midday. This was taking too long. He had work to do, a report to write regarding the morning’s raid, then a meeting in the East End with a rabbi about some resettlement plans.
He didn’t have time for this. He looked toward the band impatiently.
“We still have the speeches to come. You’ve picked a bad day.” Rossett turned to find the blonde had made her way to stand closer to him, her voice husky after too many cigarettes, with the barest hint of a northern accent hovering around the edges. She smiled, having to shout over the noise of the band bouncing off the buildings opposite. “Unless you like brass bands and boring speeches, that is.”
“I didn’t know there was a parade on today. I would have waited,” Rossett replied, ignoring her joke.
“Are you here to see Sturmbannführer Koehler?”
“I am.” Rossett was unused to hearing Koehler given his full title. The German favored a less formal approach in conversation and was also fond of using the army rank of major instead of the slightly more ostentatious SS rank.
He’d once told Rossett his title “scared the English into silence,” and Rossett had nodded, silently agreeing.
“I’ve seen you come and go a few times. I manage his outer office. You’re Detective Sergeant Rossett, aren’t you?” She smiled and Rossett found himself awkwardly smiling back, surprised that the girl was flirting with him and not really sure how to deal with it.
“I am.”
“I’m Kate; we’ve spoken on the phone.” Kate had grown tired of shouting and was leaning closer to Rossett, her hand touching his arm. Rossett looked down at her hand and then back into her eyes. She added, “I’m Major Koehler’s personal secretary. You remember me?”
Rossett noticed one of the other secretaries turn and wink at Kate, who smiled back. He had a sudden feeling he was being ambushed. A man in a suit shushed Kate with a finger to his lips. Rossett felt a curious bubble of irritation at the man rise and then subside. Kate frowned, placed her hand on Rossett’s shoulder, and stood on tiptoe as she spoke, lips close to his ear, pulling him toward her.
“I was wondering, maybe you could show me around London sometime? I don’t get to see much of it, so much work and being a single girl working for Jerry and all.” She dropped back and smiled, waiting for Rossett’s reply.
Rossett had felt a butterfly flit across his stomach as her lips brushed his ear, and he looked down at the girl. It was the second time that day someone had been that close, and he knew which occasion he had preferred.
“I, er . . .” was all he could manage initially, and Kate tilted her head as she waited for him to find his voice. “I suppose I could. I’m not really the best at . . .”
Kate smiled, deal done. She fished in her handbag and produced a card like a magician.
“My number.” Rossett looked down at the card, unsure if he should take it. He looked up to see Kate frowning.
“If you don’t want to?” This time she looked small and sad, and Rossett marveled at the woman’s charms. “If there’s someone else . . .”
“No, it’ll be a pleasure,” he replied, doubting any such meeting would ever take place but too much of a coward to say it out loud.
“Excellent!” She reached up inside Rossett’s raincoat and placed the card in the outside breast pocket of his suit jacket, patting the pocket as she closed his raincoat. She smiled at him, her hand still resting intimately on his chest, then suddenly broke away and pointed to the curbside where Jacob was standing; the other secretary was crouching behind him, one hand on his shoulder, pointing to the band while she whispered in his ear. The little boy was smiling and Rossett noticed that the suitcase was swinging in time with the music.
“Your little boy is enjoying himself. Have you brought him to have a look around the HQ?”
Rossett didn’t know what to say. He looked first at Kate and then back to Jacob. His eyes were then drawn to two men watching him, on the far side of the road.
Gestapo. He vaguely remembered them from a briefing a few months back. One of them had traveled with Koehler to a clearance job out in Romford. They’d never spoken, but he suddenly had the feeling they were about to.
“He’s not my little boy.” Rossett turned to Kate. “I shouldn’t have brought him. I’d better go. Can you tell Major Koehler I’ll call him later today?”
“Of course, but you will call me as well, won’t you?” She smiled and Rossett felt himself blush. He looked across the road and was dismayed to see the Gestapo walking toward him; they must have realized he was about to leave.
“Of course, soon.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes.” Another glance to the Gestapo.
“What is your first name? Everyone just calls you Rossett; I don’t know your first name.”
“I have to go.” Rossett looked at her blue eyes and found that was all he could say. He started to push his way forward to get to Jacob to take him back to the car, looking back to Kate with a smile of apology, already regretting leaving the conversation on such an awkward note. Kate looked confused, and she tilted her head and looked past his shoulder to where Jacob was standing. Rossett followed her gaze and saw the secretary and Jacob being spoken to by the Gestapo. Rossett approached them and produced his warrant card.
“Is there a problem?” he said as the first Gestapo officer looked at the card and then turned back to the secretary, dismissing him without a word.
“Sie haben einen Jude hierher gebracht?”
“You’ve brought a Jew here?”
The secretary looked surprised and then a little frightened. Rossett leaned in to try to take Jacob.
“Ich wusste nicht, daß er Jude war.”
The girl seemed panicked, and her hand withdrew from Jacob’s shoulder in a flash, as if the boy was suddenly hot to the touch.
Rossett understood what she was saying in her clumsy English-accented German: “I didn’t know he was a Jew.”
The secret policeman pulled Jacob toward him and pointed at the star of David on his breast pocket.
“Sind Sie blind? Haben Sie nicht sehen?”
“Are you blind? Did you not see?” The Gestapo man jabbed his finger into the star and Jacob looked scared, almost close to tears. The secretary looked across to Rossett and pointed.
“Er hat ihn gebracht, hat mit mir nichts zu tun!”
“He brought him; it is nothing to do with me!” Rossett could barely understand her broken German.
The small crowd, who were watching the incident with more interest than they were giving the band, turned toward Rossett, who took another step forward to put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder, pulling the boy toward him defensively. He showed his warrant card again with his other hand, like a matador attempting to distract a bull.
“Wer zum Teufel sind Sie?”
“Who the devil are you?”
The other man pulled back at Jacob, yanking the child from Rossett’s grasp. Jacob cried out and looked at Rossett with frightened eyes. Rossett found himself taking another step forward. He gripped the Gestapo officer’s coat lapel and started to ease him back, with his fist pushing firmly into the other man’s collarbone. Rossett’s other hand twisted into Jacob’s duffel coat hood, and he almost lifted the boy off his feet as he pulled him away from the Gestapo officer’s grasp.
“He’s with me, nothing to do with you. He’s my prisoner,” Rossett said flatly, sounding matter-of-fact even though his mind was racing.
The German tried to pull away from Rossett but was unable to. He yanked on Rossett’s forearm but found it to be like an iron bar, unbending and ensuring that he couldn’t reach the boy. The German then tried to reach with his right hand into his pocket. Rossett, seeing this, yanked down on the leather collar of the coat, forcing the German to fold sideways and fumble, off balance, reaching for Rossett’s arm again. The second Gestapo officer tried to move around his colleague to reach Rossett but struggled to get past, mostly because of Rossett’s pulling and twisting the first German as a shield, in much the same way a rugby player would use a defender to push his way through a maul.
“Lassen Sie mich los!”
“Let go of me!” the German shouted as Rossett took a few more steps backward, trying to get through the crowd and back to the railings, Jacob still held in his other hand.
The people on the pavement seemed to part as he moved. Rossett heard raised voices and a woman’s scream as he dragged the struggling Gestapo officer along. Rossett’s face remained calm, a policeman’s professionalism masking the creeping realization that he had hold of a Gestapo collar in front of SS headquarters.
