The Darkest Hour (3 page)

“Lucky me.”

“So, just make sure you remember”—Koehler leaned forward again and picked up his pint—“if you fuck up and I get sent back to Russia, I’ll kill you before I go, Victoria Cross or no Victoria Cross, understand?” Koehler winked and Rossett smiled back.

IT WAS KOEHLER
who had convinced Rossett to join the British Nazi Party. At first, Rossett had refused, telling his boss that he had no interest in politics, that he didn’t see how it would make any difference in his work. But Koehler had quietly sat at his desk one afternoon and explained that if he wished to remain with the Office of Jewish Affairs, it was best that he joined.

“If you don’t, things may become difficult. You may have to leave here. You may have to leave the police. If you have no job, you’ll be forced to join the National Labor Service—poor money, poor food, and always the chance that you’ll be sent out east to work on the defenses against the Russians. Just sign the papers, Rossett, don’t be a fool.”

“I don’t have to be in the party to stay in the police? I can change departments.”

“Nobody will have you. You’ll be out, especially after doing this job. Your hands are dirty now. Just sign the papers, it’s only a formality.”

Your hands are dirty,
thought Rossett. The phrase seemed to crop up more and more but mean less and less the dirtier they got.

And so he’d signed, and a week later he’d stood in front of the Southeast Area Commander of the SS as he’d pinned the tiny swastika onto his lapel and handed him his party membership card. When the German had raised his arm and said “Heil Hitler!” Rossett had stiffened, but then did the same, embarrassed to hear the medals on his suit banging together as he did so.

Once he was in the party, things had changed—ever so slightly, but change they had. He started to find that sometimes when he shopped, his ration tickets weren’t ripped out by the shopkeeper. One day, the butcher had slyly winked and passed his money back. Rossett had returned later that evening to pay for the goods and to explain that such favors would not be accepted.

“But Mr. Rossett, if I can make you happy with little things, well, you know . . . we can make each other happy, look after each other, you know what I mean?”

The butcher had tapped his nose and slid something wrapped in paper toward Rossett, who noted the blood soaking through and leaving a trail on the counter. He quietly shook his head and whispered, “I am the law. I live by the law. I do what’s right. Mark my words and remember them.”

He had then turned on his heel and left the shop, not sure if what he had said was true or not.

That night, he’d not slept a wink, and it was that night he’d opened the Scotch again.

Other things had changed. He was given the Austin and enough fuel to allow for some personal use. Occasionally, he would drive out to Southend and stare at the sea. One afternoon, he had taken Mrs. Ward, his landlady, and they’d sat on the beach drinking tea from a thermos.

After some time, he’d noticed he was crying and that she was holding his hand.

They never spoke of it again, nor had they ever again taken that drive out to the sea. It was forgotten, like so many other things.

“S
ERGEANT ROSSETT, GOOD
morning.” Koehler reached across and shook Rossett’s hand, then gestured to the other man who had stepped out of the Mercedes. “This is Schmitt of the Gestapo, just arrived from Paris. I’ve brought him along to see how we do things here. He’ll be working with us for a while.”

Rossett nodded to Schmitt, who ignored him and peered around the corner of the still-silent street.

“How many are in the building?” Schmitt asked, his thick German accent contrasting sharply with Koehler’s excellent English.

“About eighty,” Rossett replied.

“About?” Schmitt turned and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know exactly?”

“Eighty-four. I’ve every birthdate, set of fingerprints, and photo in the car, plus all the relevant documentation, if you would like to see it.”

Schmitt smiled and nodded to Koehler, who beamed like a proud father, and then went back to looking around the corner into Caroline Street.

“Do we expect any trouble from the other residents of the street?”

“No, but in case there is we’ve brought along twenty Home Defense Troops, armed with clubs. We’ll get them to form up as soon as the bobbies enter the house.”

The Home Defense Troops were mostly made up of ex–British Union of Fascists members and a few thugs who just liked cracking heads. Many had been interned at the start of the war, and they had quickly joined up as soon as Mosley had moved into Downing Street. The incoming Germans had organized them with uniforms and, at first, a mostly German command structure.

They tended to be unarmed and, in some areas, worked alongside the regular police, their sky blue uniforms with red shoulder flashes contrasting sharply with the somber serge of the British bobbies.

The farther north you went, the fewer Home Defense Troops there seemed to be. North of the demarcation line, which stretched from Liverpool to Newcastle, they were virtually nonexistent. North of the D line, the country was governed by the Northern Assembly, which operated under the British Nazi Party. It was demilitarized in theory, but Rossett knew that there were a few thousand German troops up in Glasgow; he’d seen the trains full of them one night leaving Nine Elms goods yard. Rumors abounded of another base centered on the Luftwaffe station in Lossiemouth. And, no doubt, there was a German naval base guarding what was left of the British Navy stuck in Rossyth.

The Germans had gotten everywhere.

The Home Defense Troops’ command structure had gradually evolved to accommodate ex–British officers who had come over to the cause, and as time passed, they had become more disciplined. Many new members had joined for the extra rations and security the organization brought.

Rossett had noticed that the Germans still hadn’t armed the group, though; old suspicions died hard.

“Are we ready to proceed, Sergeant? I have an important meeting at nine,” Schmitt said, still peeping around the corner.

“I’ll have the men fall in.” Rossett nodded to the uniformed police sergeant, who was now standing some ten feet away at the back of one of the wagons. He, in turn, whistled softly, and the HDT and police started to climb down from the back of the trucks. Everyone was silent, aware that the two Germans had arrived. From the area car, the two inspectors appeared. Both happy to let Rossett deal with the situation, they crossed the road to watch proceedings from afar.

Rossett watched them and silently shook his head; only his hands would be getting dirty again.

He walked to the rapidly falling-in groups of bobbies and troops.

“You’ve all been briefed, boys. Fast and thorough, understood?”

Some nodded while others drew truncheons. The HDT troops shouldered pickax handles and made ready to run into the middle of the road.

“On my whistle.” Rossett held up his police whistle and stood at the head of the group. He waited a moment for the silence to fall again, took a deep breath, and blew hard.

Chapter 3

R
OSSETT RAN AT
the head of the group, the sound of their studded boots echoing off the high buildings either side of the narrow street. He arrived at the door and signaled for the first policeman to kick it in; it crashed aside almost immediately. The first few bobbies rushed past him and he turned to watch the rest and the HDT. All was going well, just as it had done so many times before.

He took a moment and then entered the hallway, waving the coppers up the stairs, urging them on, keeping them moving.

“Come on boys! Speed and noise! Come on!” Rossett shouted, and in return, the officers around him started to shout also, urging the house occupants to get out of bed and show themselves.

Rossett stepped aside as blue-clad Valkyries charged past him and up to the startled families, who, bleary eyed, were being dragged from their beds by hair and hands. It always surprised him how easy it was to motivate the men around him; maybe it was the thrill of the hunt.

Rossett turned when the door behind him in the hallway opened. He hadn’t expected anyone to be in the small front room at this time of the morning. He spun and found Levi Cohen, one of the community elders with whom Rossett had been liaising for the last few months, peeking around the doorframe.

Rossett pushed open the door fully and saw that the old man was standing in tattered gray long johns. Across his shoulders was an even older, threadbare dressing gown. It struck Rossett that it was the first time he’d seen Cohen without a star of David sewn on his chest.

He pushed past the old man to look into the room. On a makeshift bed lay Cohen’s wife, Martha, and two other old people. He realized they’d been sleeping near the fireplace for warmth.

“What is happening here?” Cohen was angry now, pulling his dressing gown across his pigeon chest and watching as police officers herded people down the stairs. Many of the Jews had no shoes or outdoor clothing and were complaining loudly. One passed with blood running down his face from a scalp wound, inflicted as encouragement to come quietly, the fresh red the only color in the hallway.

“Get up and get outside.” Rossett spoke to the people in the bed, pointing first at them and then at the street. He then turned to Cohen. “You are being moved to more suitable accommodation. Get outside.”

“But we have only just arrived; you told us to move here!”

“Get outside, Levi. Get your people outside quickly.”

“You keep moving us to smaller and smaller places. How are we supposed to put up with this? Can we not have a moment to gather our things? The old people, they have no shoes!” Cohen was pointing along the hallway and out the front door to the street, where the Jews were being corralled by the HDT with their pickax handles.

“I’ll arrange for their things to be brought along. Get outside,” Rossett said calmly. He glanced back to the bed, where the others remained, sitting up but not getting out.

Striding across the room, he kicked at the broken wooden bed.

“Move!”

One of the old women glared at Rossett, thrusting out her chin.

“You should be ashamed!” her heavily accented voice rang out. “I come here to get away from men like you! You are a disgrace!”

A young bobby appeared in the doorway, buzzing with adrenaline. “Shall I move ’em, sir?” Wild eyed and eager.

“Yes,” Rossett replied, quietly turning away from the doorway. Cohen followed him.

“We did as you said. You told us we would be safe here. You told us if we moved here we would be left alone, and now you move us again?”

“Get outside, Levi.” This time Rossett spoke softly.

“How many times? How many times will you lie to us? Move us? How many times?” The old man was shouting now.

“I’m just doing my job.”

“Doing your job? You call this a job?” Cohen grabbed Rossett’s arm and yanked him back toward the room.

Rossett head-butted the old man, who dropped to the floor, dazed but still conscious.

Behind them, Martha screamed as the young bobby dragged her from the bed. Other constables ran back to the house to assist their colleague, and quickly the room filled with shouting policemen, two of whom lifted Cohen and dragged him away. The old man looked confused for a moment and then his eyes found focus; he stared at Rossett as he was taken outside, a treacle-thick gobbet of blood hanging from his nose. His eyes fixed on Rossett’s as he was pushed into the crowd and the waiting arms of his people. The blood dropped from his nose onto his long johns and the old man let it fall, red on gray.

It was Rossett who looked away first.

The rain started again as the wagons reversed around the corner. The older Jews were lifted by the younger ones up into the backs of the vehicles as two policemen stood either side and counted heads. Rossett stayed in the doorway and lit a cigarette, watching the houses opposite. He’d heard there had been shots fired at police during a clearance in Manchester a few weeks before. The Germans had come down hard on that street. The last thing Rossett wanted was for some locals to take umbrage while he had the two Germans watching.

All he noticed was a few curtains flicking open, then closing just as quickly. It seemed everyone was turning a blind eye and things were going to go quietly.

His forehead stung from the head butt and he gingerly touched it before sucking on the cigarette again.

The Jews were squeezed onto the back of the trucks, with canvas sheets eventually rolled down to cover the cargo from prying eyes, out of sight and out of mind.

Rossett waved four policemen across to him.

“You guard the back and front of the house, and don’t let anyone in till I come back, understand?”

“Does that include the Germans, Sarge?”

“That includes Hitler; no one goes in there till I get back.”

Two broke away to make their way around to the rear while the others stepped into the hallway out of the rain.

“Outside,” said Rossett. “Nobody goes in, including you.”

The bobbies stepped out and pulled what was left of the door closed behind them. As the trucks fired up, Rossett nodded to the uniformed sergeant.

“Get half of your lads in the empty wagon; follow us down to the rail yard. I’ll need them to help load the train.”

The sergeant nodded, looking almost shell-shocked, then took a deep breath and started issuing orders as Rossett walked back to his car. He’d almost made it when he heard Koehler call his name. When he turned, he saw the two Germans walking toward him.

“Well done, Sergeant. An excellent operation.” Schmitt was smiling now. He held out his hand for Rossett to shake.

“It seemed to go well. We still have to load the trains, but I doubt they’ll give us any problems.”

“They will do as they are told. They understand when they are met with someone who is determined to do his job.” Schmitt turned to Koehler. “I do enjoy early-morning sport. Thank you for the entertainment.”

Koehler smiled and nodded to Rossett.

“Another satisfied customer.”

“I’d best be going. Don’t want to keep the trucks waiting too long.”

“Of course, we don’t want any of those Jews dying before we get them on the train!” Schmitt laughed a little too loudly at his own joke.

Rossett climbed into the Austin.

“I’ll see you back at the office,” he said to Koehler. “Unless you are coming down to the train?”

“No, you deal with it.” Koehler turned from the car and headed to his Mercedes. Schmitt gave Rossett a wave and followed Koehler. It occurred to Rossett that Koehler never went to the station to see the Jews being loaded. Rossett watched the Germans get into the car and thought for a moment about how Koehler contrasted with Schmitt, who was now laughing and pointing at the truck. Koehler looked across to him and nodded his head. Rossett nodded back and watched them drive away.

“Were they happy with how things went?” Rossett jumped as the uniformed inspector leaned in through his window.

“Yes.”

“Will you let them know what station we are from? It’s nice to stay on Jerry’s side, you understand?”

“Everything will be in my report.”

“Anytime, Sergeant,” said the inspector as he walked briskly toward the waiting area car, its engine already running, with a belch of smoke hanging behind it in the cold air.

Brewer lifted a hand to Rossett from the back as the area car pulled away from the curb. Rossett gunned the little Austin and fell in behind the trucks to make the journey across to Nine Elms goods yard.

THE GERMAN SENTRIES
at the yard already had the barrier up as they approached. They waved the convoy straight through with a friendly, halfhearted salute and a shouted joke to the police hanging onto the back of the third truck. Although the rain had petered out to a drizzle, there was now a strong wind blowing across the tracks, and the wide-open spaces offered no shelter as the trucks bounced across the yard toward the waiting goods train.

Rossett always arranged for these operations to happen before the place came to life in the morning, a nightmare taking place while the rail workers had sweet dreams. He’d told the Ministry of Railways that he needed the yard in the early mornings so that it didn’t interfere with their schedules, but in reality he knew it was because he didn’t want too many judgmental eyes to see him pushing and prodding Jews into rail cars.

The freight train was already waiting for them when they arrived. It would have traveled all night, Glasgow to London, stopping along the way at Preston, Liverpool, and Birmingham to collect the Jews who were no longer useful. Rossett wondered when the trains would run out of cargo. He lit another cigarette and rubbed his forehead again, trying not to think about who would be chosen to fill the train the day it ran out of Jews.

He stayed in the Austin, about forty feet from the blackness of the freight car, watching as the trucks with the Jews backed up to the wooden ramp. Two railway workers quickly made themselves scarce as the police and HDT climbed down from their own transport and formed a human cordon to channel the Jews.

Rossett looked around the yard: no civilians in sight. He considered whether to pull on his hat but decided against it as a gust of wind shoved the little car and made it rock. Across the yard, the men waiting by the rear of the trucks glanced across for the okay to start work so they could get out of the rain as fast as possible.

Everyone wanted it to be over for their own reasons.

Rossett sighed, got out of the Austin, and made his way toward the waiting troops, who were squinting at him through the drizzle. As Rossett passed the other freight cars he could make out shouts and the banging of fists against the heavy timber doors. He’d once made the mistake of stopping and listening, a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

“We okay to crack on, Sarge?” said the bobby nearest the canvas flap at the rear of one of the trucks.

“Who’s counting?”

“I am, Sarge, and Kelly on the ramp,” said another policeman, who held up his notebook.

Rossett nodded to the first policeman, who started to untie the ropes holding down the canvas. Once the flap was open and the tailgate dropped, the bobby stepped back, expecting the Jews to jump down.

They didn’t.

Koehler had once said they were like “rats in a tipping barrel, creeping farther into the dark away from the light.”

Apart from the wind and the flapping of the newly untied canvas, there was no other sound until Rossett took his cigarette out of his mouth and shouted, “Come on, we’ll be here all day. Get them off!”

Almost immediately the men came to life and started to shout into the wagon. A couple of them jumped up onto the bed of the truck and disappeared into the darkness. Soon, the first of the Jews, men and women, many of them elderly, started to tumble down like leaves in autumn into the waiting arms of the HDT and police.

The wind whipped everyone in the yard, almost taking the sound of the count away with it.

“One . . . two . . . three . . .” as the first three shuffled along, confused and holding themselves with arms folded tightly, two old ladies and a teenage girl, their nightdresses providing little comfort in the rain and wind. Slowly the others started to jump down unaided, the younger ones helping their parents and grandparents. Some were crying, while others just looked around, sheepish and confused. “Fourteen, fifteen . . .” Nobody tried to make a dash for cover; nobody tried to fight back. They just did as they were told, the way they always did.

Rossett wondered if he would go so quietly. “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight . . .” He liked to think he would fight back, throw a punch or two or make a dash for it. Then again, maybe he’d just do as he was told as well.

He didn’t know.

He hoped he’d never find out.

“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine . . .”

Along the track, Rossett could see the steam engine reversing to pick up the carriages. It would have been refilling with water on one of the sidings. Smoke and sparks belched from its chimney and the two red lights hanging at its rear looked like the devil’s eyes closing in on a soul. He shuddered with the cold and turned back to the Jews. “Fifty-six, fifty-seven . . .” He glanced up to the freight car. The loaded Jews huddled away from the doors, some gathering straw and stuffing it into their clothing for warmth. Rossett wondered if they would get blankets at the port. He doubted some of the older ones would survive without them.

A German officer was walking toward them from the guards’ van at the rear of the train, his leather trench coat glistening with rain. In his hands were a clipboard and torch. Rossett watched as the German glanced up at the locked cars as he passed, checking that no cargo was going to escape.

“Sixty-seven, sixty-eight . . .”

The rest of the team had no need to shout encouragement now; the Jews had got the message and were moving under their own steam, picking their way over the gravel, some in bare feet.

“Sergeant!” A lone shout. “Sergeant! Please! Sergeant Rossett! Please!”

Rossett looked over to the dwindling line of human cargo, unable to see who was shouting his name.