The Darkest Hour (5 page)

Chapter 6

R
OSSETT PARKE
D THE
Austin at the front of Wapping Police Station and looked up with some trepidation at the old building that faced onto the Thames. Since moving to Charing Cross he had been an infrequent visitor to his old nick. He retained a barely used office, and Brewer, his liaison inspector, was based there, but Rossett never felt welcome when he called.

He felt like an outsider, unwanted, an embarrassment. And, although he’d never say it out loud, that hurt him. He was banking on the Brits welcoming the child and treating him more fairly than the Germans in Charing Cross, with their sentries and swastikas.

Even he wouldn’t subject the boy to that.

He stepped out onto the curb, then opened the rear door and dragged the child by the hand out of the backseat. He led him up the steps and into the busy inquiry office, where the sergeant on duty was arguing with an Irishman. Rossett stood waiting at the locked door that would grant him access into the police-staff-only area.

The sergeant on duty glanced across and then carried on with his argument, deliberately causing Rossett to wait, something Rossett noticed had started to happen more and more since he’d been working with the Germans. He sighed, allowed the sergeant his little victory for a moment or two, then impatiently rapped on the door with his free hand.

“Any chance someone can open this door, please?” shouted Rossett, interrupting the dispute, which had turned out to be about a stolen bicycle. The desk sergeant ambled across and disappeared momentarily, Rossett heard a click, and the door swung open.

“Apologies, Detective Sergeant, I never saw you hiding there.” Rossett ignored the sergeant and pushed past. “New recruit to your department?” The inquiry sergeant scrubbed the boy’s hair, but Jacob ignored him as he trailed behind Rossett.

The sergeant chuckled as he watched them pass and said to their retreating backs, “He’ll fit right in with you, Rossett. He doesn’t say much either.”

On entering his office, Rossett took off his raincoat and inspected it for soot. It was showing the signs of age, and the marks he’d picked up in the fireplace merely blended in with already present scuffs and stains. He hung it on the back of his door, then reached into the pocket, removed the pouch of sovereigns, tossed the pouch into his desk drawer, and locked it.

He put his keys into his inside suit pocket, the one without the hole in it, and turned to face the boy, who was standing in the center of the office still looking down at the floor, suitcase clutched tight to his chest.

“Have you eaten?”

Jacob shook his head.

“Are you hungry?”

Jacob shook his head.

“When did you last eat?”

“Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” Rossett looked at his watch, even though it didn’t have a date function, and then back at the boy. “You last ate two days ago?”

Jacob nodded.

“You must be starving.”

Jacob just stared at the floor.

Rossett sat down behind his desk and studied the child. The old duffel coat he was wearing was slightly too big, but it was of good quality and probably bought for him to grow into. It was buttoned to the neck, and Rossett could see a bright green hand-knitted scarf peeking out from the collar. It was the kind of coat any boy in London would have worn to go to school, except for the fact that it had a crudely stitched star of David on its breast, almost hidden behind the clutched suitcase.

Jacob was wearing gray shorts that stopped short of the Wellingtons by four inches or so. Rossett guessed him to be under four feet tall and could see that he was well underweight for his height and age.

The boy’s thick brown hair was shorn crudely at the back and sides, and his gray little face, all cheekbones and almond eyes, could almost have been that of an old man.

He made a sorry picture, and Rossett was aware that the boy smelled of damp.

“Look at me.”

The boy looked up.

“How old are you?”

“I’m seven, nearly eight.”

Rossett raised an eyebrow; he’d guessed the boy to be much younger.

“My grandfather says I will shoot up to be big and tall like my father soon.”

“Where is your father?” Rossett asked, guessing he already knew the answer to the question.

“Men came one morning, men like you, and took him.” The boy looked at the floor again.

“Look at me, boy.”

Up came the little head again.

“Your mother, where is she?”

“She died.”

“When?”

“Some time ago, I don’t know, I was little.” The boy bit his lip.

“You lived with your grandfather?”

“Yes.”

The mix-up in tenses caused Rossett to take his turn at looking down. He guessed the boy’s father had been a professional, maybe doctor or solicitor. They’d been the first to be cleared, especially if they had been young and fit. It occurred to him that it might not have been men “like” Rossett; it might well have been Rossett himself who’d come calling that morning.

It puzzled him that the boy hadn’t been on the inventory; the old man had hidden him well.

“Do you want something to eat?” Rossett broke the silence between them.

Jacob nodded. Rossett stood, took him by the arm, and led him through the station to the canteen.

As usual, space was cleared for him as he made his way through the nick. The only difference was that heads popped out of doorways once he had passed. People were curious to see the little boy with the star of David on his lapel clomping through the shiny-floored corridors in his oversized Wellingtons, holding the “Jew catcher’s” hand.

They entered the canteen to find it half full of breakfasting coppers and civilians. It was noisy with chatter and the crash of cups and plates, and Rossett felt the boy shrink slightly in his grasp.

There were rows of long tables with a few smaller, square, wooden four-seater tables for sergeants and inspectors who didn’t want to sit among the ranks.

Rossett normally sat alone at one of the square tables, facing the room so as to be able to see the comings and goings of the canteen. That would also give him some protection from the whispering that would take place behind his back. He sat the boy down at a small table and leaned down in front of him so as to speak face-to-face.

“I am going to the counter over there. Do not move from this seat. Do not think about running away. If you do, all of those policemen over there will catch you. And when they do, I will throw you in a dark cell with bad men until I can think of something really evil to do with you. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded and chewed his bottom lip.

“Say it; say ‘I understand.’ ”

“I understand. I won’t run away.”

Rossett stared at the boy for a moment, ramming home the point, then nodded. He turned and walked to the nearby counter and ordered two teas and two breakfasts. While he waited he glanced across to the child, who, true to his word, was sitting still and staring intently at the tabletop, suitcase held like a shield across his chest. Rossett pondered what to do with him and silently cursed old Galkoff for putting him in this situation.

“Two teas.” The lady behind the counter crashed the teas onto the worktop, managing to spill half of them in the process. Rossett nodded and made to pick them up. “If you want my advice, you give ’im some milk as well. Good for the little bones, see,” she said, looking across to Jacob.

“I’ll take some milk as well then.”

The woman poured a glass and passed it across the counter.

“Some of ’em don’t get enough now, what with it being rationed, bless ’em.” Rossett offered some coins and she waved him away, saying, “I’ll fetch the breakfast over when it’s done, Sergeant.” Rossett placed the money on the counter, ignoring her dismissal, then placed the drinks on a small tray and walked across to the boy.

He set the drinks down and slid the milk across first.

“Drink that, it’s good for you.”

The boy took the glass in both hands and drank the milk down quickly in almost one gulp. Rossett almost smiled when he saw the white mustache on the boy’s top lip, but instead he slid a napkin across for him to wipe it away. The boy ignored the napkin. He licked his finger, wiped it across his top lip, then licked it clean.

“Do you want some more?”

The boy didn’t reply, he merely looked down at the tabletop again, ashamed by his greed.

Rossett turned to glance around the canteen and saw the usual sudden swiveling of heads from people afraid to meet his gaze.

“Thank you.”

Rossett turned to look at the boy.

“What?”

“Thank you for the milk.”

“Uh, yes, well, it wasn’t me; it was the lady behind the counter. She suggested it.”

The boy nodded, face down to the table, the top of his head bobbing. Rossett turned back to the canteen again.

“Thank you for helping me.” Rossett turned to look at the boy and this time found Jacob staring at him. Rossett nearly fell into his almond eyes.

“I . . . I’m . . . just doing my job.”

The boy carried on staring until Rossett turned away. This time it was he who was avoiding someone’s gaze in the canteen, a strange feeling and one that he didn’t like.

The server arrived at the table with the breakfasts and another glass of milk.

“Here we go!” she said brightly. “Some growing-up juice and a lovely breakfast to warm you up!” She slid the plates off the tray and plonked the glass down in front of Jacob, who was shyly looking back down at the table. “Come on now, eat up! ’Ere, give me that case so the dog can see the rabbit!” She took the case from the boy, who gave it up more easily than he had done earlier that morning.

“Now then, would you like some hot buttered toast and—oh!” She stopped, frozen in midair as she was reaching for some butter to offer the boy. Rossett glanced at her and then back to the boy, confused by her shock.

“What is it?” he asked, looking down at the boy’s plate and then his own.

“He’s a Jew.” This time she spoke quietly, conscious of the others in the canteen. “He shouldn’t be here, Mr. Rossett. You of all people should know that.” She looked around nervously and twisted the tea towel that was hooked into her apron.

“He’s a child.”

“I could get into so much trouble, Mr. Rossett. He’ll have to go. I’m sorry.” She paused. “I’m so sorry.” This time she spoke to the boy, who looked from her to Rossett and then back again.

“Nobody is going to say anything about a child eating for ten minutes. Who are you going to get into trouble with?” Rossett leaned back in his chair, the frustration of an already stressful day becoming difficult to contain and his head starting to throb. He took out his cigarettes and slid them onto the table, a conscious statement declaring his intent to stay.

“Please, Mr. Rossett, I don’t want to end up losing this job. People can cause such a fuss about these things; I have to be very careful now.”

“Who is going to cause a problem for your serving food to a child? Who? Tell me who?” Rossett snatched the cigarette pack back up into his hands as he looked around the canteen, desperate for someone to point a finger at.

“You.”

The accusation hung in the air between them; Rossett looked from the canteen lady to the boy, who was staring openmouthed right back at him.

“I wouldn’t cause you a problem about something like this,” he said quietly, confused.

The canteen lady twisted her apron some more and eventually shook her head and turned back to the counter.

Rossett watched her go and then turned to the boy, who was still staring back at him.

“Eat.” Rossett gestured to the plate as he fumbled the cigarette packet open, his own appetite defeated by his twisted stomach and his banging head.

The boy’s head dropped again, but Rossett was relieved to see him pick up some toast and slide a tomato onto it. Rossett turned away from the table and scanned the room again; this time a few dared to look him in the eye for a moment, so he turned back to the boy and lit a cigarette. He watched the boy for a while as he nibbled at the tomato and toast, and considered his options.

He needed to get rid of the child as soon as possible. There was no hope of catching the train. He wasn’t even certain where it would be unloading. He’d always just assumed it was Dover, but even if he found that out for certain, he’d have to establish if there was some sort of holding camp or whether the boat was waiting and ready to sail straightaway.

He checked his watch: nine forty. Maybe he could drive the boy to Dover and reunite him with old Galkoff, but it didn’t take him long to dismiss that option. It was a long journey that might prove fruitless. He drew deep on his cigarette, watching the boy, then imagined staring the old man in the face as he pushed the child toward him.

He shook his head and picked up his mug of tea, rubbing his forehead with the hand that held the cigarette.

I wonder when I became a coward? Rossett thought to himself as he watched the boy eat mushrooms one by one with his fork, chewing them carefully while staring straight down at the plate, as if he was scared to look away in case the food ran off.

“The boy shouldn’t be eating that.” A voice from behind. Rossett swiveled angrily in his chair to confront this latest busybody, only to find Koehler. The German stepped closer to the table, reached across, and picked up the boy’s plate. Jacob looked up, watching it go.

“This is pig,” Koehler held up a thin sausage with his fingers and studied it, wrinkling his nose. “Well, at least some of it is. The boy is Jewish; he shouldn’t be eating this.”

“I wasn’t going to eat it. I was eating the other things, not the sausage,” Jacob said, staring longingly at the plate and then at Koehler, who smiled, took a bite out of the sausage, and put the plate back down.

“Eat the egg,” said Koehler softly, like a father, as he pulled a seat from an adjacent table and sat down opposite Rossett immediately to the boy’s right. Rossett watched as Koehler dipped the sausage into the egg and took another bite. He then looked back at Rossett and shook his head.