The Girl from the Channel Islands

by Jenny Lecoat

  She hesitated at the junction, considering a detour via Rimington’s, the fruit seller at the top of King Street—a rumor had gone around her building last night that some early rhubarb had been spotted in the town. But a diversion that way would mean coming back past the Aliens Office, and after last month’s encounter Hedy decided she would prefer to miss out altogether than clap eyes on that hated place. She walked on, trying to push the memory of that meeting from her mind, but anger brought it bouncing back. The officiousness of the assistant registrar, and his imperviousness to her obvious distress as she’d showed him the brief official note she’d been handed by Feldwebel Schulz the day before.

  You are instructed that all registered Jews are requested to attend an interview with German Field Command at College House. Jews must present themselves at the address below at the earliest opportunity.

  No reason, no explanation. Hedy had rushed down to the bureau in the faint hope that they might offer some kind of strategy or information. But the registrar had merely scratched his head, shrugged and said that if the Germans wished to see her, she’d be advised to comply. Hedy had thanked him in a tone bordering on sarcasm and walked out, already resolute that she would do no such thing. She tamped her anxiety down, telling herself that given the mere handful of Jews involved, the implementation of the order might be postponed, perhaps eventually overlooked. But hope and optimism were scarce commodities right now. Since Anton’s wedding, each day had become a tunnel of sludge to be trudged through, each waking dawn another plunge into numbness. Most mornings, the sheer effort of climbing out of bed seemed insurmountable.

  It was three months now, thirteen whole weeks, since she’d spoken with Kurt. She’d seen his gangly figure once or twice across the compound, talking with mechanics or carrying boxes of parts from one hut to another, but she’d never got close enough to see his face, or hear his voice. He was probably staying out of her way, keeping close to the motor block and eating only in the officers’ mess. She told herself it was for the best, the right thing for both of them in the end, but her body argued violently every night, and she’d wake from dreams with her arms wrapped around a damp pillow. She had been lonely, desperately so, in that first year of Occupation, but this—this was a whole new realm of misery. Now she understood what they meant by a broken heart.

  She had tried, in the first days, to shift the blame. Kurt, Clifford Orange, Hitler, anyone but herself. But curled up in a bawling heap on the floor of her apartment, the truth had oozed out of every pitiful argument and drowned such nonsense. Kurt was right. When it came to the tough decisions, she was the coward. She had had a thousand opportunities to tell him in those early days, but found a thousand and one reasons to avoid it. She had let down not just him, but her family, her entire faith. And now she was paying the price. She spent her days at her typewriter, producing meaningless reports, avoiding eye contact with everyone around her, and her evenings alone, reading whatever books were left on the sparse shelves of the library, and watching the windows of her neighbors turn black one by one until the town sat in darkness. Once or twice she caught herself wondering if it mattered what happened to her anymore; if they wished to imprison or shoot her, let them do it. But thoughts of her distant, scattered family kept her going. And today, at least, she had a clear and meaningful purpose. She wrapped her scarf a little tighter and turned down toward the harbor and the distant crowds.

  The boat was packed. Every meter of rail, every tiny patch of deck contained four or five soldiers squashed together, beans in a tin, leaning, loafing or waving to others on the quay. Others continued to stream up the gangplank, an endless caterpillar of hunched, reluctant men. The quayside, too, swarmed with people: Wehrmacht officers rubbed shoulders with local bobbies, Jersey dockers with secret police. Up above, pale faces leapt out from the mud-green uniforms, most of them smoking or staring out to sea. A few were visibly distressed, clearly in no doubt where they were headed now. Despite the best attempts of the Nazi propaganda machine, facts had filtered through even to the lowliest troops, through coded letters, snippets of BBC news, whispers of military personnel from France. The stories had torn through the troops like a flash fire—the disaster of the Battle of Moscow, entire divisions wiped out by the Red Army and the blizzards. Now these young men knew they were being ripped from the cushiest post in Western Europe to be dumped into a frozen hell. Some young Germans were said to have committed suicide on receiving their new orders.

  Hedy spotted Dorothea first, not far from the gangplank, and fought her way through. Dorothea was dressed in an elegant black coat of her grandmother’s which, although it had seen better days, suited the drama of the occasion, and a navy scarf tied over her cropped hair made her skin look even whiter than usual. She was standing in front of Anton, her eyes bloodshot and teary, staring at him as if trying to burn every detail of him into her memory. Anton himself stood tall and square-shouldered in his uniform, exclaiming some proud defiance to the world. It was the first time Hedy had seen him in full Wehrmacht attire, and it made her shudder.

  Anton noticed her and pressed his lips together in an attempt at a smile. “You made it. I’m glad.”

  “Of course. So...this is it.” The banality of her remark embarrassed her, but her mind felt fogged, devoid of anything useful. “Do you know how long the crossing is?”

  Anton shrugged. “No idea.”

  Hedy could see that Dorothea was shaking. Her breath was thick and wheezy; Hedy wondered what they would do if she had an asthma attack right here in the open. “How are you bearing up, Dorothea?”

  Dorothea tried to smile, but her lips trembled, preparing for a cloudburst.

  Anton kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her arm. “Darling, would you just give us a moment? I promise it won’t take long.”

  Dorothea nodded meekly and drifted away toward the harbor wall, using the opportunity to squash a lace hankie into her eyes. Hedy stood silent, waiting, already knowing what Anton was going to say.

  “Hedy, I need you to promise you’ll look after her.” He was reaching for her hand, grabbing at it, crushing it in both his own. “Her grandmother is so frail, she may not last the year, and there’s no sign of Dory’s parents relenting on this marriage. She’s stronger than she seems, but there’s only so much she can take.”

  Hedy opened and closed her mouth, searching for the right words. “I’ll try, Anton, really. But I’m not sure that I—”

  “I’m not asking you to love her like I do, I’m just asking you to look out for her. You’re not far away, you could drop in on your way home from work, just check on her, you know?” His grip on her hand increased, and she felt sure she heard a bone crack. “She’ll look out for you too, of course. You’re both on your own now.” He bit his lip so hard that it turned white. “If there was anything I could do to change this...”

  Hedy closed her eyes. It was too much, this sadness. How was anyone supposed to bear this weight, this endless avalanche of misery? She felt the desperation of Anton’s grasp, and knew there was only one answer she could give. “Of course I’ll take care of Dorothea, Anton. I promise.”

  Her words seemed to soothe him, and with a final squeeze he released her hand. “Nothing from Kurt, I suppose?”

  “There won’t be. It’s over.” Saying the words aloud opened dangerous gates, and she swallowed hard. This was no time to fall apart, she owed Anton that, and she wouldn’t want to give the Germans the satisfaction. She raised her chin. “Don’t worry, we’ll be all right. You take care of yourself.”

  Anton beckoned to Dorothea who flew back to his side and buried her face in his shoulder. Just then a raucous shout came from down the quay: “Letzter Aufruf! Alle an Bord! Schnell!” There was a forceful thrust of people toward the gangway, and for a moment the three of them were carried along with it. Hedy grasped Anton’s arm and kissed his cheek, then Dorothea pressed her lips to his, her arms so tight around his
neck Hedy feared she would damage him. Then Anton was lost inside the mud-green caterpillar, the great flow of despair rippling up to the decks above, and Hedy and Dorothea were left standing on the quayside, waving at a peach-colored dot they knew to be Anton’s face, their own features twisted into parodies of smiles. They remained there, shivering on the cobbles, as ropes were unwound and heavy chains thrown, watching as the vessel slowly maneuvered out of its mooring toward the harbor mouth and the open sea, and for once Dorothea said nothing.

  When at last there was nothing to watch, they turned to each other. Hedy reached out and placed a hand on Dorothea’s arm, knowing that this was her first call of duty. “Would you like to go and find somewhere warm for a cup of something?”

  Dorothea dabbed her eyes with her sodden hankie. “Thank you, Hedy, that’s sweet of you. But no, I just want to go home.” She turned, then spun back, digging deep into her pocket. “I’m sorry, I almost forgot. This came for you yesterday.” She pressed an envelope into Hedy’s hand, then went on her way, walking slowly up the quayside, her black coat billowing in the wind, looking for all the world like the tragic heroine in the final scene of a romantic movie.

  * * *

  Holding the note out of sight, below the level of her desk, Hedy read it again. It was a small cream-colored sheet, smaller than a regular letter, already crumpled from constant folding. In the top corner a round, circular rubber stamp read “Le Comité international de la Croix-Rouge, Genève.” And there, at the bottom, were the permissible twenty-five words that had imprinted themselves on Hedy’s mind forever.

  Hope all well. Your mother and father departed January, holiday. Return date uncertain. Sent love. No news Roda or others. Moving, no further letters. Elke.

  Hedy sat back in her chair, let her eyes drift around the office. Luck was on her side this morning; Supervisor Vogt was busy at her desk with some administrative catastrophe, real or imagined. And the clatter of typewriters—that exasperating din and the overture to so many persistent headaches—today became a comforting noise that helped to shut out the rest of the world. With quiet, deft movements, Hedy refolded the letter, returned it to her handbag on the back of her chair, and held a materials quality translation in front of her face, frowning, to give the impression that she was dealing with something of great complexity and importance.

  It had been such a chance, writing to Elke. It was years since they’d seen each other—Hedy wasn’t even sure that the family was still at the same address—and it carried a huge risk that her old school chum might betray her or her parents. They had been close once, but who knew what transformations people had undergone since the start of this insanity? Elke might have been in the Bund Deutscher Mädel by now. But somehow, Hedy’s letter had reached her, and Elke had found the courage and means to reply.

  Holiday. Her mother must, at some point, have used that word with Elke to describe deportation, and Elke had repeated it, knowing Hedy would understand. Now, each time she closed her eyes, she saw an open truck, crowds of Jews being pushed aboard, the butts of Karabiner rifles poking the soft flesh of their backs. She saw her parents, exhausted and terrified, huddled together on someone else’s packing case, hugging what possessions they could carry in their arms. And then the long, petrifying journey to...at that point, her mind shut down. There was only so much horror any mind could absorb, she supposed, and she was currently at her limit.

  The clock indicated it was almost lunchtime. She’d had no breakfast, but in her current state she couldn’t think about eating. From the moment she’d opened her eyes that morning, knowing what she had to do, acid had forced its way into her gullet, generating waves of sickness. But weeks had passed since Dorothea had handed her the envelope on the dockside, and over many sleepless nights she had exhausted every other option. Seeing Vogt still bent over her desk, Hedy placed her bag over her arm and slipped silently from the room as if making an early dash for the canteen, ignoring the irritated looks of the Bavarians who were still key-smashing at their desks.

  Out in the fresh spring sunshine, she hurried down the dusty, uneven paths toward the officers’ mess. Fifty meters before the entrance was a small patch of scrubby grass, which gave a clear view down toward the mechanical yards. Pretending to fiddle with her shoelace, she waited there for several moments, half praying that she hadn’t already missed him, half wishing that he wouldn’t show up at all. Then she saw him. That unmistakable outline, that walk—and there, there was the bubbling laugh she knew so well. Not as deep and throaty as she’d heard in the past—this one was a little on the tight side as he responded politely to some colleague’s joke—but the memory of it made her smile. At that moment he saw her, and she watched his entire body react, a tiny backward rearing such as a horse might make with a bad rider. She stood still, staring, hoping that he would understand from her expression alone. And sure enough, a second later Kurt made excuses to the men he was with, and began to walk toward her.

  At first, the proximity of him almost wiped her mission from her mind. If anything, he looked taller, more handsome; he had lost a little weight, but that faint scent of sweat and engine oil punched her into the past, and those eyes pinned her to the spot. He said nothing, but stood before her expectantly. It was impossible to guess what he was thinking.

  “I have a favor to ask you.” The words finally tripped out, and she kept her eyes fixed on his, anticipating a refusal. But what came back was a friendly nod, an encouragement to continue; he must have known this was important for her to approach him so brazenly. “I received this.” She took the Red Cross letter from her bag and handed it to him, taking care not to let their hands touch. The paths were now thronged with people on their way to lunch, and Hedy glanced anxiously about as Kurt read it, wondering if she should have picked a more private place. But most people seemed to be fixed on getting to the canteen, eager to get to their one reliable meal of the day, and passed the two of them without interest.

  Kurt handed the letter back to her. “You think they’ve been taken away to some ghetto or prison?”

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt. They might already have been shot.”

  “I’m sorry, Hedy, really I am.” The kindness in his voice pricked her defenses and she had to drive her nails into her palm to focus her mind. “But what do you want me to do?”

  “I just want to know...” Her voice was shaky; she could hear the cracks in it. “I just want to know where they were taken, what’s happened to them.”

  “But how can I help?”

  “I thought perhaps you might have some contacts out east, maybe someone in Berlin who could check the records...” Now that her thoughts were words, they suddenly sounded ridiculous. It was obvious that Kurt wouldn’t know any more than she did. Afraid he would think this was all an excuse to strike up a conversation or perhaps something more, she added: “I know it’s unlikely, but I’m desperate. And I have no one else.” She saw it then—that old look of affection, the look that had once calmed her fears and made the whole world seem bearable. To her shame, she felt a tear pop out and roll toward her mouth. To add to the agony, he reached out his hand and, with his index finger, brushed it gently away.

  “I can’t guarantee anything, and it may take a while. But I’ll do my best. I promise.” The affection faded then, replaced with something between sadness and disappointment.

  Hedy wiped away another tear and tried to stand up straight. “Thank you. I’m still in Block Seven. You can find me there any day.”

  She turned and walked quickly back to her block, unable to bear the idea of sitting in that canteen surrounded by people. She would work through her lunch hour, hammering out those reports until six o’clock, fingers thumping the keys, head filled with nothing but quantities of cement and addresses of delivery companies. She wouldn’t make eye contact with Vogt, or her neighbor Derek, or give any of them the opportunity to notice her. After that she would hurry hom
e, rush through her meager meal and climb into bed at the earliest opportunity. There, she would bury her face in the pillow so that no one in the surrounding apartments would hear her. And then she would weep and howl like a wounded animal into the early hours of the morning.

  * * *

  “But why? Why are you making us do this?”

  Dorothea’s voice rang out over the clatter and hubbub of the room. Her eyes were wide with innocent confusion. Hedy glanced nervously at the German private behind the makeshift table, as he grabbed Dorothea’s Bush wireless set and pushed it along the surface toward the rising bank of radio sets at the end. For a moment Hedy feared the soldier might retaliate, but she quickly realized that the look on his face wasn’t aggression but incomprehension. The man didn’t speak English.

  “Dorothea, just walk away,” Hedy muttered, at the same time checking out the number of other armed Germans in the room and the position of the exits. “He doesn’t understand you. And I want to get out of here.”

  In fact, Hedy hadn’t wanted to come to the parish hall at all. It was a nest of German soldiers, festooned with swastikas, and being among it made her skin crawl. But when the announcement of the radio confiscation had been made in the evening paper the previous week, Dorothea had come straight round to see her, begging Hedy to help her deliver the bulky device with its heavy wooden surround. Remembering her promise to Anton, Hedy had no choice but to agree.

  She looked around. The room was packed with furious, murmuring Jersey folk, slamming their beloved family wirelesses on the tabletop, snatching their paper receipts from the Germans’ hands with flushed, bitter faces. The idea that they would be returned at the end of the war was so pitiful a lie, it was almost funny—everyone knew that these highly desirable items would be packed onto a boat headed for the Continent by this afternoon, and that all of them would be gracing the drawing rooms of Nazi Party officers by the start of next week. Meanwhile, the locals would now be completely shut off from the real war, dependent solely on the risible misinformation of the German-controlled press. Hedy, already without a wireless for over a year, had grown used to the pressing silence of the long evenings without music or human voices. But her regular visits to Dorothea’s to listen to the BBC were a vital link to the world, even if she did have to spend much of the time pointing out the locations on Dorothea’s ancient atlas. This new level of isolation frightened her as much as anyone.