The Occupation

by Deborah Swift

  Just a bunch of memories; an idea of what it was to be German.

  Bratwurst and Sauerkraut.

  Houseplants and Lederhosen.

  Wagner and Goethe.

  Way before six o’clock, I was waiting, all my senses alert. Outside, I heard a trill of birdsong, and a slant of sunshine crept in through the slit of window in the apse. When the SS Blackshirts came, they led us at gunpoint to the execution place, a circular brake of trees before which seven posts were lined up.

  Before us, twenty men knelt at their machine guns. It looked curiously beautiful, the symmetry of the trees and the guns. A clean arena of death. An SS officer tied my hands behind me to the rough post. Many previous shots had splintered it. Strangely, not to be the first to be waiting here gave me courage.

  They tied a blindfold around my eyes, a heavy black cloth, and I looked out into the dark and silence, life pulsing through my veins.

  One of the prisoners yelled out, ‘Bonne chance!’

  It made me laugh. I held my breath. They always give the order with a raised arm, so you never know when it will come.

  CHAPTER 32

  April 1943

  Céline

  Horst wasn’t the kind of man who had any domestic skills, and even if he had, he would still have expected to be waited on. He could be charming, but only to get his own way, and in some respects he was like a child, bullying one minute and cajoling the next. His presence filled the house. He took the spot nearest the fire, the biggest portion of food, and spent long hours in the washroom shaving and leaving his mess of soap and bristles. Of course, I was to wash without such niceties as soap.

  Now we were no longer baking, he left his wet greatcoat hanging on the hook where Fred’s aprons used to hang. That was enough to hurt, but once I couldn’t help noticing dark splodges near the hem, stains that could be blood. I dared not say a thing to him; he was an unpredictable predator. And without my glasses, I supposed I must have looked like a peering, mouse-like creature, trying not to jump at her own shadow.

  Rachel, of course, was in the hiding place whenever Horst was in, and her presence made me constantly on edge. Every time he went upstairs alone, I held my breath. But so far, months had gone by and he had paid the room where I slept little attention, except for a rap on the door when he expected me to go to him.

  One wet April day, Horst was out, and Rachel was stretching her limbs next to the window.

  ‘Don’t stand so close,’ I said. ‘Someone might see you.’

  ‘I have to have a little light,’ she said. ‘Have you any idea how much I long to see the sea? To stretch or run, or see the seasons change. I envy you the rain, and the wind. It’s all right for you, you can cycle into town, go for a blow on the top of the hill.’

  ‘Huh. I spend most of the time queueing. And when I get to the front of the queue, there’s just a miserable piece of pork belly — more fat and gristle than meat.’

  ‘Still, you’re a part of life. I’m just waiting. Waiting to die, or waiting to live.’

  I saw her wistful look, and it churned me up inside. When I had to go out for provisions I cycled up the bluff of the hill, out into the lanes. My body was unused to pedalling so hard, and I soon grew out of breath and had to jump off and push. The hedgerows still bore patches of late bluebells, rosy-red campion, and, in the scrub, pink thrift. The rain had stopped, and the sun peeked from the scudding clouds. I gathered up a big bunch of dripping flowers and put them in my bicycle basket. If Rachel couldn’t go out to nature, I would have to bring it to her.

  I freewheeled down the hill, into the wind, and for once the tension loosened and I felt a kind of freedom, until I saw the humps of the gun turrets where previously there had been only trees.

  When I finally got back after the shopping, I filled a striped blue jug with flowers and put them on the table, then took a smaller matching jug upstairs.

  Rachel looked up from the bed, where she was reading.

  ‘For you,’ I said, holding them out with a mock bow.

  ‘Oh, aren’t they gorgeous!’ She took hold of the jug and held it on her lap. After quite a few minutes she said, ‘You know, I never really appreciated bluebells before. Can I take them into my lair?’

  ‘Go ahead. Though you won’t see them in the dark.’

  ‘I have my torch for when you’re both downstairs. And it will make it more like home.’

  I nodded, turning away, bitter that a two-foot-six cupboard should have to be someone’s home.

  Having Rachel upstairs meant I could never relax. I was afraid of the slightest sound when Horst was in the house. Only when he was out could I let out my breath and release the knot in my shoulders. It was bizarre how after a few months, the situation assumed a strange kind of normality. It was helped by the fact that Horst was in the house less and less time, as his duties became harder.

  The fortification of the island demanded enormous numbers of enslaved workers, and many German officers were working longer hours to keep them building. Summer had arrived, and despite the scorching summer heat they were pushing on with the building works.

  A soft knock at the door. Wolfgang. I had grown to know his knock.

  Wolfgang was a godsend; his medical duties enabled him to drive around the island, and he helped us by stealing extra rations from the German stores whenever he could.

  I rushed to usher Wolfgang in as quickly as I could, fearful that the neighbours would tell Horst about this other mysterious German that spent so much time here.

  ‘Sorry, I couldn’t get away last week,’ he said.

  ‘No matter, you’re here now. Good to see you, Wolfgang. Rachel’s missed you.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘Such a beautiful day,’ he said. ‘The sea so blue. I wish I could take her driving, but it is too much risk.’ He held out a parcel. ‘It is dried sausage. Wurst. Not good sausage, tough. All I could get today.’

  I took the parcel. ‘I’m so grateful. Every little helps. Where did you park?’

  ‘Round the back by the store. Don’t worry, Mrs Galen can’t see it. Can I go up?’

  I nodded and watched him lope up the stairs. Above me I heard scuffling as Rachel emerged, and then voices.

  It always made me uneasy. In one way, it was none of my business what they did upstairs, and I felt glad Rachel should have a little company other than my own, but in another, I felt responsible for Rachel in a way that tied my stomach in knots.

  As I hid the parcel in one of my gumboots by the back door, I heard the creak of bedsprings and laughter from upstairs, and the sound made my chest hurt; it had been so long since I’d laughed. I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, standing by it as it began to boil.

  The soft purr of an engine. I yanked the whistling kettle off the hob and listened. A car. Only Germans had cars now. I shot to the window. Horst’s car had just pulled up, and a driver was climbing out to open the door for him.

  I dumped the steaming kettle on the window ledge and yelled up the stairs, ‘Horst’s back!’

  Wolfgang’s panicked face appeared over the bannister.

  ‘He’s back,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’ He seemed unable to take it in.

  ‘I don’t know! Just get out of here. Out the back way.’

  He almost flew down the stairs. Thank God I’d left the keys in the door.

  The front door opened, and Horst pushed past me without speaking. His face was white.

  Upstairs, a scraping sound on the linoleum as Rachel went back into hiding.

  ‘You’ve left the back door open,’ Horst said. He stared at me, his mouth working as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

  ‘Yes. Sorry. It’s the heat,’ I improvised. ‘It’s so hot.’ I banged the door shut, glad to see Wolfgang had driven away.

  ‘You’re home early,’ I said, to distract him.

  I wondered if he were drunk again, or worse, ill. He looked different. Drained. Some sort of sixth sense at this change made my s
pine tingle.

  I carried on making the tea as he headed for the stairs, fear coiling in my guts and all my senses tuned to the rooms above me. I heard the drag of the legs of his chair, and then a strange sound I’d never heard before. A groan and a sob. Horst was crying.

  I listened harder. It was definitely him. Muffled sobs and the noise of someone blowing his nose.

  By the time he came down, I could smell whiskey fumes and he was even more unsteady on his feet. His eyes were red-rimmed and half-closed.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s all your fault. You gave him this foolish idea, turned him from being good German to stupid Englishman.’

  I backed away from his belligerent glare.

  ‘And now look, what shall I tell my parents? It will kill them.’ His shoulders heaved in another sob. ‘It’s Siegfried. He’s dead.’

  The world seemed to stop. I saw very clearly the shabbiness of the room, and this man in a grey-green uniform with the haunted eyes, the way his neck bulged over his collar where it was too tight.

  As the words sunk in, my chest constricted, like a ball of paper you crumple in your hand. ‘What are you saying? What about Fred?’ I rushed over, grasped him by the sleeve.

  He flung his arm out to dislodge me, catching me a slap on the face.

  ‘He deserted and they shot him.’ He punched a hand into the wall, over and over. Then turned, his face raw with pain. ‘My own brother. A coward. What was he thinking?’

  It couldn’t be true. I refused to believe it. This wasn’t happening.

  ‘How do you know? Where is he? What happened?’ So many questions, and Horst was just blubbing again in front of me, great wet tears that he scrubbed away with his sleeve. ‘They tell me today. The shame of it. Like I am traitor. Like I am responsible for it.’ His shoulders heaved again. ‘They sent a letter to my mother. They will send you one too.’

  ‘Who shot him? Who? His own side?’ I couldn’t take it in.

  Horst took our wedding photograph from the mantel and stared into it. ‘He should never have married you. He was all right until he met you.’

  ‘Don’t!’ I said, reaching out, seeing what was coming.

  Too late. He threw the photograph down. It hit the hearth and I saw shards of glass skitter from the broken frame.

  I ran to pick up the pieces.

  My head whirled. I found myself staring into our young faces. Fred with his proud smile, all neat, with a buttonhole in his lapel; me — windblown, my veil blowing sideways above my smiling face. How had it come to this?

  I looked up at Horst who had slumped into a chair, his head pressed into his hands. He raised his eyes to mine. His lip trembled before he spoke. ‘The bloody fool. We used to play at soldiers when we were small. He always used to follow me. I was the leader. Now I have no-one to lead.’ He shook his head, suddenly maudlin.

  He was sorry for himself, I realised. Not for Fred, not for me, not for anyone else.

  The thought made me calm. As if from a great distance, I watched him pick up the telephone and call for his driver to return.

  ‘I will rise above this Fleck,’ he said to me, drawing himself up tall. He said the word Fleck — stain, with disgust. ‘I will prove it to them I am great soldier. They will all see how hard I work for the Reich.’

  Fifteen minutes later, the car was back, and he staggered out and into it. I guessed he was going to work. He never once offered me any kind of condolence.

  When he had gone I was able to sweep up the broken glass, and by the time Rachel crept downstairs, I was sitting in the armchair, clutching the precious photograph to my chest.

  ‘I heard him bawling,’ she said. ‘It scared me. What’s going on?’

  ‘He says Fred is dead.’ The words seemed unreal, as if someone else was speaking. ‘Executed for desertion.’

  Rachel came over and put her arms around me. ‘Oh, no. Oh, Céline.’

  I leaned into her scrawny arms and willed the tears to come, but I was still too shaken to weep for him.

  ‘I can’t cry,’ I said. ‘I should cry, but I can’t damn well feel anything.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s true?’

  I nodded numbly. ‘Horst was certain. But it’s so unfair. That he should be gone, and Horst still here. Like some sort of twisted joke.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll make tea. You’ve had a shock.’

  She made the tea and sat with me, forcing me to gulp the scalding liquid down. My hands were trembling, and suddenly I wondered how I’d go on, and why my life was worth living. Rachel caught my mood.

  ‘He’d want you to survive it,’ was all she said.

  Later that night I lay alone in bed, still clutching the photograph. What were you doing? I said to him. What made you get yourself shot? Why didn’t you come home safe?

  I looked into his smiling eyes and couldn’t find an answer. Sleep wouldn’t come. Tears wouldn’t come. I heard Horst come in in the small hours and clatter upstairs, heard his grunt as he collapsed into bed. Suddenly the whole point of struggling on, of living with this man, was too exhausting. I could have curled up and slept for a thousand years. It was so tempting to just give Rachel up, surrender her to the Nazis, take whatever punishment was coming.

  But I knew I couldn’t do that to Rachel.

  Grieving is a strange process. One day you can carry on as if everything is the same, the next something will catch you short. I hid the photograph away, for I never wanted Horst to touch it again, and at night I lay hugging Fred’s old striped pyjamas, and just the thought of him wearing them made me cry so hard that Horst banged on the wall to make me stop.

  Mostly I bottled it all up. To have Rachel on the other side of the partition, and Horst in the next bedroom meant I could have no privacy. My feelings were like a weight, a lump of black lead that made every simple action an effort. I was suffocated, as if I couldn’t breathe. Horst himself never referred to Fred again. It was as if he had never had a brother at all.

  Horst didn’t like me to cry in front of him, so all my weeping was done in snatched moments. I began to feel I might go mad if the war didn’t stop soon.

  It was a few more months before he insisted I share his bed. At first it was a kiss and a grope, but over time it soon progressed to him wanting more.

  When I refused, he said, ‘Come on, life will be much pleasanter for us both.’

  The way he said it left me in no doubt that it was a threat. After the first night, he took it as his right. He’d thrash on top of me in a desperate sort of way, as if he was trying to blot everything out of existence, even me. My body protested. It closed up, tightened, shrank away from him. He knew, and he didn’t like it.

  ‘Talk to me,’ he said, his hands pinning down my shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know what to talk about,’ I faltered.

  ‘Tell me you love it.’

  ‘I can’t, I —’

  His fist came out and my cheek exploded in pain. The first time he hit me like that, I was so shocked I cried out.

  Later, when he’d gone to work, Rachel saw the bruise on my cheek. ‘Bastard. I heard him.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘You mustn’t let him. You’ll have to try to keep out of his way.’

  ‘Easier said than done.’

  She paused, sat down at the table opposite me, and pushed her hair back out of her eyes. ‘You look exhausted, Céline.’ A silence. ‘You’re so thin, giving me half your rations. And if I wasn’t here, you could just move away. But you have to be here to feed me, to empty my chamber pot into the privy, to keep him distracted enough not to know there’s a Jew right under his roof.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ I said. ‘But sometimes I think I can’t bear it anymore, and I wonder … well, I wonder if we’ll ever be able to stop.’

  ‘Me too. And I fantasize about the British winning the war and putting a bullet through his head.’

  CHAPTER
33

  Horst’s footsteps approached the shop door and my guts shrivelled inside me. It was November now, and after all this time, I knew how those Russian men felt to be slaves. The food was ready on the table as he’d demanded, and I knew I should be grateful for the fact he had supplied a rind of bacon, potatoes and turnip, with which I had made a stew. I imagined his face would frown at it, the way he usually did.

  On his way past, he put the newspaper down deliberately in front of me, and of course I read the headlines, as he intended me to do. Two old ladies from St Brelade — Suzanne Malherbe and Lucille Schwab — had been sentenced to death for distributing anti-German propaganda. Their leaflets had apparently been written as if written by a German officer and signed ‘The soldier without a name’. Good for them.

  Horst threw his cap down on the settee and went to wash. He didn’t even acknowledge me. It struck me that this was like the worst kind of a marriage, except that I hadn’t even volunteered for it. Fred now seemed like a distant dream from a golden past. I couldn’t bear to think of him anymore. The thought that he’d been another German in jack boots stuck in my throat and filled me with hate, but at the same time the thought that I’d never see him again made me crumble. There seemed to be two Freds in my mind, and it didn’t seem safe to love either of them.

  By the time Horst had washed, I was at the kitchen table. The fact that we hardly spoke now made every sound in the house even more obvious. I jumped at every fall of soot in the chimney, at every gurgle from the pipes, at every noise of children passing in the street outside. Although I knew Rachel was well aware of how she mustn’t even breathe loudly, the simple fact of her being hidden there behind the partition still made every creak heart-stopping. And after so long, I was resigned to it with a kind of numb endurance.

  ‘I hate this wet weather,’ Horst said. ‘Jersey roads are very bad. A lot of work when cars and trucks are stuck in mud.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘We aren’t used to so much traffic.’