War on the Margins

by Libby Cone

  ‘Yes, you are right, my love.’

  Lucy nuzzled Suzanne’s neck. She felt a tiny easing of the invisible bands around her chest as Suzanne, calming down, held her close.

  The days passed. The boundary between prisoners, at least civilian ones, and guards became more blurred. Everyone was writing or scratching ‘any minute now’ on all available surfaces. The guards did nothing to stop them. The news smuggled to them from the German radio got better and better.

  CHAPTER 71

  St Brelade, Jersey

  30 April 1945

  An exhausted-sounding Lord Haw-Haw gave his farewell broadcast, reminding the British audience that if they had only let Danzig go, the war would not have happened. Marlene imagined him, dressed in a threadbare suit, scrawny, maybe a little drunk, pounding the table with a bony fist as he worked through the various permutations of ‘You’ll be sorry.’ Planes continued to roar overhead, but they hadn’t heard any bombing from the French coast for at least a week. In the towns, the most hardbitten Nazis were still nailing up warnings against milk hoarding, but many of the soldiers were hoping for the end soon, overwrought from seeing their comrades executed for stealing potatoes. Hitler was rumoured to be dead, and the Russians were closing in on Berlin. The officers were out of control; when a sailor at the harbour made some statement they did not like, they put him up against a wall and shot him. The weather was crazy; sunshine alternating with rain and hail. Marlene and Peter, nursing tiny flames of optimism, shivered in the shed and nibbled biscuits when they couldn’t sleep.

  CHAPTER 72

  St Brelade, Jersey

  8 May 1945

  They dozed in the quiet of the early morning, then shouts and explosions awakened them. They hid under their rags until they realised these were shouts of joy and peals of thunder. They sat up and looked at each other, each waiting for the go-ahead from the other to look outside. Rain drummed on the roof and leaked through the usual places. Peter finally stood and looked out of the little window. Marlene busied herself with the crystal set. With the stroke of a pen, the Germans were now prisoners and they were now free. They embraced, shed a few tears, and then pulled on mildewy clothes and stepped out into mottled daylight.

  The rain shower was passing. People were making smoky little fires in the fields and roasting hoarded potatoes. Someone was running down the street with a Union Jack. Marlene grabbed Peter’s arm, unsteady with surprise. Then she thought, we must go to La Rocquaise and see if Lucille and Suzanne are back. She told this to Peter. She laced up her tattered shoes, he wrapped his feet with rags, and they set off for the farm.

  How strange to walk around during the day! Cars had appeared on the road, horns honking. Marlene’s heart pounded as she and Peter turned the last corner. The house was still standing, though part of the roof was charred. They knocked; no answer. The door was locked. She peered in through a window – things looked messy; doubtless the house had been looted, but it had not been destroyed.

  ‘Peter,’ Marlene urged. ‘Let’s go in. I want to clean the house up for them.’

  Peter looked at her. She looked happier than he had ever seen her; of course, he hadn’t seen her much in broad daylight.

  ‘Do you think it is OK? Do you know when, uh, they are coming back?’ Do you know if they are still alive, he thought, but couldn’t bear to mention it.

  ‘Yes, yes! Where else are they going to go?’

  It was a good point. They walked around the house until they found a broken window and managed to get in. Marlene’s heart sank. The beautiful handmade plates were smashed, the pictures torn off the walls. A fire had burnt up Lucille’s bedroom; fortunately, it had not spread. The rest of the place was pretty dry. A few pieces of the furniture remained.

  Marlene decided to burn a dilapidated chair in the fireplace. She somehow managed to get it started with some paper. She found a single piece of firewood in the cellar and added it. They actually still had running water; she began heating some in a pot and swept the kitchen floor.

  ‘I am going out,’ Peter announced. ‘I am going to find food.’

  ‘Be careful,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  She couldn’t answer. He went out. She found some unbroken plates and began to wash them with cold water and the soap residue clinging to the sink. The lights flickered on and off. She began to look more purposefully around the house for food or other useful items. She found a dusty tin of peas under mouldy papers in a cabinet. A thirty-minute search produced a tin opener. She decided to see if there was anything in the garden.

  She went out and stepped into the muddy yard. It looked quite dug up; the Germans, no doubt, had been looting it in the daytime. She saw no radishes or beetroot, but did see the pointed shoots of an onion. She pulled it up; the onion bulb was soft and black but the shoots looked inviting. She found a single potato. She brought these treasures into the kitchen. Soon, Peter knocked on the door, then let himself in. He triumphantly bore a brown-paper package.

  ‘Marlene,’ he said, ‘someone is giving out Red Cross parcels. Look at this.’

  They tore open the wrapping and found tea, another tin of peas, a tin of butter, a tin of corned beef, a packet of cocoa, a bar of soap. Marlene found a dented saucepan and washed it out. Melting butter over the fire, she added the onion greens, then the cut-up potato and corned beef. The aroma was overpowering; they almost could not wait for the rest of the food. She opened the older tin of peas and added it to the pan, relishing the sizzle and steam that resulted. She used the heated water for the cocoa. They stuffed themselves at the hearth. After sponge baths, they sat again to enjoy the embers and fell asleep in their chairs.

  A pounding on the door woke her early the next morning; so wonderful to wake up in the morning smelling of soap, hungry but not starving! Peter hadn’t heard it and was fast asleep in his chair. She walked hesitantly to the door and opened it. An emaciated Lucille and Suzanne stood there, smiling, with a tall woman with feral eyes held up between them. A handcart stood behind them.

  ‘Oh God,’ Marlene cried, and fell into their awkward embrace.

  Somehow they managed to get into the house and sit down in or on the sundry pieces of furniture still in one piece.

  ‘Today is Liberation Day!’ said Lucille. ‘There are British soldiers everywhere! Cherie, do you remember when I said the war would end on a Friday? It is only Wednesday! It is early!’

  The tall woman sat in Marlene’s chair, grasping the arms tightly. Then Marlene recognised Pauline and turned to Lucille and Suzanne in disbelief. They answered the look on her face by making cautious motions. Lucille took Pauline’s hand.

  ‘Pauline, do you remember Marlene, from the office?’

  The eyes swung to meet hers. A slow look of recognition came over Pauline’s face.

  ‘Yes, I remember Marlene. Hello, Marlene.’

  ‘Hello, Pauline. I... I...’

  ‘Cherie, Pauline has had a tragedy. Do not upset her.’ Suzanne pulled Marlene aside and whispered, ‘She was living with a deserter. They were caught, and he was shot last week. Do not say anything.’

  A deserter. Oh, God. The same soldier Marlene had seen her with so long ago? Suzanne saw the little gears of guilt beginning to whirl in Marlene’s head.

  ‘Marlene, do not worry. It had very little to do with what we did after you told us she was a jerrybag. Marlene, please ...’

  Marlene dried her sudden tears and with difficulty returned to the fireside. Pauline was staring into the dead fire, gripping the chair. Peter dozed. He would have quite a surprise when he woke up.

  ‘It is over, it is over,’ said Suzanne. She began to stir the ashes, added a piece of wood produced from the handcart. ‘We left yesterday. We stayed in town with Violette, that woman who was always trying to convert us to Catholicism. We got some of our furniture back! We got a ride here from some British soldiers. They gave us some tea. I got some biscuits, too. Let’s have them.’

  ‘Marlene, who
is this man in the chair?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s Peter. I hid with him after they took you away.’

  ‘Oh, cherie, did he help you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he was very kind.’

  ‘We worried about you so much!’

  Lucille had disappeared upstairs. She came back down from the bedroom with a small glass jar. She was laughing.

  ‘My hand cream! It is not broken! My paintings and photos are gone, but I still have my hand cream!’

  She opened the jar and held it out to Suzanne, then Marlene. The once-ordinary fragrance was almost too much to bear. Pauline continued to stare straight ahead. Marlene took a dollop of cream, warmed it in her hands, then took one of Pauline’s hands, peeling her grip off the chair arm, and began to smooth it into the rough skin. When she started on the other hand, Pauline leaned back in the chair and looked at Marlene.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  The aroma of tea woke Peter, who stared in momentary disbelief at Pauline.

  ‘Pauline,’ he finally managed to murmur, ‘I am so happy to see you alive.’

  Pauline’s head slowly turned to him. She looked at him for a long time, then smiled faintly. ‘Peter.’

  Lucille broke little pieces of biscuit and fed them to Pauline as if feeding a baby. Everyone else devoured them quickly and gulped the shockingly hot tea.

  CHAPTER 73

  Both Marlene and Peter had reasons to see Miss Viner. Marlene needed to see someone she knew she had helped, to see if that could adjourn the court inside her. Peter wanted to see the lady who had taught him English as he slowly became human again after the Lager. He remembered her brittle mannerisms fondly.

  They found her address in an old telephone directory. Her telephone did not work; it had probably been disconnected when she ran away. They set off on bicycles for St Helier. Marlene again found herself taking deep breaths of fresh air to calm herself. Perhaps this meeting would be the balm her soul needed. They rounded the corner to Miss Viner’s flat. The building seemed all right, at least from the outside. They made their way up the stairs and knocked on the door. She answered immediately. She looked thin and grey, like everybody else, but also sharp and bird-like.

  ‘Peter! Oh, I’m so surprised to see you! Who is this?’ She looked at Marlene quizzically.

  ‘This is Marlene, my friend. She hide with me after we left Pauline’s house.’

  ‘Hello, Marlene. Will you come in?’

  She looked disappointed that they had arrived empty-handed. She did not offer them anything. Most of the furniture was gone from the dank-smelling flat; they sat on some dusty trunks and a sofa missing part of its stuffing.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re all right, Peter,’ she began. ‘I was worried about you.’ She crossed her thin grey legs at the ankles and regarded him wearily.

  ‘Miss Viner, where did you go after Pauline’s house?’

  She took a deep breath and uncrossed her ankles. ‘I found someone else who didn’t mind hiding a Jewess in their cellar. It was very cold last winter. I never had anything hot to eat. They made a great deal of noise walking about upstairs. It wasn’t nice and quiet like at Pauline’s. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. The swedes made me ill.’

  ‘But you survived. You were not found out.’

  ‘That’s right. Now I have this to come back to.’ She limply waved a hand at the bare flat. ‘I don’t know what to do next. Nobody will help me.’

  Peter cleared his throat. ‘Miss Viner, Marlene did something for you.’

  ‘What do you mean? I don’t know Marlene.’

  ‘Miss Viner, don’t you remember me from the Aliens Office? Remember when you came to register?’

  ‘I remember coming to register, but I don’t remember you.’

  Peter interjected. ‘Marlene tore up your registration card.’

  ‘Tore up? What do you mean?’

  ‘She tore up card that said you were Jewish.’

  ‘Oh ... What does that mean?’

  ‘They did not know you were Jew.’

  ‘They did not know?’

  ‘No, the card, it was torn up.’

  Marlene looked at Miss Viner as Peter explained this. Her face looked puzzled. Then she narrowed her eyes and looked angry, tapping one foot on the floor.

  ‘But you didn’t tell me!’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘I thought I had to go into hiding, and now you tell me they did not know I was Jewish!’

  Marlene surprised herself by raising her voice. ‘I had to escape! They knew I was Jewish! I left St Helier the day I destroyed your card. I destroyed mine, too.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me!’ She stared in silence, then began to tremble. ‘You beastly girl! You didn’t tell me! What did I do? Oh, no!’ She crushed a fist to her mouth. Tears squeezed from her eyes. Peter looked down at the floor. Marlene looked thoughtful as Miss Viner raged on. ‘I could have stayed here! I wouldn’t have lost everything! Look at my sofa! I had to eat garbage ...’

  Peter interrupted. ‘Miss Viner, we ate garbage, too. We were in shed. Everybody eat garbage, Miss Viner. Many Jewish people, they were deported. Marlene and Pauline, they were good to you.’

  She was oblivious to Peter’s protests.

  ‘You pigs, you didn’t even bring me any tea! Get out!’

  She stood up, the rags hanging off her tiny frame as she hectored them, growing hoarse and breathless. Marlene’s heart was pounding. Peter stood, made some clumsy goodbyes, and hustled Marlene out.

  ‘She is tired, and a little crazy,’ he said. They walked the bicycles down the narrow street. Peter, bracing for Marlene’s tears, was surprised to find her smiling.

  ‘Crazy like me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am a little crazy.’

  ‘No, you are not crazy.’

  ‘No, Peter.’ She stopped walking. ‘I understand it now. I saved Miss Viner’s life, and she hates me. I got Pauline in trouble, and she forgives me.’

  ‘Miss Viner, she does not hate you – ’

  ‘No, it’s OK. I did the best I could. The war was big, and I am small. I did some good things, and I did some things that I thought were good but were not, but the war did even bigger things, Hitler did bigger things.’

  ‘I do not understand what you say. Why are you talking about Hitler?’

  ‘Peter, I did the best I could! I did the best I could! A lot of it was out of my control, but I blamed myself for it anyway! Peter, I helped people!’

  ‘Of course you did. I told you that always, camarada.’

  ‘Yes, but I needed to hear it from someone else. I needed to hear it from Miss Viner, who hates me. I KNOW I did the right thing, to destroy her card! But the war is bigger, and she is crazy, and she hates me, and it is ALL RIGHT!’

  Crying and laughing at the same time, she dropped the bike. He hugged her. As he did, she imagined people all over Jersey, all over the world, hugging or sobbing, standing in ashes and thanking God for all that they had or lying facedown and cursing God for all that they had lost, tasting their first cup of hot tea in years, getting the lice out of their hair and clothes, bringing out their wirelesses and little flags, burying their dead or at least saying prayers for them, tearing down blackout curtains, looking up at the sky, smoking real cigarettes, getting loudly drunk, looking for a pair of shoes, carefully arranging schoolbooks not already burnt for warmth.

  He helped her pick up the battered bike and they made their way back down the coastal road. The weather was warming up. The road was full of townspeople, soldiers, lorries. Some people were standing on the beach; a few were wading up to their ankles in the still-cold water, shrieking with glee.

  When they got back to La Rocquaise, Marlene took her coat and spread it out on the table. She found a pair of scissors and quickly cut the scattered stitches still holding the lining in place. Suzanne and Lucille were upstairs, trying to salvage some things from Lucille’s charred bedroom. Marlene took out the cup, found some mo
ney that had migrated up into an underarm seam, found her father’s photograph, and pulled her mother’s pearls out of the front facing. She looked at the coat, decided not to sew it back up, but rather to use it for new clothes, maybe something for Peter.

  Peter looked at the cup. ‘It is beautiful. I never saw it in light before.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Borei pri hagafen,’ he murmured, drawing on suppressed knowledge.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It is to thank God, who brings us fruit, fruit from grapevine.’

  She sat down and looked at her father’s picture.

  ‘Is that your father?’

  ‘Yes. It was taken shortly before he died.’

  ‘We can get frame.’

  A frame. A table with pictures on it. A monogrammed blouse to wear with her mother’s pearls. Hot running water. Could she make a life? Could Peter share it with her? Was there a Poland for him to return to, or could he stay in Jersey? Could he teach her how to be Jewish? She had enough questions to go on for days. She turned to look at Peter; he was fiddling with the clasp on the pearls, then stood behind her and fastened them around her neck. She kissed his hands.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said. He sat next to her at the table, her dissected coat in front of them like some strange dinner. ‘Peter, what do we do now?’

  ‘I do not know, camarada. I am just so happy you feel better.’

  ‘I want to be more like you.’

  ‘But you are, Marlene. You are braver than me.’

  ‘No, I mean, I think I want to be a Jew.’

  ‘Ah, maidel. I am barely a Jew myself. But there is one funny thing.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘I know by Jewish rules, it is through the mother. Your mother, she was not Jew, so ...’

  ‘So you mean I’m not really Jewish? The Nazis said I was!’

  ‘I know, but I think you have to have ceremony.’

  Marlene put her head down on the table and laughed. Peter clapped her on the back.

  ‘We will have ceremony for becoming Jew and then we will have wedding. I think you have to have something like fancy bath. I will get my maidel a beautiful white towel, and she will marry me in it.’