An Island at War

by Deborah Carr

  She thought back to Gerard’s parting kiss and how he’d hugged her so tightly she could barely breathe. She pulled a blade of grass and wrapped it around her ring finger lost in thought for a moment. Hearing footsteps, she looked to her left and came face to face with a pretty face and a big wet nose. Estelle loved the island’s famous cows. She pulled a clump of grass from its roots and held it out for the nosy cow to take.

  ‘That was close, wasn’t it?’ she murmured, sitting up to tidy her hair and smooth down her skirt. She noticed two cows staring inquisitively at her, no doubt wondering what she was doing in their meadow. ‘It’s all right, I don’t want any of your grass. Carry on, ladies.’

  ‘I’m sure they will be happy to know you are not intending to eat their lunch.’

  Estelle gasped, horrified to realise she was not alone and knew without looking that despite the English being perfect the man who had just spoken to her was a German.

  Estelle scrambled to her feet and quickly brushed bits of grass and dirt from her lap. ‘I was just—’

  ‘Please, do not fret,’ he said, reaching out to take her elbow as she stumbled backwards. ‘You are here alone?’

  Estelle tried her best to hide her panic, but visibly jumped as she felt his touch. Should she lie? Did he know she was here by herself? She glanced around. If she screamed she would probably be heard by someone living nearby, but how quickly could they come to her rescue if she needed them to?

  ‘You have no need to fear me,’ he said, looking confused by her reaction and letting go of her elbow straight away.

  Estelle looked at him properly and for the first time took in his deep blue eyes. Was it kindness she saw in them? Certainly not like the officer with the heavy brow. She hoped she was right. She wasn’t sure what to say. All she knew was that she wanted to get away from him. Being alone in a meadow with a young German soldier was not something she wanted to be caught doing, however innocent it might be.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said, making to leave, giving him as wide a birth as possible. She tried to gauge if he minded her going but wasn’t certain how to read him.

  He stepped back from her. ‘May I escort you home?’

  She shook her head. ‘I can wait for the bus.’ What was he doing her, anyway? she wondered.

  ‘But one only passed by a short while ago, I thought.’

  Estelle wasn’t sure if he was trying to catch her out. ‘Really. I’m happy to wait. Or, I’ll walk. Yes, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll walk.’

  His face softened. ‘If you wish to, of course you must. I will accompany you to the roadside.’

  ‘No, please don’t. I know the way,’ she said confidently, praying that no one passed them by on the road. The last thing she needed was untrue gossip being spread about her and people thinking the worst of her.

  ‘Excuse me, Fräulein? I did not catch your name,’ the soldier said as he walked with her anyway, despite what she had just said.

  Why did he need to know her name? Hadn’t she made it obvious enough that she did not want to have anything to do with him? She wished she could shove him, tell him and all the other German soldiers to leave her home, her island.

  He was waiting for her to reply and Estelle could see she was going to have to tell him. She didn’t need to upset a German officer and end up having to bear the brunt of his annoyance, especially now when she was alone with one in a field. ‘My name is Estelle. Estelle Le Maistre,’ she said, eventually.

  He stopped and held out his hand for her to shake it. ‘And I am Captain Bauer of the Wehrmacht. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Le Maistre.’

  They reached the road and Estelle noticed for the first time that a grey car with the Nazi flag was parked. She saw another man sitting in the driver’s seat, staring out at her, watching.

  ‘I will leave you to go on your way unless you have changed your mind and would like me to take you to your home?’

  He looked so sincere, but who knew what was under that charm, Estelle thought, suspiciously. ‘No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you.’

  ‘As you wish,’ he replied, giving her a quick bow of his head. Estelle went to turn from him. ‘May I give you a piece of advice, though, Miss Le Maistre.’

  Estelle would rather he just let her leave, but daren’t refuse him. Not, she thought, that his question had probably warranted an answer. It appeared that he was going to have his say, whether she wished to listen to it, or not. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Please refrain from coming out like you have today.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I am free to do as I wish before the curfew,’ she said with a tilt of her chin.

  ‘You should not come to places like this alone, Miss Le Maistre. I am an honourable man, but I fear that not every man you meet will be.’

  ‘This is my home, Captain,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘My island. You and your men will not make me feel like a prisoner here.’

  She turned and walked away, expecting him to order her to stop. Eventually, though, she heard the sound of car door closing and engine start as the men drove off.

  Eight

  Rosie

  London, 13 July 1940

  Dear Essie,

  I still find it hard to imagine life without Daddy in it, but I am pretending that everything is the same back on the farm and that he is still taking his boots off and leaving them near his jacket hanging on the back of the kitchen door every evening before supper.

  I miss my bedroom and all my things, especially lying on bed with my window open listening to the waves down on the beach and the seagulls squawking and other birds singing in the trees. In fact, I miss everything about the farm and Jersey. The beaches, the cliff walks and the delicious creamy ice cream. I miss the cows lowing in the field and hearing neighbours chatting to Gran when they call on her late in the evening and she’s trying to be polite and not show how angry she is with them for interrupting her knitting. I miss hearing Daddy outside early in the mornings calling to the animals and making us giggle when he rolls his eyes heavenward when Gran says something that irritates him. I miss you drawing pretty dresses for me. I even miss my grumpy teacher, Mrs Gilcrest. Actually that’s probably a bit of a fib. Most of all though, I miss you and lying in the long grass in the top field listening to you telling me all the plans you have to travel.

  I suppose I should tell you a little about my journey here. We had to zigzag in the boat to avoid the Jerries and I was sick a couple of times, but Janine was very kind and looked after me the whole time. She stayed with me until I met Aunt Muriel and then she went on to her aunt’s place in Southampton. I hope she’s okay there but I hear from Aunt Muriel’s friends who call that they’ve had a lot of bombing there.

  The train journey was long and hot. The carriage was filled with people smoking and we were all cramped together. One lady was angry because Aunt Muriel insisted I had a window seat. I slept most of the way and it was a shock to wake up just as we were arriving in London. The buildings look like they need a good wash, and everything seems to have a coat of soot on it. Aunt Muriel said it’s due to all the coal fires. The train station was terrifying with piercing whistles and thousands of people pushing and shoving as they rushed to get to wherever they were heading. I wanted to come straight home, but Aunt Muriel, took my hand and said this was my new home.

  I still can’t believe how many people there are here. Crossing a road can be very dangerous with all the cars, vans and busses rushing passed. It’s such a busy, noisy place, but Aunt Muriel insists it’s ‘vibrant’. She loves it here and is sure that once I get over my homesickness, I’ll fall in love with London too. I’m not so sure I will, but I didn’t say so.

  You were right, Aunt Muriel is funny and very kind. She’s cleared out her box room for me and was worried that it would be too small, but I’m very comfortable there in her flat. The house is Victorian, or so she tells me and is right by a film studio, Gainsborough? I’ve no idea what that is,
but she said they make films, so you might have heard of it. Her cooking isn’t so good though and not a patch on Gran’s, or even yours, but she tries hard to keep us both cheerful. She’s registered me at a convent nearby in Hammersmith. They don’t usually take Methodists like us, but agreed to take me because they are being charitable and lots of their pupils have been evacuated.

  There’s a bucket of sand and one of water on every landing in this house. I thought it was strange at first, but Aunt Muriel said that every landing has to have one in case of incendiaries. Those are bombs but we haven’t seen any yet, thankfully. I hope we don’t. She has a photo of her and mummy. I’ve seen photographs of her before when you’ve shown me and Daddy has that one of her on the wall in our living room, but this was one of her taken on her seventeenth birthday. Honestly, Estelle, it gave me quite a turn to see it. I didn’t realise quite how like her I am. I’m so glad and it makes me feel a little more connected to her, too.

  Aunt Muriel always comments on things that I do that are like Mum. Like when I flick my hair off my face with the back of my hand, that sort of thing. She has tears in her eyes sometimes when I do those things. Not that I do them on purpose, because I was only a few hours old when she died, but when I apologised to her, she said not to, that although it might upset her a little, it also brings back our mum for her and in an odd way cheers her up.

  We see white trails curling and making circular patterns in the sky when we go out sometimes. It’s the RAF trying to protect us from the Germans’ planes and it’s called a ‘dog fight’. Strange, don’t you think to call something happening hundreds over feet above our heads by that name.

  Aunt Muriel’s calling for me to turn out the light now and get some sleep. She can see the light under my door, so I’d better do as she asks. I’ll write again tomorrow.

  Nine

  Estelle

  27 July 1940

  It was another hot, sunny morning and Estelle began her chores as soon after five o’clock as she could. She thought back to a couple of years before when her dad had decided to reduce the animals at the farm and sold his herd of Jerseys that he had been building up for twenty years to a neighbouring farmer. Her grandfather had always preferred growing crops, but her father had wanted to try dairy farming to see if it was something he enjoyed more, finally deciding to go back to doing what he had known growing up.

  At least now she only had to feed several chickens and the pigs. She would have liked not to register all the pigs with the German authorities but they were too big to conceal without her father’s help. She had miscounted the chickens though and hoped she wouldn’t be found out.

  It was a strain being in charge of the farm and she still hoped to be able to bring in a couple of men or even schoolboys to help with the harvesting on the potatoes when the time came around again. Now, though, it seemed that they were going to have to grow wheat and she had no idea how to go about doing that.

  She finished her work and crossed the yard to go back into the house. ‘Come along, Rebel,’ she shouted, looking forward to joining Gran for her cooked breakfast. It was eight o’clock and if she hurried she could be in town for nine-thirty to drop off a few potatoes and tomatoes to Antoinette before cycling on to Grouville to try to see Gerard again. It upset her that she hadn’t been able to talk to him but at least she had managed to see him a few times and let him know that she had made the effort and was still thinking about him by giving him a wave and a reassuring smile.

  Estelle arrived in St Helier and hid her bike behind a small bin area in Cross Street. She had no intention of letting any light-fingered soldiers steal her bicycle. With the new ban on cars, bicycles were in high demand. She was hot and clammy despite wearing her lightest cotton summer dress. As Estelle walked down the road into Conway Street and then Broad Street, she sensed tension in the air. She looked along the street and all appeared to be the same as it had been for the past few weeks. Her nerves tingled with anxiety. Something was amiss, but what. She heard a harsh voice giving an order from down by Town Hall, followed by the sounds of many footsteps and then what sounded like marching. It wasn’t the usual heavy sound that the German jackboots made but something lighter.

  She ran towards them, determined to find out what was going on. They looked like civilians. Estelle joined the crowds congregating along the pavement from Town Hall to Charing Cross. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked a few times but no one seemed to know. She pushed her way towards a German officer. ‘Where are they going?’ she shouted, not surprised when he ignored her plea for information.

  The crowds surged forward, held back by the local police who kept trying to calm the locals.

  Estelle spotted Antoinette’s husband Paul among rows of men being urged onwards by several soldiers with raised weapons. He looked distraught as if he was trying to hold back his emotions. Gerard must be there somewhere, she realised. ‘Can someone please tell me what’s happening to them?’ Estelle pleaded to anyone who would listen.

  ‘They’re going towards the harbour!’ a man yelled.

  A woman cried out. ‘Oh, my God! They’re sending our boys away.’

  Estelle spotted Gerard in a row near to the back of the prisoners. ‘No!’ she yelled, her cries drowned out by others calling for their loved ones, pushing forward through the crowd to try to follow the men as they were shouted at by their German captors to keep going in the direction of the docks.

  ‘Gerard. Gerard, over here.’ She wasn’t sure if he had heard her or merely sensed her presence but the next thing she knew he turned his head and saw her, a worried expression in his brown eyes.

  ‘I love you,’ he mouthed.

  ‘I love you, too,’ Estelle shouted back, tears coursing down her hot face. She moved forward as much as she could with the crowd but soon lost him and was left praying that she would see him again.

  ‘They’re taking them to France,’ someone said nearby.

  ‘They’ll be in one of those German camps before long and we’ve all heard what happens there,’ another said.

  Unable to bear listening to people’s cries for their loved ones, Estelle turned and pushed her way back through the crowds. She needed to be alone, away from everyone. Not caring if anyone she knew saw her, Estelle ran up Broad Street to the town church and, finding a quiet corner on the lawn at the back of the granite building sat down and cried.

  Ten

  Estelle

  15 September 1940

  Estelle switched off her father’s radio. It had been six weeks now since Gerard and the other soldiers had been taken from the internment camp in Grouville and then deported to Europe as prisoners of war. She could only hope that he might be allowed to send her a message at some point to let her know he was still alive, but she didn’t hold out much hope of that ever happening.

  At least the islanders were allowed to listen to the wireless again. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. They were only supposed to listen to the German stations but Estelle and Gran relished listening to the BBC and it helped them feel less cut off from the world. Hearing voices from the mainland made Estelle feel more connected to Rosie.

  But it wasn’t long before the mood changed and reports were coming in on the horrifying bombing raids on London. They were calling it ‘the Blitz’ and the thought of her sister being sent away for her own safety and ending up somewhere far more dangerous was devastating. She couldn’t help feeling angry with her dad for insisting Rosie go. She should be looking after her little sister, like she had always done.

  She heard her grandmother coming down the stairs. Gran rarely came back down at night once she had retired to bed and Estelle went through to the hallway to see what was.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, anxiously. ‘Can I bring you a drink or something?’

  Her grandmother waved her away. She hated any fuss. ‘I’m fine. I thought I was tired but, for some reason, I can’t seem to fall asleep. I thought I’d come down and make myself a mug o
f cocoa. Would you like one?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Estelle stepped back to let her grandmother pass and then followed her into the kitchen, leaning against the worktop, watching her she checked that the blackout blinds were fastened properly so that the nightly patrol cars wouldn’t see any light escaping from the kitchen. Gran poured milk from a jug into one of their saucepans and placed it on the range to heat. Then, after taking two mugs from the dresser and placing them neatly side by side, she turned to face Estelle.

  ‘Anyway, why are you still up?’ she asked her granddaughter. ‘Couldn’t sleep, either?’

  Estelle shook her head. ‘I was thinking about Rosie and all that she and Aunt Muriel are probably going through. I wish they were both here with us. I know we’ve got the Jerries on our doorstep but at least we’ve only been bombed once so far.’

  ‘Your father thought it was for the best to send Rosie though and I think it was, at the time. Back in June, the threat to Rosie felt greater here than it did in London.’

  Estelle couldn’t stop her mind from racing. ‘Gran?’

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘I know we’re all in this together and that no one knows how long it’s going to last, or what’s going to happen…’ Estelle realised she had no idea how to put her feelings into words that made any sense. ‘That is… I feel like I’ve woken up and I’m living someone else’s life right now…’

  Her grandmother reached out and patted Estelle’s right hand, giving her the courage to continue.

  ‘Everything seems so out of control and I’m not sure how to deal with it.’