The Occupation

by Deborah Swift

  ‘When do I leave?’ I asked, my voice less steady than usual.

  ‘Good man.’ Zweig exhaled, opened a desk drawer and took out a cigarette. He tapped it on the desk, then lit it with a book match and inhaled deeply. Carelessly, he threw the book of matches on the desk. I stared at it, aware of the smell of sulphur and the eagle and swastika design printed on the red background.

  ‘Keep it,’ Zweig said, gesturing at the matches.

  As I pocketed them, I had a feeling of wheels being set in motion, of being pushed along by an invisible force.

  ‘Your passes are already prepared,’ Zweig said. ‘You will take a train for Paris in two days’ time, but first — you need briefing to get to know your Kriegsname.’

  An alias. Already my stomach swooped.

  Zweig took another drag of his cigarette and said, ‘You’ll find Feldmeister Trott in room twenty-seven. He’s expecting you.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Céline

  As summer came, gradually things in the bakery got organised, despite the fact that the population of Jersey was half what it had been. My bread was not the best, to be honest. It was a bit tough and chewy, but at least I was baking, though I had to be up every day before it was light. Mrs Flanders came to help with it, and in return, twice a day, I trekked over to Flanders Farm four miles away to help her with farm work and milking. She’d managed to commandeer several other women who owed her favours, and we gradually came to a rickety routine.

  The result of this was that by the time the shop opened at eight o’clock, I already felt like I’d done a full day’s work. Today was a wet day and it just made everything harder. Many bakeries had ceased to run, so the shop was always busy, despite the rationing.

  One morning, Mrs Flanders was still there helping me lay out loaves when the shop door flew open and Rachel blew in, shaking a flurry of raindrops from her wet umbrella. Since our night at the harbour, we’d grown even closer, and now Fred was gone, she called in every day on her way home from work so we could share supper. This morning’s visit was unusual.

  ‘Can we talk?’ she said. The set of her jaw told me she was angry.

  Mrs Flanders stood up from under the counter from where she’d been stacking loaves in a crate.

  ‘Morning,’ Mrs Flanders said, with a breezy customer smile.

  A sudden silence.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you on your own,’ Rachel said, glaring at me.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ Mrs Flanders, said huffily.

  I put down my basket. ‘Just give me a few minutes and —’

  But Rachel was already out, tugging at her umbrella, which was tangled in the door. Finally, she swore and abandoned it.

  ‘Wait! You’ll get soaked!’ I yelled. But by the time I went after her, she was already halfway down the street, going in the direction of the sea, her head bowed against the rain. I stood on tiptoes, brandishing the umbrella like a fool. ‘Rachel!’

  She must have heard me, but she didn’t turn back. Already drenched from the squall, I dragged the umbrella back inside and shook it out onto the doormat.

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Flanders said, hands on hips. ‘What on earth was all that about?’

  ‘No idea,’ I said, handing her a loaf to wrap in brown paper.

  ‘Heavens, you don’t think she could be…?’ Mrs Flanders mimed a bump on her stomach.

  ‘Not Rachel. I’ve known her ages, and I know there isn’t anybody.’

  ‘That’s the thing with young girls,’ Mrs Flanders said. ‘They’re always getting themselves in trouble. Take Albert’s wife. I bet you didn’t know he married her on the rebound. It wouldn’t surprise me if one of those kiddies wasn’t even his.’

  Mrs Flanders continued to tell me all Albert’s private business as we wrapped the bread, but I wasn’t paying any attention. I was worried about Rachel. Since the night we’d tried to leave, I felt connected to her somehow, and today there was something about her accusing manner that had told me it was bad news, and that it was somehow my fault.

  Mrs Flanders and I loaded the crates with loaves and crusty rolls for the hotels, and I stacked them in the van, thumped on the roof, and waved her off.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Though I couldn’t manage without her, just being with Mrs Flanders was exhausting. At lunchtime I put a ‘Closed for Lunch’ sign in the window and, grabbing Rachel’s umbrella, hurried down to the bank in St Helier.

  She’s off sick, they told me. Sick? She hadn’t looked remotely sick this morning. I’d have to go to her apartment.

  Rachel lived on the second floor of a small dilapidated Victorian boarding house near the seafront; faded and peeling, it had communal stairs that always smelt of boiled cabbage.

  When she opened the door, I tried to give her the usual kiss to each cheek, but she withdrew. Her eyes were red and wouldn’t meet mine.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘What’s going on?’

  She held out a letter to me. ‘From my mother’s neighbour. Read it.’

  The envelope was addressed to Mrs R Jones. But Rachel wasn’t married, and her name was Cohen. I raised my eyebrows at her. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure it was for me either. But it was my address, and my initial, and the sign on the envelope told me I should open it. Go on, read it.’

  I pulled it out and took it to the window where there was more light. Though the rain had stopped, the windows were misted up and splattered with gull droppings. There was no address on the top of the letter, and no date. It was in French, but on Jersey, everyone could speak both French and English, or Jèrriais, our own Jersey language from the old Norman. I translated easily:

  Mr and Mrs Cohen of 6 Rue Balard, Paris, were ordered to report to the train station yesterday, and by now they will be on their way to a resettlement camp. Given that they are unlikely to return, their house has been requisitioned for use by the Sicherheitspolizei.

  Heil Hitler.

  At the bottom of the letter was a small symbol that looked like a cat’s face. The same little drawing was on the envelope. ‘What’s this?’ I asked, pointing.

  ‘That’s how I know it’s from Madame Bouffard. It’s their cat, Otto. He’s dead now, of course. It was when I was a little girl. I used to feed Otto when they went on holiday, and he always wrote me a thank you note, signed like this, but of course it was Madame Bouffard who wrote the notes.’ She swallowed. ‘I haven’t seen a note signed like this for twenty years.’

  ‘This woman, is she a Nazi sympathiser?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Rachel sighed. ‘She’s just an ordinary woman, like my mother. She’s not doing it out of malice. She’s my mother’s best friend; they used to gossip over the garden fence and exchange recipes for tarte au citron. I suppose, now France is occupied, Madame Bouffard must pretend to toe the line. Not to, might be too risky.’

  I stared at the note again. ‘She doesn’t say where they’ve gone. You don’t think it’s just someone making trouble?’

  ‘No. Look, I trust her. She wouldn’t write me this unless it were true, and I can’t bear to think of it. Of where Maman and Papa are, I mean. I’d heard rumours of this, of the mass transportation of Jewish people out of the cities and into ghettos, but…’ She stopped, picked at the frayed edge of her cardigan.

  ‘When did you last hear from them?’

  ‘Maman’s letters kept coming as usual until about six weeks ago. Then they suddenly stopped, and though I’ve been writing, I’ve heard nothing since. I suspected England wouldn’t let our mail through to them, now France is under German occupation.’

  I turned the letter over to look at the postmark. The words ‘unlikely to return’ had sent a chill through me. ‘When was it sent?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Rachel said. ‘I don’t know. You can see the censor’s mark, but it came this morning and the rain has blurred everything.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I can’t go there to look for them, can I? I don’t know where they’ve gon
e, or where to look. How can they do this?’

  I put the letter back in the envelope. Her voice had an accusing tone. And suddenly I realised that she meant Fred.

  I bridled. ‘It’s not Fred’s fault,’ I said. ‘It’s this stupid war.’

  ‘His brother’s a Nazi Party member though, isn’t he? You told me yourself before the war. Can’t he do anything? Can’t he find out about this resettlement camp?’

  I saw the desperation in her eyes, but I knew Fred couldn’t get involved, even if I could contact him, which seemed impossible given the circumstances. It was bad enough that England and Germany were at war. How hard he’d worked, to become English, ditching his German name Siegfried, to make himself plain Fred. Now all that was ruined.

  I sighed. ‘Fred doesn’t want to be involved, not in Nazi politics. He hasn’t lived in Germany since before we were in Vienna.’

  ‘Not involved?’ She scoffed bitterly. ‘He’s fighting for the Germans isn’t he?’

  ‘They forced him. I told you!’

  ‘But can’t he do something? Write to his brother, pull a few strings?’

  ‘You know he can’t. Jewish sympathisers are … well, I mean —’

  ‘Fred won’t help me because I’m a Jew.’ She set her lips in a thin line and went to open the door.

  ‘Rachel, it’s not Fred’s fault.’

  ‘He’s a German, isn’t he?’ She almost spat the word at me.

  CHAPTER 7

  Fred

  I shifted in my seat towards the train window and peered out at the seamed patterns of the dry summer landscape as we rattled past. Beside me, Helmuth Schulz leant back in his seat and turned the pages on his paper, a smile of contentment on his face, pleased he’d been designated the duty of accompanying me to Paris. He had volunteered, apparently. He was always volunteering for something. I, in turn, was offended that they felt they couldn’t trust me to reach my destination on my own. What did they think I needed? A babysitter?

  So, after a few attempts by Schulz to make conversation, we had remained silent, and after an hour or so, when neither of us spoke, I finally felt able to lean towards the view and take in what I could see of France. The further we got from Cherbourg on our six-hour journey, the more people I saw: long lines of people in cars and trucks, even horses and carts, like dark pencil lines against the pale crops in the fields. France was on the move, and I knew they were running from us. Were we really so intimidating that they’d give up their lives to run away from us?

  But I could see we were everywhere. Every crossing and every station was manned by armed men in our distinctive uniforms.

  ‘Look,’ Schulz kept saying, pointing them out with evident pleasure.

  There’s something ghastly about a uniform and a rifle; it commands unwarranted respect. I was glad to be dressed in my old Jersey raincoat over my well-worn suit.

  Schulz was still in his field grey, with his cap pressed over his close-cropped hair and all his Nazi insignia shining. He caught my look, grinned, and said, ‘You look different out of uniform. Not like one of us. Still, I expect that’s the point.’ He laughed.

  ‘I’m glad to get out of the thing. Itched like crazy.’

  ‘I’ll make sure you don’t get any trouble,’ he said. ‘I’m looking forward to Paris. Ooh la la!’

  I laughed with him. He was a good sort, but it was mildly irritating that he should see himself as my protector. I returned my gaze gratefully to the window. I was aware I looked like a prisoner and not part of the German Army at all. My clothes no longer fitted me, I’d lost so much weight. My shirt was loose around the collar and my trousers were held up by a safety pin. I was to be in civilian clothes from now on, but I did wish they’d thought to supply me with clothes that fitted.

  There was not much sign of battle, just long swathes of people heading away from us. The sun still shone, the birds still sang. I thought of Céline, and how I was moving further away from her. I should have written or sent a telegram. But what could I have said? Just warning you, liebchen, the German Army are about to invade the Channel Islands? I didn’t even know if it was true. Or if they were telling me this just to frighten me.

  If it was true, I wanted her to be prepared. But if it wasn’t, it would just cause her unnecessary worry. If I wrote, what would she do? Would she leave? She couldn’t come to France.

  My head buzzed with unanswered questions, until at about seven o’clock we creaked and rattled into the Gare du Nord. Paris was worse than the station at Cherbourg. Even more saluting and showing of papers, this time as if I was in Schulz’s custody. As I suspected, the other Germans looked down on me now I was no longer in uniform. I began to feel what the French must feel, and it rankled.

  I was no longer Siegfried Huber. I had to get that in my head. I repeated in my mind Édouard Vibert, not Fred. And I was to live life as if I was a Jerseyman, born there, but stuck in France, who just happened to have been caught out when the Germans came. I was to speak French or English, and never German unless I was in the Reich’s translation offices. They hoped people would think my slight accent was from living in Jersey, but though my French was pretty good, I feared the Germanic gutturals in my voice would give me away. The translations I’d be working on would be sent to me from the adjutant by a trusted courier, and I was to work from my apartment unless summoned by the security headquarters.

  A car awaited us outside the concourse, with a soldier in Oberleutnant’s insignia who greeted Schulz with an enthusiastic ‘Heil!’ He stowed Schulz’s case carefully in the boot and slammed it shut, leaving me to sit with mine on my knee.

  If I’d thought there were many Germans in Cherbourg, I’d seen nothing until I got to Paris. The Arc de Triomphe was thronged with uniformed men. Nazi swastikas the size of bedsheets hung from all the official buildings.

  ‘Will you look at that!’ Schulz slapped his knees with excitement.

  I leaned to the car window, rubbed a finger in the condensation. Half the male population of Germany must be here. Plenty of French too. I’d imagined from the numbers on the road that the city would be empty of the French, but no. To my relief, the shops and cafés were all open, and I began to think I might actually enjoy being in Paris.

  The car pulled up at a tall building on the Rue Dupin, close to the Jardin du Luxembourg. The officer pointed, gave me a key, and said, ‘Third floor. Number five. Your instructions will be waiting for you. Curfew is from ten until five; make sure you are off the streets by then. Mark it well. You are still in the army, and any misdemeanour, you can be sent to a fighting unit.’

  ‘I was in one at the barracks in Cherbourg.’ I pointed to my black eye.

  My attempt at black humour fell on stony ground. Both of them looked at me blankly.

  ‘We could meet up later, explore the city, hey?’ Schulz was full of boyish enthusiasm.

  ‘That won’t be possible, Schulz,’ the driver said. ‘I’m to take you to be briefed. They’re sending you down to Dijon in a few weeks. From now on, you don’t know each other. Got it?’

  Schulz frowned. ‘But we —’

  ‘You’ll get your orders later.’ The Oberleutnant cut him off.

  I sensed Schulz’s dismay and felt sorry for him. I took his hand and shook it. ‘We’ll meet again, I’m sure.’

  ‘When we’re both generals, eh?’

  ‘You bet!’ I smiled and stared up at the stone corbels and wrought-iron balconies. ‘Is this where I’m to live?’ It looked rather grand.

  The officer didn’t answer, just got out and opened my door.

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ he said.

  ‘Goodbye, Huber,’ Schulz said. ‘You lucky devil.’ He punched me affectionately on the shoulder.

  I got out and lifted my hand in a wave to Schulz. In reply, his arm shot into an over-enthusiastic ‘Heil’.

  With my case swinging, I strode into the dark lobby of the house and started up the echoing stone stairs. No concierge or other person was in sight. On the first-
floor landing, I looked from the window to watch the big black car draw away. I closed my eyes and exhaled. I supposed it was too much to hope I’d never set eyes on either of them again.

  My key turned easily in the lock, and what a relief to lock it and know no one else could get in. I flicked a switch and a light bulb flickered into life. The apartment smelt of vinegar, and something floral. Lavender?

  The blackout blinds were down, and it was pitch-black, so I groped for the switch and turned on every light. The apartment was three rooms — a salon, a kitchen with a partition to a bath, and the bedroom. A double bed, made up. Bare walls, almost spartan. It smelled as if the whole place had been recently scrubbed.

  It was hardly welcoming. Though it was clean, there were marks on the wall where pictures had once hung. The kitchen table was old and scratched. In the middle was a French Triumph typewriter, quite a good one, and a box of paper. Neatly lined up next to it was a newspaper, Der Deutsche Wegleiter für Paris — some sort of guide for the German troops — and a brown foolscap dossier. The dossier was labelled ‘Édouard Vibert’.

  I wondered what sort of a person Vibert would be. Perhaps he would be one of those arrogant French chefs who smothered everything in sauce. I pulled myself up to be more erect, tried out a sneering smile. I sighed. I’d never keep it up. But I couldn’t afford to be the Fred I used to be, scared of Obenauer and the rest of the army. I’d have to get a bit more backbone if I was to survive. Vibert was an enigma, but he’d have to become braver than Fred ever was.

  I flipped the dossier open to reveal what looked like several pages of information and instructions, along with official-looking papers in German, all in buff binders with the eagle stamped at the head.

  Later, I thought, folding it shut. The journey had made me tired, but I was also restless, and hungry, and I’d seen what looked like a café on the corner. I’d go there. I could probably just make it before curfew, and the thought of French food made my mouth water.

  I belted my raincoat, put my hat on at an angle that might pass for jaunty (was Édouard Vibert jaunty?), and picked up my keys. I hesitated at the door. On the doorframe were some etched lines in pencil. I smiled. When I was a child, my mother had measured me against the door frame in the same way. I tilted my head to read the name next to the lowest mark. Emil. I touched the highest mark, measuring it against myself. I guessed Emil would have been about seven or eight years old when they moved away.