The Girl from the Channel Islands

by Jenny Lecoat

  The coded knock at the back door alerted them both. Checking at the kitchen window, Dorothea nodded that it was Kurt and hurriedly let him in. Hedy ran to him and hugged him, fighting disappointment when she saw he was carrying nothing more substantial than an evening paper.

  “I’m sorry,” Kurt said, reading her thoughts. “Fischer came down at the crucial moment. But I’ll try and get down to the kitchen later tonight. I thought you should see this.”

  He showed her the notice in the newspaper. Hedy read it several times and stared at the picture. It had been taken in 1939, and the physical changes in four years shocked her; she wondered if Kurt was thinking the same thing. She folded the paper and handed it back.

  “We knew this was coming. Maybe they haven’t found the clothes and the note yet. It’s not like people are using the beaches.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can you stay a while?”

  Kurt shook his head, despondent. “I’m meant to be out getting logs. I need to get back.” He stroked her face with his fingers. “Do you have enough food tonight?”

  Hedy made a titanic effort to smile. “We’ll manage. Don’t worry.”

  Kurt kissed her lightly on the lips then slipped out into the darkness of the alleyway and was gone again. Hedy felt a strong urge to weep, but choked it down. Dorothea’s fingers fluttered on the back of Hedy’s neck in an attempt to comfort her before propelling her toward the larder.

  She opened the door. “Right, then—what do we have here? How about a nice mashed swede with a boiled potato?”

  “But there’s barely enough for one.”

  Dorothea laughed pointlessly. “You boil the water and I’ll cut the swede up, all right?” While Hedy ran freezing water into a pan, Dorothea took the vegetable and began to slice it on a wooden board, her hands pushing the knife expertly through the flesh, softly humming to herself a melody that Hedy vaguely recognized. She turned to Hedy. “You know that one?”

  Hedy forced herself to answer. “It’s from a movie, I think?”

  “Top Hat—Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. It won the best song of 1935. Did you see the film?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  The phrases from the newspaper notice were running through Hedy’s mind. Missing from her residence...evaded the German authorities...concealing Miss Bercu...liable to punishment... Dorothea’s knife kept disappearing into the swede, the slices falling one after the other, helpless against the gleaming metal. Over and over the blade sawed its way through the pale flesh. Hedy felt bile rise in her throat and realized that even tonight’s meager meal may be beyond her.

  “Did you know,” Dorothea was saying, “that Ginger Rogers had to fight the director to wear that dress? You know, the beautiful one with all the feathers? But she won, and it looks amazing, the most beautiful gown in any movie. When we’ve had dinner, I’ll show you a picture. And I’ll show you some of the other gowns of hers. She’s got such style, don’t you think? Would you like that?”

  Hedy heard her own voice from the end of a long tunnel, as she forced out the smallest smile and replied, “Yes. Yes, that would be fun.”

  * * *

  Kurt stood still on the pathway, his eyes skyward. All over the compound, workers had stopped to do the same, transfixed. The plane, clearly visible in the blue winter sky, climbed then dived, displaying its RAF roundel to the world. Antiaircraft guns could be heard firing at it from every direction, and when smoke began to pour from its rear end, there was a gasp as everyone thought it had been hit. Kurt held his breath, waiting for the plane to tumble toward them, taking out houses and civilians in its path. But the plane turned to climb again, and the letter “V” began to form in smoke in the sky.

  The muttering around the compound grew to a full-throated hum as questions were thrown, one to another. Was it the beginning of a daylight raid, or just a warning of worse to come? Then, when the plane shut down its smoke and sped away northward toward the English coast, most agreed it was probably a Christmas message of support for the islanders from Mr. Churchill. Good for him, Kurt thought to himself, though an airdrop of food parcels would have brought these people a lot more joy.

  He turned to head back to the metal lean-to where the latest collection of pickups were awaiting repairs. That was when he saw him. He would know that hat anywhere, perched idiotically to one side, bobbing through the crowd. And when those piggy eyes found Kurt and crinkled in a fake smile, Kurt knew immediately that this was not a social visit. Deciding that it was safer to take the lead, Kurt approached him with his hand held out.

  “Erich, how are you? It’s been a while.”

  Wildgrube’s clammy hand slithered out to shake his own. “It certainly has. A long while.”

  Instantly, Kurt realized his mistake. Following that hideous night in the officers’ club, Kurt had felt far too angry to face the man again in a social situation. Frankly, he didn’t trust himself not to have one too many drinks and say something stupid, maybe even start a fight. He’d effectively dumped Wildgrube as a drinking partner, always coming up with excuses whenever Wildgrube suggested another “boys’ night” or boozing session. Apart from a birthday party Wildgrube had thrown for himself, to which Kurt had reluctantly shown up for half an hour, their recent encounters had been limited to official engagements, or bumping into each other in town. It was obvious now that Wildgrube felt slighted, and would take his revenge.

  Kurt could have kicked himself for not seeing this one coming. He offered his warmest smile. “So what can I do for you?”

  Wildgrube pulled a small booklet from his inside pocket, flicking through it till he came to the right page. Kurt could see that it was a book of portrait photographs—people of interest to the secret police. He shoved it under Kurt’s nose. “This girl. You know her?”

  Kurt didn’t need to look, but made a show of peering at it. It was the photograph of Hedy that had appeared in the local paper. His blood began to pump, but his mind spoke to him softly—how he behaved in the next minute could change the entire course of his life.

  “I saw that photograph in the Post a couple of weeks back. She’s gone missing, hasn’t she?” He looked back to Wildgrube, and saw that the man’s eyes had never left his own.

  “She has. Does she look familiar to you?”

  Kurt thought fast, trying to calculate how much Wildgrube already knew, feeling the man’s hot, sour breath on his face.

  “A little.” He groped in his memory for what he had previously admitted, trying to recall the content of numerous conversations. “Is this the Jew who was given a job here?” Wildgrube gave the tiniest nod. “She doesn’t look Jewish, actually. Maybe that’s how the mistake occurred—someone forgot to check her papers.”

  “But you remember her?”

  “From around the compound.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Wildgrube took back the booklet and tucked it into his pocket. Kurt knew from the twitch at the corner of the policeman’s mouth that he had an ace to play, and was enjoying the anticipation of pulling it out. What a tragic little bastard, Kurt thought, getting his kicks in life from cat-and-mouse games like this.

  Wildgrube made the most of his moment, dragging it out until the last possible second. “Unfortunately, Lieutenant, that does not fit with what other people have told me. OT Feldwebel Schulz recalls quite clearly that when she came here for her job interview two years ago, you showed quite an interest in her. He remembers that you followed her down to the gate as she left.”

  Jesus, Kurt thought, how did these people remember such details? Did they have nothing better to think about?

  “Well, if Schulz remembers that, I probably did. To be fair, she’s pretty cute... If you didn’t know,” he added quickly.

  “And other people here recall that you have been seen talking to each other on several occ
asions.”

  Kurt stalled. They had been so careful in recent months. And of course Wildgrube could be lying. But there were other times, before he knew the whole picture, before he became conscious of security...

  “I might have spoken to her once or twice. But to be honest, Erich”—Kurt tried to grin, uncertain he could pull off—“I talk to a lot of girls. I mean, I don’t take notes!” He chuckled, but Wildgrube’s expression did not change.

  “Are you aware that this woman was stealing petrol coupons for some considerable time?”

  Kurt blew air between his lips with some force. “So it’s true. I heard the secretaries gossiping about it. You caught her?”

  “We have sufficient grounds for her arrest.”

  “And that’s why she went missing?” Kurt girded himself, waiting.

  “No doubt. Now this vermin is loose, unaccounted for. And her interest in petrol coupons does, I’m afraid, create a strong connection to you.”

  Kurt breathed in. Attack was his only option now. “Damn it, Erich, will you never let this go? I made one mistake, years ago, and served my time for it. Half the employees are pilfering something! Am I to be linked to everyone you catch for the rest of my time here?”

  Wildgrube stared at him, emotionless. “So you know nothing about this woman or where she might be?”

  “Why on earth would I?” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “But the size of this island, I wouldn’t have thought she’d be hard to find.”

  “That’s the interesting thing.” Wildgrube readjusted his Alpine hat to an even more ridiculous angle. “We found a pile of clothes on the beach, with a suicide note written in her own hand—we checked it against examples in the office.”

  “Well, there you go. That answers your question, doesn’t it?”

  “It would, it would. Except for one thing. You are aware of the tidal system around these islands?” Kurt gave a neutral shrug, even though he knew exactly where this was going. “It is one of the largest tidal ranges in the world. As we have seen from the bombing of ships in the vicinity, the bodies invariably end up on the island shores. Just last week a storm tide threw up all sorts of debris. Yet, no body has been reported. Not one sighting, after a month.”

  “Maybe she weighted herself down, or the body hit a mine.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps the whole ‘suicide’ is a ruse and she is still somewhere on the island. If so, we will find her, and both she, and anyone assisting her, will be dealt with appropriately.” Wildgrube brushed imaginary fluff from his coat and lifted his hat. “Good to talk to you again, Kurt. Thank you for your help in this matter. We shall speak again, I’m sure.” And, with a ludicrous little bow, he puttered off into the crowd. Kurt watched the hat dip and weave away. One word spun around and around his brain like a mantra. Scheisse...scheisse...scheisse.

  * * *

  It was Christmas Eve. The distant sound of carolers could be heard across the park, and doors up and down the street banged throughout the day as housewives scurried into town and back, sniffing out every shop rumored to have festive treats in store. Most returned empty-handed. The small patches of sky visible at the top of the windows were already the color of slate, sucking the color out of the chimneys and rooftops; somewhere, beyond the clouds, the sun was preparing to set.

  Hedy sat with her chin on her knees, hugging her shins for warmth, and wriggled to get comfortable. No fat reserves, she’d recently discovered, meant that sitting for long periods, even with a cushion, was a painful experience. But what else could she do? She had spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly from room to empty room, searching for the balance between warming up and burning calories, but last night even climbing the stairs to the attic had left her panting and dizzy. Her weakness frightened her. What if there was an emergency that meant she needed to run? What if she got really sick? Approaching Doctor Maine for any kind of treatment would mean drawing him into this conspiracy. So far, no further arrests had been reported in connection with her case, implying that either Quinn had kept Maine’s name out of it, or that the Germans had chosen not to pursue a useful individual based on hearsay. Dorothea told Hedy she thought she’d seen Maine leaving the hospital two weeks before, though it was dark and she couldn’t be certain. Hedy had desperately hoped that she was right.

  She looked at the calendar on the wall—a homemade affair made from movie magazine cuttings, the dates marked out in stubby pencil. Images of Christmases in Vienna floated across her mind—the lights in the squares, the creaking, laden stalls of produce in the market. Though the family had never celebrated it at home, she’d always loved the atmosphere on the streets, soaking up the excitement of Christian friends and neighbors. One year, Roda had been given a huge box of yellow and pink bonbons by an admirer. She wondered what Roda was doing today—if she were still alive.

  She had been living in Dorothea’s house for a little over six weeks now. For every seven days, they had between them two ounces of margarine, seven ounces of flour, three of sugar, four ounces of meat, plus four and a half pounds of bread. Tea was a flavor barely remembered. Salt was now impossible to obtain unless you could get access to seawater. Each Friday, Dorothea burst eagerly through the door, beaming all over her pallid little face, and laid the week’s fare on the kitchen table. For a few moments they rejoiced as they devoured an acceptable lunch—perhaps a slice of tongue to go with a crust of tasteless Occupation bread, or a scrap of imported mutton that could be stewed into an edible form with some potatoes. Then they would force themselves to stash the rest of the goods in the larder, and eke out their supplies for the days to come. Kurt still brought whatever he could, but knowing that he was under surveillance, his visits were currently reduced to once or twice a week, often empty-handed. Last Sunday he stayed no more than ten minutes, giving Hedy only the briefest hug and kiss on the forehead; sometimes she wondered if that particular deprivation wasn’t the most painful of all.

  Hours drifted by. It was now completely dark outside, and cold in the house. Hedy didn’t dare to light a fire; there was so little wood left, and in any case it would have been reckless to display any signs of life while Dorothea was absent. She compromised by lighting the paraffin lamp. From next door came the sound of festive merriment—numerous voices raised in excitement. Hedy tried to remember what it was like to have raucous, carefree fun like that.

  When the hands of the clock reached eight, she felt her anxiety rise. Dorothea never stayed out this late in the evening, even when she visited her ailing grandmother. She had left at lunchtime, muttering something about visiting a cousin in St. Martin’s. It had struck Hedy as odd at the time—Dorothea had never mentioned this cousin before, and it was out of character for her to be so evasive about her movements. Hedy guessed that she was up to something, but was sensible enough, or cowardly enough, not to ask.

  Eight thirty. Hedy began to wonder what she’d do if Dorothea didn’t come back. There was no telephone, and anyway, who would she ring? There was no means of finding anything out; she couldn’t even go out and buy a newspaper. She would be dependent on Kurt’s next visit, not just for information but for her next meal. As the minutes ticked by, her anxiety grew, and it took every shred of self-discipline not to pull back the curtains and peer out into the dark, deserted street.

  Suddenly she heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves and the grind of heavy cart wheels. Horses rarely came down this street, and never at this time. Hedy rose from her seat and, taking the paraffin lamp with her, moved to the doorway between the sitting room and hallway, breathing heavily. From outside came bizarre sounds—scraping, banging and the grunts of people straining to move heavy objects. And then, another noise—a high-pitched screech that sounded like... No, Hedy told herself, she was imagining it. It couldn’t possibly be...?

  The front door flew open and the noise crashed into the house like a double-decker bus. Squealing, gasping and clattering. Hedy ga
ped, astonished, as Dorothea slammed the front door behind her and pressed herself against it, a mixture of panic and triumph on her face. At the same time Hedy let out a shriek as something at knee-height brushed quickly past her legs. Her eyes followed the squealing sound that accompanied the shape, and there it was, careering down the hallway toward the kitchen—a young pig. She stared at Dorothea, too shocked to speak.

  Dorothea’s voice was shrill with excitement. “Quickly! Trap it in the kitchen!” Breathless, she pushed Hedy toward the kitchen door. “I was going to bring it round the back, but I was afraid it might escape up the alleyway. We have to kill it before the neighbors hear.”

  Hedy looked from Dorothea to the pig, which was now careering around the kitchen in panicky circles, looking for a way out.

  “You can’t be serious. Neither of us knows how to butcher a pig.” She pressed herself against the wall, half expecting the animal to attack her. A familiar sentence from her childhood was running through her head: “And the pig, because it has a cloven hoof that is completely split, but will not regurgitate its cud; it is unclean for you. You shall not eat of their flesh, and you shall not touch their carcasses; they are unclean for you.” She had long abandoned kosher rules—pork being one of the only meats occasionally available on the island—but killing it herself? That was an entirely different matter.

  But Dorothea had a glint in her eye Hedy had never seen before. “We can do it, between us. We can use this.” Dorothea began rummaging through an old wooden crate in the hallway, which she used for storing old newspapers, as Hedy looked anxiously toward the animal, now headbutting the walls in its desperation to escape. From the bottom of the pile of papers, Dorothea produced a slim, flat item that, in the dimness, Hedy could barely make out. Only when Dorothea undid the catch and pulled it from its sheath did Hedy realize she was holding a knife, about twenty centimeters long with a clean, gleaming blade. “Anton left it with me when he went away, in case I should ever need it. It’s sharp enough.” She held it out to Hedy like a prize.