An Island at War

by Deborah Carr

  Despite listening to reports from all over the globe, Estelle’s world seemed very small. She had given up trying to find some of the items she had always thought of as essentials, even the soap they used to use had now been replaced by a nasty cheap one that made her skin sore. It was frustrating and degrading that they couldn’t find shampoo, or soap to keep themselves clean, and she wondered how long she could make her meagre wardrobe last now that it was impossible to purchase new clothes or shoes. She reminded herself that everyone was in the same boat when it came to these things, however. The whole island was suffering.

  The weather had been very cold at the beginning of the year and fuel was scarcer than ever. They had even taken to wearing several layers of clothes and their outdoor coats in the house just to keep warm. With the fuel shortages, they had given up using Estelle’s father’s tractor and stored it safely under a tarpaulin at the back of the barn behind boxes, pallet boards and old milk churns and anything else she could find to make it as inconspicuous as possible so that it wasn’t stolen by any light-fingered Germans.

  The captain had even taken to helping out on the farm when he wasn’t on duty. She had tried before to tell him she didn’t need his help but he had insisted that it was in lieu of their hospitality towards him. If he was to live under their roof, he wanted to help keep that roof secure.

  Estelle couldn’t help noticing the transformation in Hans when he worked on the land. Out of the harsh, imposing grey uniform and away from the strict rules that went with it, he was cheerful and relaxed. She enjoyed listening to his stories about his childhood on his own family farm and working beside his father and brothers.

  It was now March and early one morning a car called for the captain just before six o’clock. As she watched him from where she was working in the barn, Estelle could feel the tension as he greeted his driver and got into the car. Something serious was clearly going on. The whispers in town were full of how a group of young Frenchmen escaped from Brittany and were on their way to England to join the Free French.

  Yesterday, Madame de la Roche had called in for a cup of tea and informed them that the recent bad weather had meant the young lads had ended up on what they thought was the Isle of Wight, which, of course, it wasn’t. They had been washed up on Vazon Bay in Guernsey and had since been arrested and brought back to Jersey for trial.

  ‘What do you think will happen to them?’ Estelle had whispered to her grandmother after Hans had gone up to his room for the night. ‘Do you think he might know?’

  Her grandmother frowned. ‘You can’t possibly ask him about something we’re not supposed to know anything about. Now promise me, you’ll keep quiet.’ When Estelle didn’t reply immediately, she snapped at her. ‘Promise me, now.’

  She had no choice but to do as she was told.

  ‘Anyway,’ Gran continued, ‘he’s definitely been quieter the last few days but that could because of any number of things. Maybe it’s his mother’s birthday, or his wife’s?’

  ‘Hans has a wife?’ Estelle asked, for some reason shocked to discover he was married. She didn’t know why the thought of this news seemed to matter and she was irritated with herself for reacting. Why wouldn’t he have someone waiting for him back in Germany? He was a handsome, hard-working young man. But she couldn’t help thinking how strange it was that he hadn’t thought to mention his wife at all to her, especially when he had been living with them for so many months now.

  ‘I’m not saying he has,’ her grandmother replied, ‘only that he might have someone.’

  Estelle couldn’t hide her irritation. She hoped her grandmother hadn’t picked up on her confusion. ‘But why wouldn’t he mention, if he was married?’ Estelle said, mostly to herself.

  She heard her grandmother sigh in irritation. ‘It’s not our business whether he does, or he doesn’t.’

  She was right. It wasn’t.

  Later on that day, Estelle was walking along the edge of the top field with Rebel, inspecting the potato crop, when she heard the unmistakeable echo of gunshots, all within a split second of each other. Rebel immediately sprung up and barked and Estelle whirled round, ducking slightly, trying to listen to which direction the shots had come from. Rebel’s hackles rose as they both stared in the direction of St Ouen’s Manor, where the sound seemed to come from. Estelle loved the ancient and beautiful manor house which had stood on the island for over a thousand years. Charles II had even been a visitor there during his exile and, whenever Estelle cycled into St Helier, she rode along the road that ran along one side of the property under an archway of branches formed by Dutch elms that grew on either side. Since the invasion however it had been taken over by the Germans and Estelle did her best to avoid it as much as possible.

  ‘It’s okay, Rebel,’ she soothed, a shiver running through her as she frantically tried to work out what might have happened and whether she was in danger herself. Rebel looked up at her and tilted his head, seemingly confused. She crouched next to him and gave him a hug. It was soothing to press her face against his warm fur and breathe in the familiar earthy smell. One further shot was fired after about half a minute and then there was nothing further.

  When she returned to the farm, Estelle removed her jacket and hat before pulling off her boots and placing them next to her father’s work boots that neither woman had the heart to give away. Estelle looked up at his old tweed jacket, its elbows having been patched with pieces of leather by her grandmother had several times. Her father’s folded cloth cap was still in his right-hand jacket pocket where he’d pushed it that day in June when he’d left the farmhouse for the last time. Estelle kept her back to her grandmother, who was by the range, as she brushed away her tears and walked over to the sink to wash her hands. Her head was full of the day her father died and the sound of gunshots ringing out across the valley.

  ‘I’ve made a fresh batch of bread,’ Gran said. ‘It’s only small as we barely have any flour, but it’s better than nothing. We’ve some tomato soup still left over from yesterday, I thought we could eat that.’

  ‘That sounds perfect, Gran,’ Estelle fibbed. She decided that once the war was over, if it ever was, that she would never eat tomato soup again! She also knew, though, that she was luckier than most to have something as nourishing as tomatoes to eat. Many were surviving on far less and both she and her grandmother were doing all they could to help supplement their neighbours’ meals with produce that was left over from the German quotas. They all had to pull together and help out each other.

  The captain arrived back at the farmhouse some time later. Estelle spotted him as she came out of the barn and gave him a cheery hello, surprised when he appeared not to hear her the first time.

  ‘Hans? Is everything all right?’ she asked, catching up with him just outside the kitchen. His expression was serious and his face pinched.

  Estelle placed the bucket of water she’d been carrying on to the cobbled yard and it splashed around her feet. He looked across at her as if he’d only just noticed she was there. ‘I will retire early to my room. I am not hungry this evening. I would be grateful if you could please let your grandmother know.’

  He didn’t seem himself at all. Had he had bad news from home? ‘Would you like me to bring you up a hot drink?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Thank you.’

  He barely looked at her as he walked past her. Something terrible must have happened and she wished she knew what it was. She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  The following morning, Estelle walked to Mr Gibault’s shop and joined the queue.

  ‘You know my daughter took her eleven-plus in January?’ the woman in front of her was saying as she clutched her wicker basket to her stomach. ‘Well, she passed.’

  ‘You must be pleased?’

  ‘Very, especially when you think how strange it is for the kiddies right now,’ she replied proudly.

  Estelle let the conversations carry on around her. It was amazing the things sh
e picked up in queues while waiting to be served. She heard someone else enter the shop and then Hans’s voice asking the two boys behind her whether either of them would like to earn a little pocket money carrying out a few chores for him. Estelle smiled to herself at his attempt to be friendly with the locals. The boys began speaking in Jèrriais and acting as if they didn’t understand him. She had heard from her gran that some parents insisted their children spoke the Jersey patois when in the presence of the soldiers. Many families only spoke it at home. Estelle would have liked to practice the language with her grandmother, especially now that Hans lived with them but, as with her mother, both women had grown up on the British mainland and neither had been interested to learn the language. Unlike her and Rosie, who were brought up speaking it with their father.

  She heard Hans try once more to make conversation before she stepped in and translated. Once she had their reply, she changed it to make it more acceptable before relating it back to Hans as they giggled behind her. Hans thanked her and looking a little frustrated, left the store.

  Her father had enjoyed chatting to her in Jèrriais when they were alone together, or even sometimes when he didn’t want her mother to know something, like what he’d bought for her for her birthday, or other surprises he might have had in store for her. She smiled at the memory of how he’d told her he had bought some sweeties for her and hidden the small paper bag in the barn and that as soon as she’d finished feeding the chickens she could have one or two.

  ‘You’re the Le Maistre girl, aren’t you?’

  Estelle heard her name being called out and the harsh accusatory tone in which the question was asked. Before she had time to react, she received a sharp tap on her shoulder and turned round to face the person addressing her. It dawned on her then that everyone else in the queue was staring at her.

  ‘Well, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am. What of it?’

  ‘People like you make me sick.’ The woman sneered at her.

  Estelle winced in shock. ‘Excuse me, do I know you?’

  ‘Never mind me, it’s you we want an explanation from.’ A thin pinch-faced woman with her hair tied up in a scarf wound round her head like a turban glared at her.

  Estelle recognised her as someone who lived on the other side of the village, but she doubted she’d ever said more than the briefest greeting to her over the years. The woman had no reason to be giving her such a hard time. She jutted out her chin and placed her hands on her skinny hips, looking confident that she would have the backing of the others.

  Estelle could see that a couple of the others in the shop now looked uncomfortable, not wishing to get involved in the unnecessary nastiness, probably, Estelle thought, or because they were relieved the spiteful woman’s attention wasn’t on them. These weren’t times where you wanted to fall out with people. She recalled hearing rumours that the Kommandant was receiving daily letters from islanders snitching on friends they had fallen out with or neighbours they had long held a grudge against.

  Estelle glanced around at the other women in the shop. It dawned on her that they all knew something that she did not. No one was going to corner her in this way, she decided. How dare they all gang up on her? She had always worked hard, been polite and kept out of any trouble.

  ‘If one of you would be so kind as to enlighten me, I’d be very grateful,’ she said, doing her best to sound tough as sarcasm dripped from her words.

  The skinny woman shook her head in disgust. ‘We’d like to know just how you and your grandmother sleep at night? Living all cosy with the enemy up there at your big farmhouse?’

  Estelle felt as if she’d been slapped. ‘If you mean Captain Bauer then he was billeted at our home, we had nothing to do with deciding who moved in with us. You know we have no power against the Germans.’

  ‘No, but I’ll bet you were all for it when you met him and saw how handsome he was, weren’t you?’

  ‘Chantal, I don’t think that’s very fair.’ One of the other women at least seemed shocked by her accusation. Estelle noticed that it was Sylvie, a girl who’d been in the class above her at the parish school.

  ‘He is a Nazi officer!’ Estelle snapped, but, disconcertingly, felt slightly disloyal to Hans, who had been nothing but a gentleman since moving into the farmhouse.

  Chantal sniggered. ‘Them being Nazis hasn’t deterred other young women though, has it?’

  Estelle could feel her cheeks becoming hot and knew her face was red. Rather than embarrassment, which she assumed these people probably supposed her reaction to be, it was her rising temper and she was rapidly losing control of it. She desperately wanted to storm out of the shop but had no intention of doing so until she had defended herself. How dare this woman question her reputation, especially in such a public way? She took a breath to reply, when Sylvie, stepped forward.

  ‘Chantal,’ she said again. ‘You can’t say something like that to Estelle, she’s a good girl.’

  ‘Hah, they were all good girls at one point, weren’t they? And we don’t want a Jerry bag living in our parish.’

  Estelle gasped at the mention of the dreaded name: Jerry bag. It was a name a few of the local girls had been called due to their intimate relationships with some of the soldiers. She couldn’t understand how those girls justified having relationships with the enemy, no matter how handsome he might be. Estelle wondered, though, how many of them had been accused out of spite yet had done nothing wrong. And now this Chantal woman was accusing her.

  ‘Now, you listen to me, you young–’ Chantal pushed Sylvie aside and stepped forward, her nose almost touching Estelle’s.

  Estelle winced at the woman’s sour breath and desperately wanted to move back but she stood taller and refused to give in to her intimidation, especially when she had no idea what she had done to cause this woman to accuse her in such a way.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Mr Gibault’s booming voice silenced the muttering in the shop. ‘I’ll not have that sort of behaviour here. Estelle Le Maistre and her grandmother are good people and I won’t have you insinuate otherwise.’

  Estelle looked across the counter at him as he marched back in from the storeroom. She hadn’t noticed him leaving, but was relieved that he was back to help her.

  ‘Don’t you listen to them, Estelle.’ He glared from one woman to the other, resting his attention on the skinny mealy-mouthed woman who had taken it upon herself to accuse her. ‘And you, madam, should be ashamed of yourself. You’ve only lived in this parish for three years. Miss Le Maistre’s family have lived here for well over a century.’

  The woman clamped her mouth shut. Estelle suspected it was because she didn’t fancy having to register for her rations at a shop further away. Knowing Mr Gibault, Estelle believed he was capable of sending Chantal on her way and telling her never to come back if she didn’t behave. But why was she at the centre of such malicious attention? They weren’t the only people in the parish to have officers billeted with them. Once Mr Gibault had spoken, everyone turned back to face the counter and carried on waiting for their turn, trying to pretend nothing had happened.

  Following the confrontation, the atmosphere in the shop was now palpable and Estelle willed him to hurry up and serve everyone. He did seem to be chatting less than usual, she noted, gratefully, which was a relief, but the queue still took ages to move. She could still feel eyes on her. Watching her. Judging her…

  Finally, when she reached the front of the queue, Estelle quietly asked him why Chantal had singled her out. The silence in the shop was almost deafening.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t asked me that, young Estelle,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper as he measured out some bacon for her and her grandmother. ‘But I know you well enough that you’ll not leave until I tell you.’ He stopped what he was doing and gave her a questioning look.

  ‘Please, tell me. I’m not a – I’m not a Jerry bag.’ She said firmly. ‘And I feel like everyone here knows something I don’t.’ Part of h
er wished she didn’t have to know, because, by the look of regret on his kindly round face, she sensed that whatever he was about to tell her was going to be upsetting.

  Sighing, he finished wrapping the bacon and handed it to her. Estelle placed it into her basket and waited for him to find the words.

  ‘It’s that Nazi fellow that lives in your house. The one in here earlier.’

  She knew that much. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ Chantal snarled nastily. ‘What he’s trying to spit out is that your Nazi officer is the one who gave the order for that poor young French boy to be shot.’

  French boy? Shot? Estelle took a moment for her brain to process the woman’s words. ‘What? No, he can’t have done.’ Estelle looked in disbelief from the woman to Mr Gibault and she could see by the look on the shopkeeper’s face that it was the truth.

  ‘She’s right, I’m afraid. I’ve got it on good authority that he’s the one who gave the order for the boy to be executed by the firing squad. That poor lad was only twenty-one. All he’d done wrong was try to escape from France and join the Free French in Britain and for that those bastards tied him to a tree and executed him.’

  Estelle’s mind whirred as she thought of Hans and struggled to reconcile the young man who had decorated her family home for Christmas – with a cold-blooded killer.

  ‘Yes,’ snarled Chantal, giving a satisfied knowing nod to those around her. Estelle was relieved to note that the other women were now looking rather more shame-faced than they had done earlier. Sylvie looked as if she, too, wanted to cry.

  ‘You must have heard the shots yesterday?’ Chantal asked, an unpleasant grin on her face. ‘You live close enough to the manor. Did you give him a nice dinner when he came home, too? Bet he wasn’t even put off his food by that young lad’s brains blown all over the ground. Barbaric the lot of them.’