The Girl from the Channel Islands

by Jenny Lecoat

  Hedy’s eyes darted from one extraordinary sight to another. “Look, Dory—the hotel!”

  The Pomme d’Or, home of the German Naval headquarters for the duration of the war, was now filled with British uniforms, military men brimming over its front balcony. The raising of the Union Jack from its flagpole drew another roar from the crowd, and a spontaneous chorus of “God Save The King” burst out and spread right down to the quayside. Everywhere she looked, Hedy saw faces creased with emotion—women cuddling children, husbands kissing wives, old men wiping tears of joy.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Dorothea’s voice was high and bright, but when Hedy turned to her she saw only a fixed mask of theatrical joy. She knew that her own face projected the same lie. In fact she was finding the whole experience terrifying. The closeness of strangers pressed against her, the dozens of unknown hands touching her arms and back—it felt revolting. Less like celebration, more like defilement. Her breath was coming in uneven bursts, and she wondered how Dorothea’s asthma would fare with the emotion of the day.

  At that moment, as if conjured by her own thoughts, she spotted a familiar figure on the far side of the Weighbridge, a man in an old brown mackintosh being carried along by a river of people toward the landing area. As Hedy looked toward him, Oliver Maine turned his head and miraculously caught sight of her, immediately taking the hat from his head and waving frantically in affection and triumph. Hedy waved back, gesticulating that to try and reach him now would be hopeless, and the doctor laughed in agreement before disappearing into the crowd. Hedy felt her heart swell, and promised herself that her first visit when this madness was over would be to the hospital. Perhaps, she considered, in a week or two she might be able to get hold of a few eggs and a little sugar. If so, she would make him an apple cake to take home for his wife.

  Hedy realized that Dorothea was pulling her by the arm.

  “There’s two soldiers over there. I want to find out what they know about the war in Europe.”

  “What do you mean? Know what?”

  But Dorothea was already pulling her toward two young Tommies, shouting at them for attention. As they reached the men Dorothea reached out and grabbed one of them by the arm. He was little more than twenty, pasty-faced and chubby by island standards. Dorothea pressed her face close to his. “Could I ask you something? I’m trying to get news of my husband. Last I heard he was fighting in East Prussia. Don’t suppose you know what happened to the soldiers out there?”

  The Tommy looked at her with confusion. Hedy pulled at her dress, but Dorothea’s eyes were fixed on the young man and she refused to budge.

  “No Brits out there, love. Russkies pushed Jerry back over that side. Which regiment was your old man with?”

  Again, Hedy pulled; again Dorothea resisted.

  “He’s Austrian, he was forced to fight with the Germans. Do you know if the Russians took many prisoners? How do I find out if he’s alive?”

  The Tommy was now backing away from them, as was his friend. “Your husband fought for the Jerries?”

  “He didn’t want to, he was conscripted. I just wondered if you could tell me how to find out what happened to him?”

  “Dory,” Hedy muttered, “let’s go. This isn’t the right time.”

  Hearing Hedy’s voice, the Tommy whipped around to look at her. “Here, that accent! You a Jerry too?”

  “No, I’m not German.” Hedy felt her heart bang in her chest. “I’m... I’ve been...”

  The Tommies looked them both up and down, then pushed onward through the crowd.

  Hedy watched their uniforms disappear into the throng, then turned to a deflated Dorothea. “It’s just not the right day, Dory. Those men aren’t from here, they don’t understand. Why don’t we go up to Fort Regent? That must be where they’re going to hoist the Union Jack.”

  But Dorothea was no longer looking at Hedy, or at the departing soldiers. Her eyes were focused on a fast-moving rabble on the Esplanade side of the crowd. A pack of half a dozen men, young and in shirtsleeves, was moving at speed, running as fast as the crowd allowed, apparently chasing something or someone. The rumble of their collective feet parted the hordes, and as a space appeared, the object of their pursuit suddenly became visible. For a moment Hedy thought it was a youth wearing some kind of pale, tight-fitting overall, then to her horror she realized that it was actually a young girl. Her hair had been roughly cut down to the skull and she was entirely naked. The girl was running as fast as she could in desperation to escape her pursuers, and her intermittent squeals of terror carried across the heads of the throng, causing everyone to turn and stare. A second later, the girl escaped up a side street and two of her hunters were stopped by a local policeman.

  Hedy turned to look at Dorothea, whose face was now completely colorless.

  “Oh my God, Hedy...was that what I think it is?”

  Hedy scrabbled for words, but found none. She nodded.

  “Is this what it’s going to be like? Is this how they’re going to treat us? What was it all for?”

  Hedy took Dorothea’s hand in her own. “Come on. Let’s get down to the collection depot, pick up our Red Cross parcels. Then we’ll just go home.”

  Dorothea meekly followed Hedy through the heaving streets, the collective frenzy of the day still ringing in their ears. As they forced their way against the current of revelers, Hedy watched Dorothea’s eyes constantly flick back to the lengthening line of Tommies snaking into the town center, redrawing each face with Anton’s thick dark hair and smiling eyes. They had talked so often of this day, dreamed about it, pinned a picture of it in their minds for years. Now all Hedy could think about was returning to the peace and sanity of Dorothea’s little kitchen and keeping this feverish world at a safe, manageable distance.

  * * *

  “Neumann, his name is Lieutenant Kurt Neumann. He’s an engineer. He’s been based at the Lager Hühnlein compound since 1941.”

  Hedy crossed her legs and deliberately added a touch of iron to her gaze. This office hadn’t changed an iota in five years. The same leather-topped desk, the same oversize chandelier, same neatly stacked files on the shelves. She remembered every detail, of both the room and the conversation, and she wanted Clifford Orange to know that she did. Given the expression on his face, she was pretty confident that he knew what she was thinking.

  She peered at him as he made his notes with agonizing slowness, holding his fountain pen in red flaky fingers. He had lost weight, of course, and more of his hair. The crimson flush that once bloomed across his cheeks, presumably the result of too much drink, had now been replaced by malnourishment eczema. But the biggest difference, evident to Hedy as soon as she entered the office, was a visible loss of authority. He seemed smaller, not merely in bulk but in character, as if someone had scooped out all his arrogance with a spoon, leaving only a husk of desiccated obedience. Hedy wanted to leer, to let him know that she saw his decline and was glad. But she thought of Kurt, and kept her face expressionless.

  The news was out now. Photographs of the liberation of Bergen-Belsen, where a Jerseyman had miraculously been found alive, had been placed in the window of the town post office. News reels had been shown in the local cinema, to the audible screams and tears of the audience. No one, not even Orange, could now pretend that the consequence of classing any person a Jew was not fully understood. Hedy wondered if it was guilt that had shrunk this man so much, whether he acknowledged any aspect of his wretched role in history. But Orange gave no hint of it as he finished his notes and raised his face to her. He focused, she noted, not on her eyes but on a space a little lower, around her top lip.

  “Well, Miss Bercu, it seems that, thanks to your clever concealment at the home of Mrs. Weber, you have had an extraordinary escape. Might I offer you my congratulations, and express relief that you have emerged from this experience no worse for wear. No harm done, it seems.”r />
  Hedy thought of her parents behind fences of barbed wire, being herded toward gas chambers. She wondered how many other people had sat in this chair, listening to Orange’s trite, mindless phrases, taut with perfect grammar and devoid of meaning. But the truth was, even now, the power still lay with these gray-suited men, and she was still required to beg for favors at their door.

  “And Lieutenant Neumann?”

  Orange replaced the cap of his pen with precision. “I will pass this information on to the appropriate department, of course. But in all honesty, I doubt it will make any difference.”

  Hedy shifted in her seat. “He saved my life. He risked his own to keep me safe and bring me food. Do you understand what the Germans would have done to him if they’d discovered he was protecting a Jew? An officer of his rank?” She heard her volume increase and tried to rein herself back. “What I’m saying is, he’s not a Nazi. He hated the German authorities here as much as”—she paused, knowing her meaning would not be missed, but no longer caring—“any decent person. And to my mind, that should be taken into account.”

  Orange smoothed down his spiky gray mustache with two fingers. “As I’ve said, Miss Bercu, the information will be forwarded. But Lieutenant Neumann was—indeed is—a serving officer of the German military and, as such, will be subject to the laws and decisions of the British legal system. I’m sorry that I can’t help you further.”

  The door swung open. Hedy looked up, surprised to see two British officers enter the room without waiting for permission. The senior of the two, a captain, jerked his head toward Orange. “The major would like to see you in his office, please, sir.”

  Orange’s hand went instantly to his collar, pulling it away from his throat. “I am, as you can see, in the middle of an interview.”

  Hedy stood up and addressed the captain directly. “Actually, Mr. Orange has just informed me that he’s unable to help me further. So I think this interview is over.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The captain turned back to Orange. “After you, sir.”

  Orange rose slowly from his desk chair, hoping to give the impression of moving at his own speed, though Hedy suspected it was more that he was feeling a little faint. He walked deliberately to the door and allowed the officers to escort him out.

  Hedy picked up her bag and turned to leave the office when another Jersey official entered the room, bustling in a way that suggested frantic activity. Hedy recognized him at once. “Excuse me, Deputy Le Quesne?”

  The man turned to her with a weary smile. “May I help you?”

  “I just wondered...” Hedy hesitated; this was probably a waste of time. But there was something about this tired old politician that she trusted. “Why do those officers want to speak to Mr. Orange?”

  “All local representatives are being interviewed by British intelligence,” Le Quesne replied, “for debriefing and assessment.”

  “Assessment?”

  “To make sure that we exercised our duties correctly. It’s been asserted that certain public servants”—he hesitated just long enough to make his inference clear to her—“were somewhat overzealous in the execution of German orders. Should that be proven, there will be consequences.”

  Hedy gave him the smallest smile, then nodded. “Thank you, Deputy. Good day to you.”

  * * *

  Kurt stuffed his toothbrush into the pocket of his rucksack and buckled it up. It had taken him all of five minutes to pack. Five minutes for five years. He looked around the pretty room that had been his bedroom for so long. The little casement window, the Edwardian washstand in the corner, with its china washbowl and jug. That cream-painted plaster ceiling with the hundred little cracks he knew by heart. How many nights had he lain awake till dawn, staring at them and fretting about Hedy—if she was safe, if she had enough to eat, when he would be able to see her again. Now the tables would be turned, and it would be Hedy’s turn to lie in a comfortable bed, her mind twisting with imagined nightmares. He threw the rucksack over his shoulder and was preparing to go downstairs when he heard Hedy’s voice from the hallway.

  By the time he was halfway down, Kurt could see Hedy remonstrating with the harassed British sergeant who had been standing in the billet hallway since early that morning, ticking off names and serial numbers of German officers on his clipboard.

  “You don’t understand,” Hedy was shouting. “I am not trying to prevent you doing anything. I just want a private moment with Lieutenant Neumann.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the sergeant replied, “but these men are now prisoners of war. There is an armored truck outside that needs to leave in five minutes to deliver them to their assembly point.”

  Another five minutes, Kurt thought. Years of clock-watching and waiting, and now everything is happening in five minutes.

  “It’s all right, Sergeant.” Kurt used his most polished English accent for maximum impact. “I’m aware of your schedule and I give you my personal guarantee that all officers from this billet will be on that truck at the correct time. If you could just give me a moment?”

  The sergeant gave Kurt a doubtful look, and Hedy an even more doubtful one, then stepped out onto the porch to give them privacy. Kurt dumped his rucksack on the parquet floor and looked at her. She looked as lovely as ever, but there was a look about her that startled him, a determination. It was the same look he’d seen the day she’d first arrived at the compound to apply for the translator’s job. He stood before her, waiting.

  “I saw them lining the soldiers up on the beach. I didn’t know if you’d already been taken away.”

  “You heard the man. Five minutes.”

  “Were you not going to come and say goodbye?”

  “I’ve not been allowed to leave this house since yesterday. And to be honest I wasn’t sure...” To his horror, he felt a lump in his throat and had to swallow hard. “I wasn’t sure either of us could stand it.”

  Hedy nodded. “But you’ve forgotten something.”

  “Have I?”

  “You told me you were with the Jungenschaft. You’re meant to remember your manners.”

  “Have I offended you?” He sensed laughter building inside, but he couldn’t be certain it wouldn’t convert to tears on its way out, and swallowed again.

  “A little. I’m still waiting, you see.”

  That jutting little chin, that stubbornness. He wanted to tear her clothes from her and take her right then and there on the parquet floor. “Waiting for what?”

  “For my engagement ring.”

  A little snort escaped from his nose. “You’re right. Forgive me. These last few days, there hasn’t been much opportunity for shopping.” They both giggled a little at this. Then Kurt had an idea. “Wait there.”

  Kurt hurried out to the porch and approached the British sergeant, who was still clutching the clipboard and glancing repeatedly at his watch as if he couldn’t make its information stick.

  “Excuse me, Sergeant, may I ask you one more favor? That rubber band holding together your notes—may I have it?” The sergeant leaned back a little, anticipating some kind of trickery. “I need to give it to my girlfriend.” The man looked puzzled for a moment, then seemed to understand. Without a word, he removed the thick brown band from his clipboard and gave it to Kurt, who smiled his gratitude then hurried back to the hallway.

  Taking Hedy’s left hand, he gently placed the rubber band on her third finger, doubling it over until it fitted. “It’s not exactly what I had in mind, but it’s something until I can get to a jeweler’s. Which might be a while,” he added.

  Hedy splayed out her hand and touched the rubber band with affection. “I don’t mind waiting. This one will always be my favorite.”

  He stared at her, still clinging to the tips of her fingers. He wanted to hold her, but was frightened that if he did, he would be unable to let go. He saw hims
elf being dragged from the room like a screaming toddler, wailing and flailing. The humiliation was almost as unbearable as the sense of loss. He groped for something to say, and opted for a lousy joke. “Summer or winter wedding?”

  “The day after you’re released.”

  “You know that could be years?”

  “Of course I know.”

  “There’s a public outcry over the concentration camps. People will want revenge, and the politicians may provide it.”

  “I know that too.”

  He continued to massage the ends of her fingers, as if trying to press all the emotions of his body into the smallest possible area. “What are you going to do now?”

  Hedy shrugged. “Stay here for a while, try to find out what happened to my parents, to Roda and my other siblings. Europe is a mess; it will probably take a while.”

  “How will you live?”

  “I’ll get another job. I hear lots of evacuees are planning to return—perhaps the Mitchells will come back.” She smiled with sadness. “Of course, they might not need me anymore.”

  “I can’t see anyone not needing you anymore.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m tougher than I look.”

  “That I know.”

  “I’ll be like King Canute—letting the waves roll over me, knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop them.”

  He grabbed her and kissed her, then he pulled back and threw his rucksack back over his shoulder. “I have to go. Don’t wait to watch the boat. Go home and see Dorothea.”

  She blinked her agreement and bit her lip.

  “Auf Wiedersehen.”

  She shook her head. “Bis bald.”