The Girl from the Channel Islands

by Jenny Lecoat

  “Yes, that’s everything. It’s almost time. What will you do?”

  “I’m going to go through the apartment, make sure there’s nothing here that leaves any clues. What about the key?”

  “Push it through the letterbox when you leave,” Hedy instructed. “We won’t be coming back.” She covered her mouth to stop a nervous belch. Acid swirled painfully in her empty stomach, but it wasn’t food she craved, it was a cigarette. At that moment she would have traded anything for a quality smoke. But neither she nor Kurt had any tobacco left, and anyway, in her current state it would probably make her sick. She slipped on her coat, shivering as the damp sections touched her skin, then picked up the small pile of clothes they had chosen carefully together: a cotton shirt, a scraggy V-necked pullover, a tweed skirt and a battered pair of ladies shoes Kurt had bought at great expense from a black marketeer. She shoved the clothes down the front of the coat and buttoned it up, holding the items in place with one hand. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Be very, very careful.”

  She slipped out of the apartment, and began her journey down Pierson Road, one hand pressed to her chest to keep her little stash safe. The street, unsurprisingly so close to curfew, was deserted. She had to move quickly, silently; remembering the young deer that used to wander in the forests around Vienna, she tried to imitate their delicate footsteps. What luck, she thought bitterly, that she was now the same weight she had been at thirteen. Breathing hard, she hurried across the Esplanade and toward the seafront, her head constantly turning, her eyes darting to every flicker of light or perceived movement. Thank heaven there was barely any moon tonight, and a fair cover of cloud.

  She reached the seafront, stepping delicately across the small railway track the Germans had laid last year to transport their building materials, and made her way to the steps leading down to the beach. After a last check for patrols, she began her descent. The stone risers were too high for comfort, and she had to take extra care not to slip—a tumble and a broken ankle now would put an end to everything. Finally she reached the beach. A few meters down the shore on either side were fences of barbed wire and signs declaring mines, but there was enough space around her for the plan to work. With her breath coming in thick, nervous pants, she pulled the clothes out of the coat and laid them on the sand. It seemed criminal to throw such items away, and for a moment she wondered about keeping the pullover. But she reminded herself that she had to make this look realistic. This was a piece of theater, and as such needed some level of sacrifice. Folding them into a neat pile, she took the carefully worded note from her pocket and placed it on top. Searching around for the largest stone she could find, she picked it up and placed it on the note. Then she stood back to assess her work, knowing that she had only one chance to get this right.

  Out in the bay the sweeper light of a sea patrol swung across the black water. She thought about Jean-Paul, counting his money in the dark corner of some tavern. Her last sight of him had been his stooped, hardy body hauling the boat back to its secret boathouse, perhaps unwilling to attempt the journey alone, or perhaps just deciding to postpone his adventure for another day. She hoped one day he’d make it, but understood that she would probably never know. He was part of the world she was leaving behind.

  She had resisted Kurt’s idea for several hours. Not because she thought staging her suicide an implausible idea—many islanders had been driven to it in the last couple of years, and she had more reason than most. It was more that in a small, heavily guarded community, permanent concealment seemed impossible. And could she even survive such a life? Whatever hardships she had faced up till now would seem like nothing. How long would it last? A year, two? Five, six, seven? The numbers spun in her head, meaningless, terrifying. But she had no other option. Kurt was right: if actual disappearance was out of the question, an illusion of it was the next best thing.

  Taking a last look at the picture story she had created, she tiptoed back up the steps to the seafront and across the main road. She hurried past what had once been the People’s Park, now the headquarters of the Organisation Todt, walking as quickly as her legs could carry her, looking around her all the time. At the same time, she couldn’t help but enjoy that fresh air and savor the scent of the ocean and the evergreens. She took in the glory of the stars, the majesty of the cumulus clouds scudding across the sky, and tried to imprint it on her mind. It would be a long time before she saw all this again.

  She reached the narrow entrance to the alleyway that ran behind the terraced backyards of West Park Avenue and, with one final confirmation that no one was watching, scuttled down the passage until she reached the gate of number seven. Lifting the wooden latch, she let herself into the yard, crossed quickly to the back door and tapped four times as arranged. It opened immediately and Hedy stepped inside, shivering with cold and fear. Kurt was already standing in the kitchen, his features tight with anticipation. Dorothea hugged her briefly, then, without a word, closed the door and pulled across the heavy black bolt.

  NINE

  Kurt stood in the hallway of his billet, listening hard. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending how one looked at it—this was a creaky old house, and every footstep on the upper floors could be heard downstairs. Other officers were moving around, padding across their rooms, crossing to the bathroom, closing doors. This was a useful time of day, he figured, when those on night shift had already left, and the rest of his colleagues were taking advantage of this break to wash, write letters home or snooze on their beds. In about fifteen minutes Fischer and the rest would pile downstairs for their evening meal, prepared by housekeeper Mrs. Mezec, a local woman who came in daily to collect laundry and cook for the officers. Evidently she was a cousin of the original residents who had evacuated in 1940, and considered this a way to keep an eye on the place. She only spoke if absolutely necessary, and pocketed her wages each Friday with a sullen nod. Most of the officers ignored her or made tasteless jokes about how grateful she’d be for their attentions. Kurt often sniffed his dinner before eating it, knowing full well what revenge he would take in her shoes.

  Strolling into the kitchen with what Kurt hoped looked like casual interest in tonight’s menu, he found Mrs. Mezec stirring a pot on the stove, and smiled at her. She acknowledged him without anything resembling a greeting. Kurt adjusted the chairs around the kitchen table, as if preparing for a dinner party, then sat down.

  “What is dinner tonight, Mrs. Mezec?”

  “Pork stew.”

  Kurt nodded with enthusiasm, wondering which poor local farmer had had their valuable porcine asset grabbed by soldiers and loaded onto a pickup. Still, this meant there were likely to be further cuts of meat in the larder. Hedy had refused pork in the early days, but any such cultural taboos had long been discarded.

  “Sounds delicious. Oh, by the way, the window in the bathroom is jamming again. Would you mind taking a look at it, please?”

  She turned to him with a look that could sour milk. “I’m not a handyman.”

  Kurt beamed at her. “Of course not, but you have a...what is the English word...a knack.”

  Mrs. Mezec laid down the wooden spoon in her hand and, without trying to hide the roll of her eyes, shuffled out of the kitchen to see to it. Kurt leapt up and opened the larder door, taking care to place a finger on the ball catch to prevent it making a pinging sound. It was dim inside, but as he suspected, a decent-sized leg of pork lay on the back shelf, covered by a sheet of muslin. All Kurt needed was a sharp knife to hack a slice off the front. He was about to take one from the drawer when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Damn it—he would have to sneak down in the early hours to complete his mission. He moved quickly to the sink and pretended to be washing his hands.

  “Evening, Neumann.” Fischer was dressed smartly and smelled of scented soap. Where the hell he had got hold of something like that, Kurt could only guess. There were rumors that Fische
r had now moved on from his pregnant married lover, and was now screwing the widow of some local aristocrat. “Waiting for dinner?”

  “I am. I’m starving.” Kurt kept his tone light and playful. “Good day?”

  Fischer grunted and threw the local paper onto the table. “Bloody waste of time. Had to attend the burial of those Allied seamen washed up on the beach. Bigwigs decided to send a guard of honor and a firing party, show ‘respect.’ I ask you, what’s the point?” Indeed, Kurt thought, considering how we treat them while they’re alive. But he kept his jovial expression pasted in place. Fischer gestured to the paper. “Think there’s a photograph in there somewhere.” Kurt obediently took the paper and leafed through it while Fischer droned on. “What sickens me is that the Allies are placing sea mines all around the islands, trying to stop our supplies coming across from France, but top brass still insist we doff our caps when we manage to blow them out of the water.”

  Kurt mumbled a passive agreement, but was no longer listening. There, in the middle of the paper, was a photograph of Hedy. It was a professional shot in a formal pose, and from her normal weight and creamy complexion he knew it must be an old one, presumably taken before the war. Perhaps she had had some portraits done as a gift to send to her family in Austria. Her hair, thick and lustrous, was swept back from her face; those eyes he knew so well were looking up toward something or someone to the right of the camera; and there was both a trace of a smile and a sense of sadness in her expression. But what drew Kurt’s gaze was the text above it in German, and the same lines in English below:

  Notice

  The German authorities are looking for Miss Hedwig Bercu (see photograph), typist, of no nationality, 24 years of age, formerly residing at West Park, 1 Canon Tower. She has been missing from her residence since November 4th, 1943, and has evaded the German authorities. Any person who knows the whereabouts of Miss Bercu is requested to get in touch with the Feldkommandantur 515, who will treat any information with the strictest confidence. Anyone concealing Miss Bercu or aiding her in any other manner makes himself liable to punishment.

  It was signed by the Field Commander, with today’s date.

  Kurt read and reread the notice. Of course, he’d been expecting this. It was ten days since Hedy had effectively vanished from the outside world, and despite her efforts, it wouldn’t have taken the secret police long to trace her address once they decided to find her. What was worrying, though, was that the notice mentioned nothing about a suicide. Had they not found the clothes and the note? Did they not believe it? Or was not mentioning it here some kind of trap? He glanced toward Fischer, wondering if the Nazi had deliberately led Kurt to the paper, knowing he would see the photograph. Perhaps this was all an elaborate ruse to gauge his reaction. Kurt’s mind was still grabbing at possibilities when he realized Fischer was still talking to him.

  “Don’t you think?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m saying, next time we should just chuck the bodies in a hole and be done with it. Either that or burn them for fuel. Damn freezing in this house!” Fischer laughed at his own joke.

  Kurt thought about the crematoria at the camps and imagined punching Fischer across the kitchen. Instead, he folded up the paper and smiled. “Yes, it is. You know, an engineer friend of mine got hold of a load of logs last week. I’ll pop over there, see if he’ll sell us a couple.” He held up the newspaper, opting for a double bluff. “Mind if I borrow this? There’s a picture in here of that missing Jew—this guy lives near the compound, maybe he’s seen something.”

  Fischer, giving nothing away, merely nodded. Kurt walked into the hall, took his greatcoat from the peg, and slipped quietly out into the night. If he jogged some of the way he could be at West Park Avenue in thirty minutes.

  * * *

  “Okay, I am going to knock now.” Hedy laid her ten cards on the table.

  Dorothea leaned over to look at them, and her face creased a little with embarrassment. “You need at least three for a run, Hedy.”

  “I have three—Queen, King, Ace?”

  “But Ace is low in this game, remember?” Dorothea sat back in her chair with the kind of bright smile you’d give a child. “Never mind, let’s deal again. You’ve almost got it.”

  “Do you mind if we stop?” Hedy heard the tightness in her own voice. “I’m a little tired.”

  It was a feeble excuse, but the thought of sitting at this table any longer, playing yet another round of this pointless game, set off a rising panic that was becoming all too familiar in recent days. As usual, it was accompanied by sweating, breathlessness and a barely controlled desire to run out into the street. It was all she could do to stay in her chair. Dorothea collected the cards and tucked them back into their pack.

  “You’re right, we’ve been playing for hours. Shall I see what we’ve got in the larder for dinner?”

  Hedy stared at her new housemate, mystified by her stoicism. As if they might open the larder door and find shelves groaning with cold chicken and homemade tarts, and it were merely a matter of deciding what accompaniments to serve. Her unrelenting cheeriness, the determined avoidance of any alarming thought or memory, baffled Hedy; once or twice she’d actually wondered if Dorothea was quite right in the head. Just the other night, Dorothea had pulled the wireless from the cupboard under the stairs, and they had crouched in the doorway listening to the BBC news at the lowest possible volume, poised to thrust it back into its hiding place at a second’s notice should anyone knock on the door. The news was depressing, the main headline being the Allied defeat in the Dodecanese. Yet at the end of the broadcast, Dorothea packed the wireless away and returned immediately to her movie scrapbooks, humming a jolly American big-band tune to herself, as if none of it had really touched her. The melody sawed at Hedy’s nerves like cheese wire as she tried to occupy herself looking up the island of Leros in Dorothea’s old atlas.

  Hedy also noticed that Dorothea had begun to duck any mention of Anton, although Hedy had seen her kiss his photograph on her way up to bed. Hedy was only allowed to mention his name in the context of the past, and even then only happy memories were acceptable. Any talk of local trouble was closed down too, whether it was last week’s night-bombing raids that almost shattered the windows, or public notices about the salt shortage. Conversely Dorothea would drag her adored movie stars into any conversation, as she did the imagined lives of the knitted dolls she kept on her bedroom windowsill. She introduced them to Hedy one by one, explaining the stories behind their names, and gazing into their expressionless woolen eyes as if she could read their thoughts. Sometimes Hedy looked at this overgrown, delusional kid and had to remind herself that this was the same woman who had bellowed patriotic songs into the faces of hostile Germans at the quayside.

  She realized that Dorothea was waiting for an answer to her question.

  “Of course,” Hedy replied, “let’s take a look.”

  When Kurt had first suggested Dorothea’s house as a hideout, Hedy had dismissed the idea. For one, she was certain Dorothea would never agree to such a dangerous arrangement on a permanent basis. And she would go crazy, she pointed out, finding Dorothea’s company difficult enough over a couple of hours.

  But Kurt had put up irrefutable arguments. Practically no one on this island could link the two of them, as they’d only been seen in public together a handful of times. Neither of them had any friends who might drop by or ask awkward questions, and with Anton away there was plenty of space. In any case, what alternatives did they have?

  Dorothea said yes. She hadn’t hesitated for a second, even when Kurt had spelled out the risks to her quite openly. On the night of Hedy’s arrival, she seemed excited by the idea of a houseguest, flitting from room to room finding spare blankets for the old single mattress she and Kurt had hauled into the attic space through the tiny hatch. Beneath the eaves she had pushed back old packing cases and ancient, molder
ing rugs to create a bed area, and placed up there a precious candle in a holder and a few books to read. Hedy could move freely around the house during the day, so long as she stayed away from the windows. Should anyone unexpected come to the door, a carefully placed dresser beneath the attic hatch and a short hook-on ladder would enable Hedy to climb into her hiding space and have the cover back within half a minute.

  Hedy concentrated all her efforts into trying to feel grateful, but the reality of her new imprisonment was already taking its toll. Her new sleeping arrangements, despite her host’s best efforts, were a particular torture. The pitch black when she blew out the candle was a nightmare; every settling sound of the house manifested as the scurry of a mouse or rat, and locating a precious match to allay her fear was nigh impossible. Hedy had taken to sleeping in her clothes as the space was so cold, and calls of nature either risked a catastrophe with a bucket or simply had to be ignored till daylight. She had started napping in the front room during the day to compensate for her sleepless nights, but was jolted awake by every footstep or raised voice on the street outside. For the first time, Hedy was starting to feel more anxious about the condition of her mind than of her body. A sense of obligation and gratitude kept such thoughts buried, and in any case she didn’t want Dorothea fussing over her any more than she already did. But knowing that the one thing that would calm her would be a stroll in the fresh air, knowing that even this simple pleasure was now out of bounds, made her want to curl up into a ball and scream.

  There was also the unsolvable issue of food. As Hedy’s ration card could no longer be used, they were now forced to survive on a single ration, plus whatever extras Kurt could provide on the days he made it to the house. The two women were now as dependent on him as Kurt was reliant on their sense and security. Sometimes, in her fitful afternoon naps, Hedy dreamed of a three-stick tripod, bound with twine and trembling on a wasteland, whipped by a wind that threatened to send it flying into pieces. Then she would wake with a shout, and when Dorothea asked if she was all right, would pretend it was a childhood dream of monsters. She never knew if Dorothea believed her, but no further questions ever came.