The Girl from the Channel Islands

by Jenny Lecoat

  He nodded, walked quickly out through the porch to the waiting armored truck, and slumped down onto the bench without waiting to be asked. He knew the dam was about to burst, and that when it did, he would be out of control for some time. It was almost a relief when the door crunched shut and delivered him to the dark, chill metal interior of his future.

  * * *

  She waited to watch the boat, of course. She knew that she would, even when she promised not to. Standing by the sea wall, shivering in the stiff spring breeze for two hours, even though she knew full well that even if Kurt was one of those on the beach below, she would never be able to make him out. Not among those vast snakes of tiny toy soldiers that stretched across the West Park sand, some in straight lines and some in odd curled shapes, as though the hundreds of figures down there were attempting to spell out a giant message across the shore. The men were peaceful, as far as she could make out—sitting or standing, muttering to their neighbors, smoking if they had any tobacco, or simply staring at the horizon.

  Strange, Hedy contemplated, what terror these figures had once stirred in her. Today they were nothing but numb, exhausted boys in grubby wool tunics, all longing to go home, yet knowing that that dream, too, had vanished, along with all the others. She almost felt sorry for them. There must have been others like Kurt, youngsters forced into a movement they never believed in. But perhaps there were just as many who still believed, who still held that filthy doctrine dear. Right now, she didn’t have the energy to figure it out, or even to care. An exhaustion of monstrous proportion was slowly gripping her, and had it not been for the cold and the freshness of the air, she felt she might fall asleep on her feet.

  Out in the bay, the landing craft sat waiting on the flat silver sea for their human cargo. By evening they would all be gone, and only the low silhouette of Elizabeth Castle would be left against the pearly sky. Normality was rapidly returning to the island. Trucks filled with coal rumbled through the streets, shops made window displays of goods that would be available to buy in a matter of days—shoes, children’s clothes, cooking pots. Last night’s Evening Post had announced that the postal service would be operational again from today. Tonight, Hedy and Dorothea would sit down to a delicious tuna casserole that would swell their bellies to bursting, while Kurt would be halfway across a rolling English Channel, on a share of prisoners’ rations.

  Hedy stood watching the landing craft swallow load after load, until the wind bit through her thin coat and into her bones, and she finally accepted it was time to go. Slowly she made her way along the Esplanade through crowds of smiling locals, trying to respond to each joyful greeting with something appropriate. But as she grew closer to West Park Avenue, a sense of foreboding grew in her. She told herself it was just the misery of losing Kurt and the massive emotional adjustment of returning to a forgotten life. But by the time she reached the house she knew that something bad was going to happen. Pushing open the front door—everyone had now stopped locking their doors, as they had before the Occupation—she heard voices in the kitchen and hurried through to investigate.

  Dorothea was standing with her back to the kitchen sink. At the table sat a man of about forty, wearing a British uniform with the two white stripes of a corporal.

  Hedy stared from one to the other. “What’s going on?”

  Dorothea’s voice was tight and croaky. “This gentleman has brought a message from the German War Office. Apparently it arrived a week ago, but with all the mayhem, nothing was sent on. So the British Commander ordered it to be delivered by hand.” She held up a small piece of creamy-brown paper. It was years since Hedy had seen one, but she instantly recognized it as a telegram, and froze. “Anton?”

  Dorothea nodded, and handed the paper to her. “It’s in German, but the meaning’s pretty clear.”

  Hedy read the typewritten words on the white strips of paper several times before they made any sense: “Regret to inform you Lance Corporal Anton Weber 734659 24th Infantry Division died in service of his country 14th October, 1944.”

  Hedy rushed to Dorothea and put her arms around her, waiting for the outpouring, but nothing happened. They both just stood silently together in the kitchen for what felt like a long time, holding each other. Perhaps the probability of Anton’s death had lived with them for so long that its reality no longer shocked them. Or perhaps neither of them had any emotion left to expend. In her mind, Hedy reached out for Anton’s face: the day outside the cinema when he had first introduced her to Dorothea; the day they had searched for limpets down at Seymour Tower. But all she felt was a hollowness. Only when the corporal awkwardly scraped his chair on the kitchen floor did she recall there was anyone else in the room.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he broke in, embarrassed, “but is there anything else I can do?”

  Hedy went across to shake the man’s hand. “No, thank you. It was good of you to come.”

  He nodded. “They’re never good news. I got a similar one last year—sister and her family all killed by a V2. Nothing prepares you.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Hedy noticed that his eyes, which were warm and hazel, were set against a tan, leathery skin, suggesting he’d spent part of the war in North Africa. “The Occupation has been very hard...but at least we didn’t suffer the Blitz.”

  “We all fought our own war,” the corporal replied. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Weber.”

  “Are you?” Dorothea spat. Hedy held up her hand, indicating this was the wrong moment and target for bitterness, but Dorothea couldn’t stop herself. “He died fighting for Hitler. I wouldn’t want you to waste your precious sympathy.”

  The corporal turned to her. “I mean it. I came across a ton of different nationalities fighting on both sides. Only thing they had in common was not one bugger actually wanted to be there—pardon my French.”

  Dorothea’s scowl faded. “Thank you for saying that, sir.”

  “Please”—he held up a palm—“Frank, Frank Flanagan. Sick to death of being a number, to be honest. Just want to get back to Cheshire.”

  Hedy caught the affection in his voice and felt sick with envy; to have a home to return to, a community still filled with familiar faces.

  Flanagan picked up his cap from the table, then turned back to Dorothea. “Anyway, you’ve had a shock, so I’ll leave you to it, now your friend’s here.”

  He slipped quietly down the hall and let himself out, leaving Hedy still holding the telegram in her hand and Dorothea standing in the middle of the kitchen as if she had no idea what to do next.

  “Is Kurt gone?”

  Hedy nodded.

  “So that’s that.” Dorothea pushed the hair from her eyes and gave herself a tiny shake. “I suppose I should make dinner.”

  “Let me.”

  “No, I’d rather have something to do.”

  Dorothea busied herself in the kitchen, and at six o’clock the women sat down at a kitchen table laid for two, spooning out generous portions of tuna casserole. In the corner stood the wireless; human voices and music filled the room, connecting them to a distant, rejoicing world. While they ate, the newscaster informed them that the last unrepentant Axis forces had been beaten back in Yugoslavia by local partisans, supported by British troops, and that Nagoya had been bombed heavily, bringing victory in Japan ever closer. Then Tommy Handley evoked gales of laughter from his audience by his rendition of the Minister of Aggravation and Mysteries at the Office of Twerps. Dorothea offered Hedy another portion of casserole, but she declined. Neither of them had yet eaten half of what was on their plate.

  The delivery of the evening paper caused a brief hiatus. Hedy flicked through the proclamations of the Bailiff and notices about the restoration of sterling, until her eye was caught by a smaller headline on an inside page. The report described attempts by some senior Germans to escape capture by dressing as civilians and trying to pass as locals. British arm
y officials, it reported, had discovered one such coward on an abandoned farm property, hiding in an outhouse. He had “offered no resistance,” but had wept “hysterically” on his arrest. He was named as Erich Gerhard Wildgrube, formerly of the Geheime Feldpolizei.

  After dinner the women washed up together, using baking soda and vinegar. From the open window, they could hear the shouting and singing of a party going on next door; children were running in and out of the garden wearing cooking pots for German helmets and firing finger guns at each other, while the adults inside were belting out rousing choruses of “All The Nice Girls Love A Sailor” and “Bill Bailey.” As the songs came to their loud, chaotic climaxes, Hedy and Dorothea couldn’t help smiling at each other.

  The plates were put away. The sun was dipping, and shafts of golden light peeped down the hallway. Dorothea switched off the radio and lit a small coal fire as the chill of the evening began to bite. They sat back down at the table; Dorothea with some mending, Hedy with a book. Over two hours, Dorothea sewed one button, while Hedy read two pages. Neither of them spoke. The party next door gradually fizzled to an end and they heard the door bang as people left. The clock ticked on the wall and the light dimmed. There were two new candles in the larder but neither of them suggested lighting one. Night fell, and Dorothea went to bed.

  It was the end of the Occupation. It was over. They were both alive and free.

  Hedy sat for another hour in the dark kitchen, staring at nothing. Then she, too, went to bed.

  EPILOGUE

  1946

  The suitcase was simply not going to close. She tried sitting on it, bouncing her bottom on it, then leaning heavily on one end while trying to push one of the chrome hasps into its slot. Eventually Hedy gave in to the inevitable and removed one cardigan and the slippers she’d been given at Christmas. She had other woolens, she told herself, and she could buy another pair of slippers with her first wages, once her ration card had been reissued. The case instantly closed without difficulty, and satisfied that it wasn’t going to pop open again, she dragged it off the bed and down the stairs, being careful not to scratch the polished wood at the side of the runner carpet. Mrs. Mitchell was extremely proud of her staircase.

  She was glad that the family was all out at this hour. The thought of another goodbye was more than she could take. The farewell party they’d given her last night had been sweet and moving, with thoughtful gifts of handkerchiefs and lavender soap, and a handmade card from their daughter. She knew that she would miss them horribly, and had made them promise to write every week. All that supervised homework and the trips to the beach hadn’t felt like work at all; even the housework had been no burden, as she reveled in the scent of freshly laundered sheets and furniture polish, and she’d taken great pleasure in lining up the family’s rubber boots in order of size in the hall. But at other times, walking alone on her day off or lying in her solitary bed, the gap between the family’s coziness and her personal situation tugged at her soul, and in recent weeks she’d known for certain that it was time to go.

  She pulled on her thick brown winter coat and its matching hat with the pink trim; it was mid-December, and the frost was already thick on the grass. At the hall mirror she had only time to apply some lipstick and dab a little extra powder on her nose before she heard the honk of the car horn outside. Taking a last look around the elegant, gleaming hallway, she picked up her case and walked out into the winter afternoon.

  Dorothea waved at her from the passenger seat of the old Austin. Frank Flanagan, after heaving himself out of the driver’s seat, helped her with the suitcase, making a joke about how light it was.

  “This all you’ve got?”

  “My worldly possessions,” Hedy confessed with a wry smile. “Do you think I need to start making a trousseau?”

  “Well, Dory never had one, and I weren’t bothered. And I don’t imagine it’s your linens your fiancé will be interested in when he gets out.”

  Hedy laughed and climbed into the back seat while Frank restarted the car. Soon they were heading down St. Saviours Road toward the harbor. Dorothea stretched her hand over the back of her seat toward Hedy, twisted around in her seat like a schoolgirl. “Oh, Hedy, I’m so excited for you! What time does the boat get to Weymouth?”

  “We dock at six tomorrow morning. Then I have to catch a train—three trains actually—to get to Plumpton.”

  Dorothea raised her hand to her cheek. “Goodness! You’ll be exhausted. I should have brought some sandwiches for you. Didn’t I say, Frank, I should have made her some sandwiches?”

  “Certainly did—woke me up to say it too.” Frank grinned at Hedy in the mirror and gave her a wink.

  “And when will you get to see Kurt?”

  “If the paperwork comes through, next Thursday. He looks good in the photo he sent me—he’s been working outside most days since he was moved again.”

  “You’ll give him my love, won’t you? You two are going to be so happy.” She turned to face the front, and Hedy sat back to take in her last views of the island. The roads where Kurt had walked her weak, failing body in a German uniform... Mr. Reis’s bakery, now owned by someone else...the jail where Kurt served his time. Memories galloped in, images forming and evaporating. By the time the car pulled up at the end of the quay, her head was spinning.

  Frank went off to park the car, while Dorothea stood at Hedy’s side, looking up at the ship. The stripes of its giant funnel stood sharp against the darkening sky, and shiny blue cranes swung cargo across its bows to the hold. Far below, the water, closing in on its high-tide mark, slapped against the ancient blackened stone of the quay and hinted at the swell beyond. Hedy looked at Dorothea, remembering the last time they had both stood in this spot.

  “Anton would be happy for you, you know,” Hedy said, reading her thoughts.

  Dorothea nodded. “I know. Frank’s been so kind, and it’s made such a difference. Everyone at my new office only knows me as Mrs. Flanagan. Sometimes I wish I could tell them about Anton—tell them how wonderful he was—but...”

  Hedy nodded. “Sometimes it’s best to let things be.”

  “Anyway, we’re moving to Cheshire in the summer. Frank wants to start a new business—all his contacts are there. Be a fresh start for us both.”

  “Don’t forget to write.”

  “Silly! Why would I not write to my best friend?”

  Hedy held her close for a moment, the brims of their hats rubbing against each other. Frank arrived with Hedy’s suitcase, and the three of them huddled together in the cold, speaking over each other with their wishes of good luck and promises to visit each other soon. When there was no more to say, Hedy gave them both a final kiss and made her way up the gangplank, turning twice to wave until she saw them turn and head back to their car. She walked down two enclosed staircases to her reserved seat where she stowed her case, then returned to the stern of the top deck and found a quiet section of rail to wait for departure. Soon the engines were thundering beneath her, sending vibrations pulsating up through her feet and knees. The water below fizzed white and foamy, and with creaking slowness, the ship pulled away from the quayside and headed for the harbor mouth.

  For a while Hedy stood watching the departing shore, marveling at the light reflections skipping across the blackness of the water. Then she reached into her bag and took out her most precious possession—the beribboned brown envelope containing all her recent letters. She took the one from the top, smiling at Roda’s curly, girlish hand; she thought about the day it had flopped onto the doormat of the Mitchells’ hallway and her employers’ excitement when they saw her reaction. Now her eyes, as always, jumped to her favorite section:

  ...and now find myself living by the sea in Hadera. So can you imagine my delight when I found out that our darling baby brother was less than fifty kilometers away in Tel Aviv? Daniel is doing so well, and writes regularly to Golda in Lo
ndon now the post is working again. Chana and her husband love Australia and plan to stay. We are all agreed, and very determined, that no matter how long it takes, we will find out what happened to Mama and Papa. We believe the Red Cross may be able to help.

  Hedy tucked the letter back into place with a sigh. In truth, she knew there would be little to discover. Dates and precise locations wouldn’t change what they already knew. Perhaps, though, the information would bring a little closure, maybe eventually acceptance, after all the years of uncertainty. Her fingers slid back into the envelope, this time drawing out the sheet with the words HMP Ford printed at the top.

  Sweetheart, I can’t believe this new job means you will be only a few miles from my new placement. I’m enjoying farm work, and there’s talk of release within the next six months. As soon as I have a date, you must choose a wedding ring, and start saving for your ticket to Germany! Being without you has been the only unbearable part of this. Can’t wait to see you. All my love, K.

  She pressed the thin, translucent paper to her chest before placing it carefully back in her bag. And at the same time, she smiled at the brown rubber band on her third finger and kissed it.

  The harbor began to fade, and the sea grew choppier as the ship chugged toward the open sea. It looked so small from here, this tiny prison of an island. She knew she was one of the lucky ones. So many had perished here at the invaders’ hands, so many others would never see these shores again. It was hard to think about them without a furious desire for revenge. How easy it was to access hate, Hedy pondered. How close to the surface that putrid emotion always floated, waiting for a target, biding its time to find a focus and bloom like a poisonous algae, while forgiveness lay limp and impotent at the bottom of the soul, guiltily aware that duty called, but without the energy to do its job. Would she and Kurt have the strength to resist that temptation? “Even if you forget the past, it will remember you,” her mother had been fond of saying. Only in the years to come, Hedy supposed, would she discover if that were true.