An Island at War

by Deborah Carr

  Mr Gibault slammed his hands down hard on his wooden counter. ‘I said that’s enough, Chantal. Now, if you can’t hold your tongue, you can get out and shop elsewhere.’

  ‘Well, I was only saying what you were all thinking,’ she argued, giving Estelle a sideways stare as if she had been the one to start the drama.

  ‘Are you going to stop this nastiness or are you leaving?’ he growled. ‘The choice is yours.’

  Estelle cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. She wanted to cry.

  Mr Gibault chatted quietly, no doubt, she thought, because he was trying to keep her calm until she was finished with her shopping. She was grateful for the slight distraction but could sense all eyes were still on her as she paid for her goods. She didn’t know what was worse the pitying glances or the accusatory ones.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gibault,’ Estelle said, leaving the shop with as much dignity as she could muster. She walked slowly and steadily along the main road until she could turn into her lane. As soon as she was sure that no one could still see her, she ran as fast as she could back to the farm. Once inside, she dropped her basket and purse, leant against the sink and burst into tears.

  Twenty

  Estelle

  How could she have been so wrong about someone? For the first time, Estelle realised just how much she had grown used to Hans in the house, his presence so calming. And, yes, how much she liked him. She had thought him to be a man of principal, despite his uniform. She had been wrong. Completely and utterly wrong. Hans was not the man she thought she knew, after all. Chantal was right. He was the enemy. She had been so stupid to forget that.

  Estelle heard the heavy sound of Hans’s jackboots coming down the stairs. Desperate to conceal any evidence of her upset, she hurriedly blew her nose on a hanky and wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. She turned to see him standing in full uniform, his cap under one arm in the kitchen doorway. His face was pale and drawn.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ he asked, his voice quiet and emotionless.

  She stared at him, unable to speak for a moment. ‘How could you? How could you murder a young man – a boy?’

  Hans flinched as if she’d hit him. ‘He was not a boy and not innocent. He was a man who had been found guilty of a crime.’

  She rounded on him. ‘He was barely more than a boy and all he did was try and escape to fight for his country.’

  ‘His country is at war with mine.’ Hans’s voice was monotone as if he was repeating a line he’d been practising.

  Estelle marched the few steps up to him and, raising her hand, slapped him hard across his left cheek. ‘You are a monster, just like all Nazis. I hate you for it and I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done.’

  His bright blue eyes narrowed and the softness she was used to seeing disappeared, replaced by icy glints as he grabbed hold of her wrists.

  ‘I did my job. I do not like it any more than you do. But I made sure that he had a quick and painless death. It was the only thing I could do for the prisoner.’ When Estelle groaned, he added. ‘Yes, I gave the order to shoot. I admit that. But I ordered my best soldier in the firing squad to shoot him directly in his heart and not miss so he would not suffer.’

  She gasped at his honesty.

  ‘I am aware that is no solace to you but we are at war, Estelle.’

  ‘Not suffer? Are you mad? The poor man must have been terrified out of his wits. ‘How does it feel to cross a line from which you can never return?’ Estelle questioned in frustration. She turned to walk out of the back door, desperate to get away from him.

  He followed her, his arm reaching over her shoulder and slamming the door closed as soon as she began to open it. Estelle spun round.

  His face was only inches from hers. He was breathing heavily and stared into her eyes for a few seconds. Then he lowered his focus to her mouth and for a split-second Estelle thought he was going to kiss her, but the moment passed and his eyes rose a few inches to look deeply into hers once more.

  ‘Whatever you may think of me,’ he said, his voice low and fracturing with emotion, ‘this is not something I’ve ever done before nor wish to repeat.’

  She had no idea what to do next.

  He looked distraught. ‘I had no choice. I have to follow orders.’ He waited for her to reply but when she didn’t, he added, ‘As a fireman, before this war began, I’m trained to save lives not take them. But now, I must follow orders and, in doing so, find a way to live with my actions. When you say you will never forgive me, know with certainty that I will never forgive myself.’

  A tiny part of her brain willed her to try to understand what he was saying. This was a new version of Hans. A different man to the one who had helped her and her grandmother on so many occasions. He had stopped her leaving the farmhouse and by doing so had shown her once again that he was in charge here. She had already assaulted him. She knew now how far he would go for his country and she daren’t give him the opportunity of turning on her and reporting her for defiance to a Nazi officer.

  He took a deep breath and before she could reply, placed his hand on the doorknob. ‘If you will move aside now?’

  She did as he asked and he immediately opened the door and marched out of the farmhouse. She took the few steps over to the kitchen window and watched him reach his waiting car. His driver got out and opened the door for him and, after giving one last look at the farmhouse, Hans stepped into the car and was driven away.

  Estelle stared at the retreating vehicle, wondering if she would ever see him again, or if she even wanted to. Then, as the car turned to leave, she noticed there was another officer in the car. He reminded her only too well of that horrible officer who had stopped her on The Parade the previous year. Before she had time to look away, she saw a hand raise up and wave at her and as the car drove down the drive, a face moved closer to the back window of the car. Estelle gasped to see it was the officer from The Parade. He smiled at her. Now he knew where she lived.

  Twenty-One

  Estelle

  She was still in shock after the events of the day when her grandmother returned from visiting her friend Violet half an hour later, explaining that she had decided to learn Jèrriais as a surprise for Estelle, having now thought that it might be useful at some point. ‘So, you see,’ she said excitedly as she took off her coat and draped it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, ‘I’m not too old to learn something new, after all.’ Estelle didn’t like to interrupt her chatter and murmured reactions in what she hoped was all the right places. ‘Violet said I had to speak it at every opportunity,’ Gran added. ‘Which is why I’ve been popping to her place so often.’

  Estelle found it difficult to remain still and not pace back and forth. She was unsure how much to tell her grandmother about what had happened between her and Hans before his hasty departure. Not that she was completely sure what had actually happened between them. The look he had given her when his face was so close to hers had made her wonder if he was about to kiss her. But that was mad, surely? She had just accused him of murder and he was devastated, that much was certain. How could a man so hurt by her words have to resist from kissing her, it made no sense at all.

  She became partly aware of her grandmother taking off her scarf and chatting about Violet’s leg trouble, but was too troubled by her own feelings to take in much of what was actually being said. Estelle needed time to clear her head, or at least work out what was going on inside it. She made an excuse to go and check on animal feed in the barn and, when out there, sat on one of the large old milk churns and rubbed her face. Hans was handsome, he was also helpful around the farm and had seemed very decent… till today. That much she knew.

  However, it was the other side of Hans she found difficult to separate from the man who lived in her house. Whichever way she tried to look at it, he was a German soldier. Plain and simple. And now she knew for certain that he had killed a man – not in battle, but a young man who had done noth
ing more than try to escape from his captors. A sob escaped and she began to cry. He had given the order to fire, for pity’s sake. Hans. How could she now then be thinking of the way he had looked at her? How could she even give space in her brain to try to work out he had wanted to kiss her? What the hell was wrong with her? She should be thinking of Gerard – her sweetheart – the man she loved and missed, not this Nazi enemy officer. Guilt flooded through her and she began to sob.

  Rebel nudged her with his face. ‘Hello, boy,’ she said, stroking the top of his warm head, the softness of his fur soothing her. Estelle crouched down and hugged him. ‘I’m beginning to think that you’re the only one I can share my deepest thoughts with. I know you won’t judge me.’ She kissed the top of his head. ‘You are such a loyal boy.’

  She noticed it was getting dark. How long had she been out here, she wondered. Her grandmother would be preparing supper now and it would be selfish of her to let her make some for Hans if he might not be coming back to the farm. It was time to go inside and tell her grandmother what had happened.

  Estelle had finished relaying to her grandmother the incident that had occurred at Mr Gibault’s.

  ‘I’ve been hearing things about that Chantal,’ Gran said, grimacing. ‘Some folk around here suspect her as being the one who sent a letter to the Jerries accusing her next-door neighbour of hiding a pig.’

  Estelle gasped at the spite of the woman. ‘And had he got one?’

  ‘Yes, poor devil. It’s been confiscated and he’s locked up in prison, waiting for sentencing right now.’

  Estelle took a moment to mull over this shocking news. ‘That’s not all, though,’ she said miserably. She went on to explain about Hans’s reaction at the farmhouse, leaving out the bit about how close they got.

  Gran’s mouth dropped open. ‘No, he didn’t do it,’ she said, sitting down heavily on to one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Oh, that’s such a terrible shame. And here was me thinking he was one of the good ones. I’d said as much to you, hadn’t I?’

  Estelle nodded. She had wanted her grandmother to be right about him, too, very much. She didn’t know who she felt most let down by, Hans for giving the order to shoot the young prisoner or herself for believing that a Nazi could be capable of decency.

  She looked over at her grandmother and saw how worn out she seemed. Estelle supposed it was one of those days when this horrible situation got the better of her.

  ‘You’re a good girl, Estelle. Never let anyone tell you otherwise,’ she said raising her right hand and resting it against Estelle’s cheek. ‘I think I’ll have an early night tonight. For some reason, I’m feeling exhausted.’

  ‘I’ll bring up your knitting, if you’re quite ready to sleep, and also a mug of warm milk. You’ll probably feel back to your old self tomorrow after getting a good night’s rest.’

  Her grandmother didn’t argue, which troubled Estelle. Usually, she didn’t like her granddaughter fussing.

  Estelle set to warming the milk then took it up to her grandmother’s bedroom, only to find that she was already asleep. Bringing it back down to the kitchen, she sat at the table to drink it herself. She yawned. Gran wasn’t the only one who had been exhausted by the day’s events. Estelle washed up and wiped the sides to keep busy, keeping an eye on the clock and listening out for sounds of a car engine. She didn’t know if she was wanting Hans to return that evening, or if it would be a relief for him to stay away. Eventually, though, she decided that he wasn’t coming back and went to bed.

  However, it was impossible to sleep with her mind so full. So much had happened to them all in the past ten months. This time last year, she thought, she and Gerard were looking forward to the summer and going swimming down at Greve de Lecq beach. Rosie would have been humming up in her bedroom, grumbling about homework and making plans for her summer, or troubling Estelle to take her to the pictures. Estelle lay in bed and looked up at her ceiling. She missed hearing Rosie’s footsteps from her bedroom above. Thankfully, the house was so old that the floorboards always creaked, especially at night, as the cooler air contracted the wood, so she could still pretend that someone was up there when she missed her sister most.

  She must have eventually dropped off because the next thing she knew her grandmother was in her bedroom opening the curtains and blinding her with the sunlight as it streamed across her pillow.

  ‘Ooh, that’s bright,’ Estelle groaned, shielding her eyes with the back of her right hand. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘No, you’ve just overslept,’ Gran replied, coming to stand by her bed. ‘He came back at some point …’ she whispered, ‘Hans … But he’s already left again. Do you think he’s avoiding us?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Estelle wasn’t surprised. ‘Although it’s probably more likely that he’s just busy. If these French guys were caught trying to escape then others will be trying to do the same from Jersey, won’t they?’

  Her grandmother sighed. ‘Let’s hope they’re more successful than that poor lad.’

  Estelle didn’t have to face Hans for three days. He managed to arrive home very late and leave before she or her grandmother rose in the mornings. She was relieved. She still didn’t know what to say to him and preferred not having to confront him again or make excuses to avoid him.

  A part of her knew that she was being unfair. She hated the Nazis for bombing London and the other cities and ports on the mainland but she also knew that the RAF were doing the same thing across Germany, and she thought of those pilots as heroes. Her thoughts were a mess. If nothing else, what had happened was a stark reminder to not get too close to Hans. He wasn’t her friend, not really. He never could be. He was an uninvited guest in their home, and on their island, and she would have to put up with him for as long as was necessary.

  Now Estelle had recovered from the shock of Chantal’s verbal attack, she had no intention of letting her, or anyone else, for that matter, give her a hard time, and she purposefully walked to the parish shop at exactly the same time as she had done on the day of the incident. She slipped her list into her pocket, pulled on her coat and grabbed her basket and purse.

  Estelle arrived at the store and joined the back of the queue.

  She exchanged a few words with those shoppers she knew well but could tell by the surreptitious glances and whispers from some of the women that it was common knowledge what had happened the other day. Estelle was almost at the front of the queue when the brass bell rang and the atmosphere in the shop changed noticeably. Estelle turned to see that Chantal had arrived.

  Estelle decided to let Chantal and her audience stew for a while. She would have her moment, but she wanted to be served first. Finally, Estelle reached the front of the queue and was welcomed by Mr Gibault. She gave him her list and waited for him to weigh and wrap her groceries.

  ‘We don’t have too much at the moment,’ he said, ‘but I do have a nice mackerel for you and your gran’s tea,’ he said, keeping his voice low and being careful not to let too many of the others see what he was wrapping for her.

  ‘Thank you, we’re very grateful. I don’t think I’ve had mackerel for months, not since they put a stop to the fishing in September.’

  She paid for her purchases and turned to leave. As she reached Chantal in the queue, she could see the smirk on her face, obviously thinking that Estelle was going to leave without saying anything and might – thinking her too nervous, perhaps? Even if she was nervous, Estelle was damned if she was going to show it.

  ‘Ah, Chantal,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘I didn’t see you come in. Any more accusations to fire at me today before I leave? Or have you quite finished?’

  Chantal’s eyes narrowed, as if she’d love nothing better than to slap her, but Estelle didn’t care. It gave her satisfaction to take charge of the situation. ‘Well?’

  Chantal looked at the others in the room. All of them were staring and not bothering to hide their interest. ‘You want to watch yourself.’

  Este
lle had had enough of this woman’s threats. ‘I don’t think you’re in a position to threaten me, or anyone else. Not when you’re sending letters to the Kommandant snitching on your neighbours.’ She leant in slightly closer, lowering her voice but keeping it loud enough so everyone could hear her. ‘The pig was it? How could you do something so despicable?’

  Before the woman could reply, Estelle turned away and walked out the shop with her head held high.

  Twenty-Two

  Rosie

  11 May 1941

  We were beginning to hope that Hitler might have had enough of trying to bomb London, but we were wrong. Last night at eleven o’clock, the bombs began falling all over the city. Oh, Estelle, it was terrifying. I truly thought we were for it. Hundreds and hundreds of bombers were flying over us. It’s said they came up the Thames and poor Westminster got the biggest hammering. I don’t know, all I do know is that even Aunt Muriel couldn’t hide how frightened she was, nor Queenie.

  We were in Queenie’s basement because I didn’t want to go to the Underground again, I hate it down there. But we were only at Queenie’s half an hour when I realised I’d been selfish to poor Aunt Muriel and wished I’d done as she asked. The entire building shook and at one point I expected it to crumble on top of us. The bombs were so loud my ears hurt. It’s as if the entire world is trembling when those things come down nearby. The ack-ack guns blasted continuously. I do admire those brave men who remain outside doing their best to defend the rest of us.

  Aunt Muriel said they probably chose last night as it was a full moon and ‘the damn Luftwaffe would have a clear view of London to be able to aim better’. I’m quoting Aunt Muriel, so you can’t tell me off for swearing. The raid lasted seven hours and by the time the all-clear went just before six o’clock this morning, I don’t think any of us got a wink of sleep.