The Girl from the Channel Islands

by Jenny Lecoat

  “Some acorn coffee?” Anton gesticulated toward his little stove.

  Hedy shook her head. “Another time maybe—you’ve got enough on your hands.” The remark prickled with resentment, and she saw the hurt in his eyes, instantly wished she could take it back.

  “Well, I’m really pleased for you, Hedy. Come to the bakery soon and tell me all about it.”

  The child outside the window was wailing now, and the room seemed stifling. Hedy felt a sudden need for fresh air. She forced herself to smile. “All right, I will. Bye.”

  On her way down the stairs, she heard him call after her: “You’ve done the right thing, you know.”

  But Hedy pretended not to hear.

  * * *

  The clock on the back wall read four: the predictable aching hour, when the strain of sitting hunched over her ancient Adler typewriter since early morning produced a shot of hot pain behind her left shoulder blade, and the pressure required to hammer down the stiff keys burned her tendons.

  Hedy sat back on her rickety wooden chair and took a moment to stretch her back and massage her throbbing wrists. She wondered if the other girls in the office suffered the same way. Those big blowsy Bavarians, imported from the Fatherland to type and file all week, and screw their soldier boyfriends all weekend. If they shared her pain, they never showed it. Hedy gazed up at the narrow window of the hut, the shafts of sunlight taunting her with their promise of a glorious afternoon beyond. The room was airless, its fluorescent lights flickering pointlessly even on a bright day like this, and from her neighbor Derek, a sallow, nervous youth who was one of the only other non-Germans in her block, emanated a perpetual smell of mold. Hedy suspected it was because, like her, he had nowhere to dry wet laundry. She suspected she probably smelled the same. If so, she didn’t care. Let them smell her. Aware of the sweeping gaze of Frau Vogt, the block supervisor, she took another list of German building company bids and stuffed a translation form into the Adler’s roller.

  Today was Saturday, the end of her first month in the office, and it was payday. She hoped that collecting the small brown envelope might lift her crushed spirits. The job itself was undemanding—translation of correspondence, payrolls, allocations—and the wages were decent. But the misery of it weighed heavier than even she had expected. The long hours, the dust, the stuffiness, the exhausting one-hour walk twice a day on so little food—all that was bad enough. But a conscience, it transpired, could not be assuaged or scrubbed clean. Each morning she watched as the trucks, filled with dead-eyed mercenaries, rumbled off to their construction sites to reinforce antitank walls and build new airport runways, knowing that she was now a part of it. Survival, it seemed, was an expensive business for the soul.

  Schulz, whose eyebrows had almost shot out of his head when he’d first seen the red “J” on her identity card, had allocated her a desk in the farthest, dimmest corner of the hut, clearly anxious that her racial status might cause a riot. But it soon became clear that senior OT staff were keeping Hedy’s classification to themselves. For that at least, Hedy was grateful. Those vapid Aryan typists, who stared right through her as if she were made of paper, would doubtless be far less passive in the shadowy pathways between the work huts, should they discover the truth. She accepted her corner seat without complaint, kept her head down and got through her work with speed and minimal speech—though here, at least, her accent acted as a cover, rather than a liability. She ate alone in the canteen, made no eye contact. Other than her supervisor, and occasionally Derek when he ran out of something, she drew no attention from anyone. Were it not for the perfectly formed dollop of saliva that, with vengeful secrecy, she spat onto the floor of the latrines on every visit, she might not have been there at all.

  The only exception was the German lieutenant she had met on the day of her interview. They had passed each other on the footpaths several times, and each time he greeted her with a broad smile and some small courtesy in German. She replied with a mumbled hello, knowing that a word interpreted as inappropriate or disrespectful could mean dismissal. But there was an unexpected warmth in those eyes, almost a mischievous twinkle, that she liked. And secretly, when she had gone through an entire week without one meaningful conversation, she quite looked forward to these fleeting moments of normality. Strange what tricks loneliness could play on the mind.

  Just as she pulled her finished sheet from the roller, Vogt, a pinched woman with exceptionally long, yellowing fingernails, approached Hedy’s desk. On it she placed her wage packet, followed by a list of names and addresses and a bundle of petrol coupons. “Allocation lists,” she squawked in her strangled, parrot-like voice. “To be done this afternoon. Coupons are for immediate dispatch. When you have completed each list, place the recipient’s form and the appropriate number of coupons in the sealed brown envelope.”

  “Does each recipient get the same number of coupons each week?”

  “No. If fuel stocks are low, they may receive fewer.”

  “And is that information provided on the form?”

  “No explanation is required. The difference will be compensated to them the next week, or when stocks recover.”

  Hedy nodded and began to fill in the forms as requested, but her mind scattered with a dangerous thought. If recipients had no idea how many coupons to expect each week, then she could, in theory, allocate any number she chose, and pocket the rest. Her heart began to hammer in her chest. Petrol coupons were worth a fortune and could be exchanged for anything. Every week she saw black market meat, eggs and sugar sneaked across market stalls, at prices even her new wages wouldn’t meet. This could be her key to that magic kingdom. But what if the forms were checked before dispatch? Gray, irregular shapes appeared on her paperwork, and she realized her palms were sweating.

  She tried to focus, think clearly. Getting caught was unthinkable. Theft of German property had sent plenty of islanders to jail—as a Jew, it would mean deportation. But still her mind danced and dived, picturing not just the prize, but the satisfaction. Scoring a point. Getting one over. She breathed in and out slowly and deeply, while observing the other employees from beneath her brows.

  Over the next hour she watched each worker take their paperwork to the front desk and place the coupons in the collection boxes. Each time, the copies of the documents were stamped by an administrator and piled high on Vogt’s desk like a layer cake, but at no point did anyone bother to check them. Hedy calculated that so long as the correct amount of coupon bundles were counted in the stockroom, no one would be any the wiser. And even if some delivery driver complained about a reduced allowance, there was no way anyone could trace the variation back to her.

  At ten minutes to six she still hadn’t made up her mind. By now she was fighting to control her trembling fingers. Then, as the large hand on the clock eased almost to the twelve, she saw Vogt turn away to deal with a pile of signatures. Hedy picked up a form for an Irish construction company with an allowance of thirty coupons, and rolled it into the Adler. With rivulets of sweat tickling her armpits, she typed the number twenty-five in the box, at the same time slipping five coupons into the inside pocket of her coat, which hung on the back of her chair. No one, she was certain, had seen her. As the end-of-shift bell shrieked on the wall, she stood up, delivered her remaining forms and envelopes to Vogt’s desk, and walked out of the hut at a regular pace.

  The evening was golden, with the sun still high in the sky and a gentle breeze on the air. She barely needed her coat, but she didn’t dare remove it now; anyway, overdressing on this semistarved island was commonplace these days and no one gave her a second look. The dust particles stuck in her eyes and throat, and her heart was pounding, but she looked straight ahead and continued walking. She told herself this was destiny. The ease of this opportunity was surely the hand of fate, as if the universe was forcing her to take this chance to even the score. She moved with the flow of workers down the slope toward
the south gate, her booty nestled securely next to her heart. Bodies jostled and pushed past her in their eagerness to get home. She maneuvered her way through them, making sure she kept her footing firm on the path. She was almost at the gate. She was almost free. Then she felt the hand on her shoulder.

  Turning, she saw his face close to hers. For a second all she saw was the uniform and thought she might pass out.

  “Hedy, isn’t it? Kurt Neumann, remember? We met the day you were hired.” He must have seen the color drain from her face because he added quickly, “Don’t worry. This isn’t about work—I’m not even part of the OT. I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  She stared at him, half expecting the coupons to come to life, burst through her coat and hurl themselves into his face. She breathed in slowly, trying to get a grip of herself. “Yes?”

  “I know you’re one of our translators. I have this article from the American Journal of Science, about the future of the motorcar, and I was wondering if you might translate it for me?” Hedy opened her mouth but no sound came out. “I do speak English, but I know yours is far better than mine! I’d be happy to pay you, or I could thank you by buying you a drink sometime. Maybe dinner?” He smiled, and it was an authentic smile—warm, full of optimism and ideas. It made the crow’s-feet around his eyes crease up. His teeth were white and even. Hedy sensed that the acid swirling in her stomach was rising up.

  “Dinner?”

  “Look, I understand,” he assured her. “If you don’t want to be seen in public with a German officer. But we do have access to our own stores. I could bring food to your home. Do you like cheese?”

  “Cheese?” She cursed herself. This kind of panicked reaction was exactly how she would be caught.

  “Or whatever you like. No funny business, I promise. I was in the Deutsche Jungenschaft, you know. Perfect manners.” He gave a little laugh, inviting her to join in. Hedy wrenched her facial muscles into a laughing position. “So what do you say?”

  “Sure.” She felt the space around her shift and blur. Her only conscious thought was that this man clearly did not know that she was Jewish. Every particle of her body was screaming at her to get away. In her peripheral vision, she was scouting the exits.

  “Great. Well, I’ll put the article on your desk and you let me know what night is good for you, all right? See you.”

  Another brilliant smile and he was gone. Hedy turned and continued down the path out of the compound. Her legs seemed to swing weightlessly beneath her, and the lane swam unseen in front of her eyes. She hardly exhaled until she reached the main road, and for the remainder of her journey home she had to stop several times to catch her breath at the roadside. Not until she was back in her apartment was she able to take stock of what had happened. As the reality sank in, she began to laugh, a frightening cackle of hysteria that sent Hemingway scurrying under the bed, and forced her to sit down at the table. For several minutes she wondered if she would ever stop.

  With a shaking hand, she pulled the coupons from her inside pocket and stared at them. She had got away with it. And aside from her own fear, there was no reason why she shouldn’t get away with it again. Perhaps every week. She felt a flush of pride. She had swindled her overlords, scored a victory. No longer a collaborator, she was now a resistance fighter. Hiding in plain sight within the snake pit, trickling poison into their nest, throwing a V-sign to the entire German nation.

  There was just one problem. She appeared to have invited a German officer to her home for dinner.

  THREE

  Anton’s apartment was as clean and neat as Hedy had ever seen it. Every surface had been scrubbed with hot water and there was even an eggcup of daisies and buttercups on the table. Two places were set with chipped plates and old tin cutlery, and a pot of cabbage and swede stew bubbled away on the single electric ring. Hedy stirred the pot with a bent metal spoon, wishing that Anton owned a wooden one. If she’d known there wasn’t one in either of the drawers of his little dresser, she would have brought her own from home, and saved the ends of her fingers from blisters. She turned the heat down just as Anton burst through the door of the apartment, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets and an uneasy look in his eyes. Hedy wiped her hands on a ragged tea towel.

  “Forget something?”

  “I need something to read while I’m sitting down there.” He took a Stefan Zweig novel from the half dozen books on the shelf and shifted it from palm to palm. “How long do you think the Kraut will stay?”

  “Couple of hours at the most. Thank you again for offering to do this. I really didn’t want him coming to my place.”

  “Are you sure you want to go through with it?” Anton’s face was taut with concern.

  “If I bail out now he could get angry, say that I led him on. And I don’t want to give him any reason to get suspicious.”

  “But what if he, you know...”

  “If anything happens I’ll stamp on the floor, or scream. But it won’t. He’s not like that.” The words left her mouth easily; she realized that she meant it, and wondered why.

  “So long as he doesn’t find out you’re Jewish. What if he wants to see you again?”

  “He won’t. I plan to bore him to death. You know I can do it.” They exchanged a small smile across the room, but Anton still looked unsettled.

  “And you’re certain he has no idea about the coupons?” Hedy shook her head with confidence. “I still think you’re crazy. Stealing right under their noses...”

  “It’s only trouble if you choose to see it that way.” She left a deliberate beat, waiting for Anton to get the reference. “How is Dorothea? Still at her grandmother’s?”

  Anton pursed his lips a little, but let it go. “Yes, for the moment.”

  “No more asthma attacks?”

  “No, thank God. What will you do with the coupons? Sell them?”

  Hedy couldn’t help a little grin of triumph. “I thought about it. But I’ve decided to give them to Doctor Maine.”

  The gawping expression on Anton’s face was just as she’d imagined it. “Give them?”

  “Then it becomes an act of pure resistance, not just petty theft or selfishness. It’s an atonement, for taking wages from the Krauts. My own personal mitzvah.”

  Anton shook his head. “Maybe our faiths aren’t so far apart after all.” He waved his novel. “I’ll be just downstairs.”

  Hedy listened to Anton’s clumping footsteps heading down to the bakery. She straightened the table settings, pulled the two paper sheets of the translated article from her bag, and laid them out. Turning off the electric ring, she smoothed her skirt and fiddled with the buttons of her blouse. A violent churning in her stomach caused her to burp ferociously.

  At six, she went to the window from which she and Anton had waved their makeshift white flag almost a year ago, and peered out. Neumann, holding a canvas bag, was making his way up the road. He saw her face and smiled. Hedy gestured to him to come up, and a few seconds later he was standing at Anton’s door, a sheepish grin on his face. Hedy did her best to smile back, though the sight of a man in full German uniform in Anton’s familiar little apartment was overwhelming. She stood aside to avoid any physical contact as she ushered him inside. He hovered near the door politely, as if wary of looking too much at home; his dark blond hair was slicked back with some kind of oil, his eyes bright with childlike excitement. After bidding each other good evening, they stood awkwardly in silence.

  Eventually Neumann gestured to the sheets of paper on the table. “Is this my translation?” Hedy nodded. “Thank you, I will read it when I get home tonight. You have excellent handwriting.”

  “May I see what you brought?”

  Neumann was already lifting his bag onto the table and unbuckling the flap. From it he pulled two small plucked chickens, a Camembert cheese, a large white loaf, a packet of real French coffee, a bar of pla
in chocolate and two bottles of Bordeaux. Hedy gazed at the display, feeling the drool rise in her mouth.

  “This is for you of course—not to be shared with me,” Kurt assured her.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Hedy replied. She had made a promise to herself to be polite at all times.

  “Call me Kurt, please.”

  Hedy scooped up the provisions, leaving only the wine and bread on the table, and stuffed it all into one of Anton’s cupboards, shutting the door as if to pretend none of it existed. She gestured to him to sit, and dished the meager vegetables into mismatched bowls. Kurt opened the wine and poured a little into chipped cups, they both mumbled a toast to the end of the war, and Hedy cut the bread with a knife. Then they sat eating in silence. Hedy mopped up every morsel of the stew with the delicious bread crusts. She had forgotten what real bread could taste like. Once or twice she glanced up at him and caught him watching her eat, but she was too hungry to find it disturbing.

  Eventually Kurt made a polite inquiry about her early life in Austria; Hedy answered in the fewest words possible, pretending that her move to Jersey had been due to a job opportunity. And how did she like working at Lager Hühnlein? Hedy replied that she liked it well enough, although the dust was sometimes irksome. A half hour dragged by, stumbling and uncomfortable, the conversation bumping awkwardly along, like a plane that couldn’t take off. Hedy sipped her wine at a snail’s pace. It was months since she’d drunk alcohol and a loosened tongue was the last thing she needed now. When Kurt spoke of his passion for American cars, Hedy drew him out on the subject, calculating correctly that the topic would occupy a good few minutes. But eventually he drained his second wine, and placed the cup down with intention.

  “Hedy, I don’t wish to be rude, but I would prefer not to spend this evening discussing the Ford motor company.”

  She rose to her feet and began clearing the table. “So what would you prefer to talk about?”