War on the Margins

by Libby Cone

  After work she pedalled to Almorah cemetery in the fading light and visited her mother’s grave. She laid a few late autumn flowers upon it and stood back, gazing at the stone. She had forgotten prayer. She stood and remembered her mother. Her mum had been a regular sort with a frequent smile but slight sadness in her eyes if you looked at her closely. She had bustled about her work at Boots and in their kitchen at home, had made most of Marlene’s clothing and taught her to bake biscuits. She frequently talked about Marlene’s late father, and was clearly proud to have had such a kind and unusual husband who let her keep her wages (she spent them on the household anyway), helped with the washing up and shopping, and was attentive to Marlene, even after a long day working for Mr Dumosch the potato merchant. Although Marlene’s mother had attended the occasional dance after his early death, she had never again indulged in courtship, happy to raise alone the daughter born of her ten-year marriage with Ted.

  Marlene then walked the bike the few steps to her father’s grave, stooped to pick up a pebble, and laid it on the top of his stone. She performed again for him the same prayerless standing devotion. Then her nervousness rose to the surface: she was alone, she had two Jewish grandparents, the shops were running out of rationed food, the bloody jerries were everywhere, it was getting cold. She sank to her knees in tears; she stared helplessly at her father’s headstone and sobbed into her hands. It was growing darker. She was afraid to stay longer, afraid to go home, afraid to do anything. Well, that wouldn’t get her anywhere, would it? She took a deep breath, hauled herself up from the gravel, and walked her bicycle back to the front gate. As she passed the caretaker’s building, she heard voices from around the corner: a woman’s laughter, a man’s chuckle. She tried to see them out of the corner of her eye as she passed; she couldn’t, but she recognised Pauline’s unmistakable giggle and the man’s distinctive German accent. ‘So,’ she thought, ‘Pauline’s a bloody jerrybag.’ She hardened her facial expression, though nobody could see it. Had Pauline recognised her? Was the German there as a spy, to find out Jews? She shouldn’t have placed the pebble! It was too late now. She quickened her pedalling, arriving home breathless.

  CHAPTER 3

  St Helier, Jersey

  22 October 1940

  Marlene parked her bicycle in front of the flat and went in. She sat on the couch and covered her face with her hands. What was she going to do? Pauline and the German had seen her; that was evidence enough that she had had a Jewish relative. She would have to register. It was probably fine; she was just nervous.

  She took the overcoat off the bedroom door, got her sewing box, and turned on the wireless. She was astonished to hear mention of the Channel Islands, with evacuated children giving their greetings from England, and a few people speaking Jersey French. Her heart pounded with excitement, but she continued her task. With a seam ripper, she separated the lining in the right side from the outer material, deciding that sitting would be too uncomfortable if she sewed things into the back. She walked around the flat, looking at all her belongings. She had some tea left from last week’s ration. Taking an envelope from her desk, she emptied the tea into it, sealed it, and placed it in the overcoat compartment, sewing through the envelope with two stitches to anchor it to the lining. She couldn’t put much more money in because there was a limit to what you could withdraw from the bank, even after the evacuation. Opening her jewellery box, she removed her mother’s pearls and sewed them into the lining. If she took all the things out of the right pocket and put them into the left, it didn’t look too unbalanced. She decided to sew some underwear in, followed it with a few handkerchiefs and some soap, an envelope of matches and a photo of her father in a little cloth bag, and sewed the lining back inside the right side of the coat. She replaced it on the door, ate her last piece of bread and butter, and went to sleep.

  The next morning she reported to work. Pauline paid no attention to her. Mr Orange was out of the office for the morning. When he returned in the afternoon, he looked at letters that had come in from Island attorneys eager to report the Jewish ancestry of their clients and asking what to do about registering their businesses. He looked at other letters and then called Marlene into his office.

  ‘Marlene,’ he began, not looking straight at her, ‘uh, is, ah, “Zimmer” a Jewish name?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it is. My father was Jewish. But my mother was not, and I am not.’

  ‘Right. Well, perhaps to be thorough, hadn’t you better register?’ He handed her the form.

  ‘Mr Orange, won’t you put a note on it as you did for Mr Davidson? He only had one or two Jewish grandparents, too.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Her hands shook so, it looked like another person’s handwriting. She dropped the form on Mr Orange’s desk, ran out to the WC, and was sick. At least it stopped her hands shaking. She washed her face without looking in the mirror and returned to work. Nobody paid her any mind, least of all Pauline, who had most likely turned her in. It was best not to attract attention, anyway. When they asked her if she wanted to go to the cinema that night, she accepted.

  The film was Sieg im Westen. Someone said it meant ‘Victory in the West’. As Marlene read the subtitles, she understood that it was about the fall of Holland, Belgium and France. Why anyone would want to watch such rubbish was beyond her. It was full of tanks and aeroplanes, people killing each other. She was sitting well into the row in the civilians’ section. Some of the office girls were trying to sit on the outside so they could flirt with the German soldiers across the aisle. Marlene tried not to watch. She tried to think of what else she could sew into the overcoat, but that made her too frantic, and it wouldn’t do to cry in the cinema, not when the enemy was watching. She tried looking at the head of someone a few rows ahead; that didn’t do. She tried following the violins in the soundtrack. That distracted her for a while. Her stomach growled with hunger. Suddenly, a small item was passed to her. A tiny chocolate bar! It must be from one of the Germans; it was too dark to read the printing on it, but she was sure it was German, provided by one of the fellows keeping company with one of her colleagues, no doubt. As she watched the three countries beaten to a pulp by the German forces, she let the small piece of chocolate melt on her tongue. She eventually closed her eyes so she could concentrate on the taste instead of the carnage. She thought of her father. He must have given her chocolate when she was little. She had to remember that; he hadn’t just given her her name, a name that was getting her into hot water with the jerries.

  CHAPTER 4

  St Helier, Jersey

  October 1940

  Marlene decided to go to Mr Davidson’s shop for her tea ration. She pedalled over on Saturday afternoon. She could not get used to the big ‘Jewish Undertaking’ signs she saw every so often. It made her think of undertakers. Mr Davidson, of course, had one on the door of his establishment.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ he said. God, he looked awful. All thin and shaky.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Davidson. How are you?’

  ‘How am I? I’m bloody terrible, that’s how I am! Why are they after me, Marlene? What did I do, that they have to put their bloody sign on my door? I’m Church of England, I am! A whole lot of good the Church is doing me now! I think the Church is spying on me at night. I see the bloody vicar in disguise, walking around outside my house. He knows where I keep my money!’

  His speech was fast, agitated. It was a little strange. Marlene was uncomfortable.

  ‘Um, I, uh, just came in for some tea.’ She handed him her ration slip.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, suddenly, with no emotion. ‘I only have Earl Grey left. Will that do?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’ It really wasn’t; she didn’t care for Earl Grey, but she wanted to leave and she did not want to seem rude by not buying anything.

  ‘Well, then. Anything else?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Davidson. Good day.’

  ‘Be careful, Marlene. Don’t let the bloody Church people find you!
’ His agitation returned again. Like turning up the wireless.

  She ducked out of the shop with her tea and jumped onto her bicycle. He was acting very oddly indeed. Back at home, she poured the tea leaves into the caddy. Then she sewed her father’s cup into the left side of her coat.

  CHAPTER 5

  18 November 1940

  The Evening Post

  Royal Courts of Jersey

  Defence Regulation No 174

  The Second Order relating to Measures against the Jews

  All Jewish economic undertakings, all Jews, all husbands and wives of Jews, and all bodies corporate which are not economic undertakings but more than one third of whose members or managers are Jews shall … declare to the Bailiff … the shares belonging … to them, their beneficial interest in the business, their sleeping interest in economic undertakings and loans to such undertakings, their real estate and interest therein.

  ‘NOTE: … [under] the power vested … by the Bailiff … that undertakings, persons and bodies specified in … the said Order must send or deliver the required declarations to the Aliens Office (signed “Clifford Orange.”)’

  Jersey 23/11/40

  Chief Aliens Officer Hill Street

  St. Helier

  Sir,

  With reference to order relating to measures against Jews dated 18/11/40 I am not sure whether I come under the province of the above order, but in case I do, I declare the following: I am running a small grocery shop which I am winding up at present and beyond a small banking account I have no other assets or property whatever.

  Yours truly,

  Nathan Davidson

  11th January, 1941

  Mr N. Davidson 35,

  Stopford Road St.

  Helier

  Sir,

  I refer to our recent interview regarding the Orders received from Field Command 515 regarding your business, and now have to inform you, as you have elected to close down rather than have an Aryan administrator appointed, that the authority requires your business to be wound up before January 25th, 1941.

  I have to require you, therefore, to proceed to make your arrangements accordingly, and to inform me in writing when the winding up of your business is actually completed.

  Yours faithfully,

  Charles Duret Aubin

  Attorney General

  Attorney General’s Chambers

  Jersey

  January 23rd, 1941

  Sir,

  In accordance to your instructions I beg to inform you that I have finished the winding up of my Business at 35 Stopford Road today, January 23rd 1941, the blind on the window pulled down and a notice ‘CLOSED’ displayed.

  Yours truly,

  N. Davidson

  CHAPTER 6

  St Helier, Jersey

  March 1941

  The winter had passed. Mrs Marks had died. Everyone was getting thinner; milk and butter were usually only available on the black market. It was more lucrative for the farmers and shopkeepers to sell to the Germans than to their fellow islanders. Some people stole things back from the Germans. There was a brisk traffic of goods from Occupied France to the Islands. Islanders who were caught stealing or selling on the black market took the return route from the Islands to France, destined for prison at Caen or Lille. They didn’t mind; they received Red Cross parcels in prison, and were able to regain a little weight.

  Islanders had heard Churchill in February, reporting on how well the English had held up under the winter’s bombing, on the low rates of crime and illness in England over the past months, how they had beaten back the ‘Italian invaders of Egypt’. Not a word about the occupied Islands, though everyone yearned not to be forgotten. Which was worse: to flee into Underground tunnels most nights and sit in the damp as the bombs thudded down, or to see one’s street overrun with German soldiers and vehicles, and the sunny beaches pockmarked with mines? To have to watch one’s step, hold one’s tongue, keep a pleasant face so as not to upset the wrong person and end up in prison? To find you couldn’t trust your local government?

  Mr Davidson had been forced to close his shop; it was a ‘Jewish undertaking’. Other shops were being sold off; Mr Orange was pleased at how smoothly it was going. Marlene wanted to spit at him. It had long ago dawned on her that she was not being silly at all, that this was indeed a very serious matter, and that her instincts were correct.

  One morning, Mr Orange gathered the girls in his office. His tan jacket looked a bit ragged, but he had a crisp handkerchief in the pocket. He cleared his throat, looked over his glasses, and gave them some instructions on the classification of British-born and Island-born citizens. Next, he announced the latest order from the Feldkommandantur.

  ‘We have a new order, ladies. We need to reclassify all Jews as foreigners.’ He took up a blank file card. ‘Every Jew will have his or her card marked with a red stripe like so.’ He drew a thick red line diagonally across the card with a pen filled with red ink. ‘Then we put a large “J” in the lower left corner like so.’ As he wrote the ‘J’, he went over and over it in red ink. ‘Try not to obscure the photo or any writing. Pauline, why don’t you do this, while I instruct the other girls in another little duty?’

  Pauline did not look eager to commence, but she stood up and went into the filing area. Marlene sat dumbstruck as Mr Orange went on about inaccurate typing and the need to file Irish citizens properly. She eventually left with the others. She walked by Pauline as a phone on the desk rang. As Pauline ran to pick it up, Marlene, her mouth dry as cotton, said, ‘I’ll finish these for you.’

  Pauline gave her a grateful nod as she took up the receiver. Quickly Marlene looked at the two cards Pauline had left to file. Viner and Zimmer. The rest of the alphabet was doomed. She made a quick show of rummaging through the card file and scribbling with pens while surreptitiously folding the cards lengthwise and slipping them into the sleeve of her blouse. She smiled and nodded at Pauline, who was still on the telephone. Taking her handbag with her into the WC, she ripped the cards to shreds and dropped the pieces into it. She and Miss Viner had officially ceased to exist.

  CHAPTER 7

  Carefully spacing the columns, Mr Orange’s secretary dutifully compiled the list, along with many other lists that he had to sign. He distractedly scribbled his signature and went on to his other duties, most of which would ruin the lives of others.

  17th March, 1941

  The Bailiff of Jersey

  Re. Registration of Jews.

  Sir,

  I have the honour to refer to your Memorandum (W 30/17) regarding the Registration of Jews and to report that the filing cards of Registered Jews have been marked and fixed with a red cross strip and included in the Registration Files for foreigners, as directed.

  A list (in triplicate) of Jews registered in Jersey, showing the nationality of each person, is forwarded to you herewith.

  I have the honour to be, Sir,

  Your obedient servant,

  Clifford Orange Chief

  Aliens Officer

  List of Jews registered in Jersey, showing nationality of each person.

  SURNAME CHRISTIAN

  [sic] NAMES NATIONALITY

  BERCU Hedy Roumanian

  BLAMPIED

  née VANABBE Marianne British (by marriage) (Dutch by birth)

  DAVIDSON Nathan Egyptian (by naturalisation) (Roumanian by birth)

  EMMANUEL Victor British (by naturalisation) (German by birth)

  FINKELSTEIN John Max Roumanian

  GOLDMAN Hyam British

  HURBAN

  née BLOD Margaret German (formerly Austrian)

  JACOBS John British

  LLOYD

  née SILVER Esther Pauline British

  SIMON Samuel Selig British

  STILL

  née MARKS Ruby Ellen British

  CHAPTER 8

  Jersey

  March 1941

  She didn’t go back to her flat. At the end of the working day, she p
ut her coat on, got onto her bicycle, and began pedalling frantically. It was only an hour till dark, and she had no idea where to go.

  She found herself heading west; the streets were almost bare of pedestrians and cyclists, so she could pedal quietly along without raising too much attention. She took the shore road deliberately because the sharp ocean breeze would deter passers-by. A few jerries in trucks were on the road; inhaling great draughts of salty air, she tried not to look at them. They certainly paid her no mind.

  Soon she was in the parish of St Brelade, a seaside paradise. It was almost dark. She dismounted her bicycle and pushed it, gripping the handles tightly as she wondered what to do next. She wanted to sit down and think; would she ever be able to? Would sitting with a cup of tea be something she would ever be able to do again? Would she ever ‘sit’ again, or would she lean, huddle, crouch, or cower? She saw the sign for the St Brelade’s Bay Hotel and walked towards it. It was a beautiful building with official-looking vehicles parked outside. A few jerries stood around the entrance, smoking and talking. When they looked at her, she managed a tiny smile and walked by. It seemed to have been taken over by the soldiers for a barracks. Should she try to work there as a maid? She was not listed as a Jew any more. What if Pauline’s boyfriend lived there? The idea was too frightening. She walked her bicycle further along the road. She was shaking now; she was filled with panic and needed to get off the street. The St Brelade cemetery was up ahead on a hill above the ocean. She had a sense of déjà vu; wasn’t it just a few months ago that Pauline and her German beau had spotted her at the Jewish section of the cemetery in St Helier? There was no time to make a fuss; she had to hide.