The Darkest Hour Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    “Seventy!”
    “Sergeant, please! I must speak to you, you must listen!”
    Rossett craned his neck to look beyond the line of police, who had their backs to him.
    “Seventy-two, seventy-three . . .”
    “Sergeant Rossett, please! It is important information for you!”
    The voice was near the freight car now. Rossett walked toward it, craning his neck to find the source.
    “Seventy-nine, eighty.”
    “Sergeant, here!” Frantic now, almost a shriek. Rossett noticed a scuffle on the ramp and pushed his way through toward it.
    “Get these people on the train, we have a timetable!” shouted the German officer. Rossett waded into the pushing group of Jews and police, cast a glance to the German officer, who was now only thirty or forty feet away, then felt a hand grab his collar, dragging him forward toward the darkness of the freight car.
    He reached into the pocket of his raincoat for his sap as he grabbed the bony wrist of the hand that was doing the pulling.
    “Please, Sergeant; please, I need to speak to you!” An old Jew owned the hand that was twisting and wrapping itself up in his raincoat. Rossett had the sap out, and he jabbed it into the old man’s ribs, but still the hand held fast, clinging for dear life.
    “Get on the train.” Rossett was pushing the old man backward up the ramp, but in doing so he himself was boarding the train. Aware that with every step he was getting closer to its cargo, he lifted his sap so that the old man could see it. “Get on the train!”
    The old man pulled him nearer, two hands on his lapels now, eyes bulging, and Rossett felt salty breath on his face. The Jew stepped on tiptoe to draw Rossett closer still. For a moment he thought the old man was about to kiss him.
    “Sergeant, you must listen. My name is Galkoff. You must listen to me.” Galkoff was whispering now, his lips brushing Rossett’s ear. Rossett twisted his head but the lips stayed close. No matter which way he turned he felt the brush of stubble on his cheek, and for a thousandth of a second he thought about his own father and a rare kiss from a dying man on a dirty pillow years before.
    “Eighty-four! That’s the lot!” called a voice from the foot of the ramp.
    “Please, it’s so important. One moment. I have treasure . . . treasure for you,” Galkoff whispered, looking down the ramp past him and then back up into Rossett’s face.
    Rossett finally managed to prise a finger off his lapel with his free hand.
    “Get on the train.”
    “It’s for you, all for you.”
    “Get on the train!” A shout this time.
    “I know you, I’ve seen you come and go to the house many times. I know you are an honest man.” Galkoff clamped his free hand onto the side of Rossett’s