by Deborah Carr
They sat and chatted with Antoinette for another hour, their conversation a little stilted at first, but Antoinette soon relaxed and seemed to forget about Hans being at the farm. It really was such a glorious day, Estelle thought, resting back in her seat and closing her eyes listening to her friend’s laughter as she played ball with her son.
From the sound of the distant explosions, they would soon be able to enjoy their freedom again, she mused. Rosie would come back and they would all be together again. Her heart ached to think that her father wouldn’t be with them when their lives returned to normal again. Later in the month, it would be the fourth anniversary since his murder. She had certainly tried to do her best for the farm, but still missed him very much.
How different it would have been if Papa was still alive. He would have run things much better than her, but she doubted he would have found it easy having a German Officer living in their home. Either way, Hans would soon be gone and everything would have to find a way back to normal. She couldn’t bring herself to contemplate what it would be like without his presence in the house so instead she focused on the thoughts of her resuming once more.
During that evening’s supper – or what they could call supper – Estelle and Gran found it difficult to suppress their excitement. They could hear how close to the islands the Allied Forces were. It was only a matter of time now before they were liberated. Days maybe.
‘You haven’t eaten much of your supper, Hans,’ Gran said. ‘I’m sorry it’s mainly vegetables again and only a little fish, but that was all Estelle could buy for us at the shop this morning.’
He moved the food around his plate absent-mindedly. ‘I am sorry, Frau Woods. I do not wish to be ungrateful but my appetite is not what it should be today.’
Estelle could feel her gran’s eyes on her but refused to look at her. They both knew exactly why he had lost his appetite. If the situation was reversed they would surely feel the same way. He looked so downcast. Maybe the thought of the mighty Third Reich losing the war after all the certainty the soldiers had possessed these past four years was worse than knowing he was able to return home? Maybe he felt humiliated on behalf of his country, whose soldiers had marched on to their island from their troop ships with their chests puffed out and heads held high. But hadn’t he said his country was not his country any more? She knew he didn’t condone the brutality and inhumanity of the Nazis. He wasn’t one of them.
‘I must admit,’ he said eventually, placing his knife and fork down on to his plate, ‘I will always be grateful to have spent my war here on this island with you both.’
A week later, the islander’s euphoria that they would soon be rescued by the Allied Forces had all but vanished.
‘Why do you think they’ve abandoned us, Gran?’ Estelle asked, frustration brimming over one morning just after Hans had left for the day. ‘They were so close and it doesn’t make any sense to come so far and then pass us by.’
Gran pulled her into a hug, her bony arms holding tightly around her. ‘I’ve no idea, my love. We have to trust they’ve done so for the best reasons, not that I can work out what they might be.’
‘I thought it would all be over by now,’ she said.
Gran sighed heavily. ‘So, did I, my love, so did I.’ She held on to Estelle and then after a short while let her go and took her face in her hands.
‘Now,’ her grandmother said pointing to the back door, ‘you need to get back out to the fields and carry on with harvesting those remaining Royals. We can’t allow any to go to waste.’
Estelle nodded and slipped her feet into her dusty boots. She was being helped by several of the local women during the day and their sons or nephews came to the farm after they had finished school each day to lend a hand with the harvesting. Hans had helped her each evening or when he wasn’t on duty and slowly they were making their way across the top field. It was backbreaking work but Estelle was happy to keep her mind busy and focused on something useful like food.
She had been working for a few hours when she heard the sound of a plane and looked up. ‘It’s British!’ Estelle exclaimed delighted to see an RAF plane flying over St Ouen. She pointed towards the plane and the others looked up and several of the boys cheered.
‘Is it a Spitfire?’ Elise Hamon asked.
‘No. That is a Hawker Typhoon,’ she heard Hans say.
How unnerving must it be for him to see a British plane over the parish? Seconds later, she heard anti-aircraft fire fill the air quickly followed by a shriek from one of the women. Estelle looked up and to her horror saw that the aircraft had been struck.
‘It’s on fire,’ someone cried out.
Estelle dropped the potatoes she was holding and clenched her fists willing the pilot to bale out not knowing if it was even possible for him to do so. All of them stood staring upwards at the plane as it plummeted downwards. Estelle gasped at the sound of the explosion that followed. ‘No! that poor, poor man. I hope he manages to survive.’
‘I don’t think he will have done,’ Hans said quietly from two rows away.
Estelle shuddered. Would there ever again be anything to make them smile?
Forty-Two
Rosie
July 1944
It’s very frustrating not being able to share my news with you in person especially when so much has happened recently. I’m fine, but if I’m honest with you, I almost wasn’t.
We’re now living with Queenie in her flat that for her alone was probably big but with me and Aunt Muriel and one of Queenie’s nieces it’s a little cramped. Not that Aunt Muriel and I have anything much any more since a couple of days ago. We were out, thankfully, walking to Ravenscourt Park to meet Lynne and Billy for a bit of a picnic when we all heard a doodlebug and looked up. You have to watch to see when the engine cuts out and hope that when it does that you’re nowhere near it because they drop like explosive boulders and obliterate everything around it. And that’s what it did to our lovely little flat. The whole house in fact, and the ones either side.
We didn’t realise of course until we arrived back home, but we knew it was somewhere near to where we lived, so the picnic was forgotten as we rushed back and that’s when we saw the devastation. Oh Essie, it was such a mess. Everything apart from the clothes I was wearing and my handbag with my hairbrush and papers have all gone. We all clung to each other and cried.
But now we’re living with Queenie. She’s very kindly found us other clothes that some of her stallholder friends have donated to us, which was wonderfully generous of them. Aunt Muriel said that we might have lost our possessions but we still have our lives and each other and that, quite rightly, is what matters.
More news! I’ve joined the Women’s Voluntary Service with Aunt Muriel and doing things like serving hot drinks to soldiers arriving home at the railway station. I’ve also helped out at the clothing centres where people, like us, who have lost everything can go to be given a change of clothes. To be honest, it was her who suggested I join because I was too nervous to be left each time she went to work. So, now I’m sixteen, I can finally feel like I’m almost a grown up and that I’m doing my bit to help the war effort.
I wish I could hear all your news, Essie. I think about you and Gran and pray for you a lot. We thought you would be rescued after D-Day last month, but Aunt Muriel said that the British Forces were probably too frightened about any repercussions towards the Channel Islanders if they tried to liberate you. I pray this will all end soon.
Forty-Three
Estelle
7 September 1944
The summer dragged on and instead of the Allied Forces making an appearance like she and Gran had hoped everything got worse. Much worse.
‘What do you mean there’s nothing today?’ she asked Mr Gibault having queued outside his shop for an hour before opening time to ensure she was able to buy something.
‘You know I’d tell you if I had something, Estelle,’ he said looking much thinner, and worn out
, than he had done at the beginning of the war. ‘But what can I do. Since the supply lines were cut by the allies on the sixth of June, the Jerries have been unable to bring in the meagre rations they had been sending over here for us all.’ He pushed her ration book back to her. ‘We’re not the only ones starving either. The Jerries are suffering as much as we are with this lack of food.’
‘But what are we supposed to do?’ she asked trying not to panic. ‘I’ve been foraging each day for berries and whatever I can find, but there’s so little around now that everyone’s doing the same thing.’
He bent forward and lowered his voice. ‘If you still have that chicken of yours I’d take her inside at night-time, just to be sure no one steals her.’
‘We already do, Mr Gibault,’ Estelle said. ‘Gran is beside herself ever since last week when someone came and stole our pig. She’s terrified they’ll come back and take Clara, too, that’s the chicken. Or even Rebel, so she won’t let him out at night or even in the daytime by himself any more.’
‘She’s a sensible woman that grandmother of yours. You’ll do well to pay good attention to her.’
‘I do, Mr Gibault,’ Estelle reassured him.
‘I wonder if the RAF will drop more of those paper bombs we’ve been getting since the end of August?’
Estelle thought of the thousands of papers that had been dropped over the island for almost two weeks. She recalled her excitement when seeing the papers floating down on to the farm on the first day, running to grab one but frustrated when she realised it was in German and she couldn’t understand it. She had shown it to Hans later that day and watched him read it silently, a scowl on his face.
‘I asked him what it said,’ she explained to the shopkeeper. ‘And he told me that the allies were ordering them to surrender.’
‘I bet he didn’t take kindly to that?’ Mr Gibault smiled. It was the first time Estelle had seen him do so for months and it cheered her slightly.
She pictured Hans as he screwed up the leaflet and marched into the farmhouse without saying another word. ‘Do you think they’ll surrender, Mr Gibault?’ Estelle asked hopefully.
He raised his hands, then dropped them to his sides. ‘I would like to think so, but I can’t see it happening, and I have a horrible feeling that the allies intend keeping us under siege until we either starve to death or the Jerries do give up and wave their white flags. Somehow, I can’t see that happening for a long while yet. Can you?’
Estelle shook her head miserably. ‘It’s more frightening than ever now that they seem to feel as under siege as we do.’
Estelle heard the commotion in the yard as she neared the farm. Breaking into a run she heard Hans’s deep voice shouting at someone. She reached the yard breathless to see him holding a young boy by the collar.
‘Hans? What’s happened?’
Then she spotted Hans’s other hand. He was holding Clara the chicken and it was clear that she was dead. Estelle cried out, dropping her basket, and ran to take her chicken’s lifeless body from him.
‘Did you do this?’ she shouted at the boy through her tears.
‘Tell her!’ Hans glared at the boy who Estelle could see was clearly terrified.
‘I… My mum… W… we…’
Estelle looked at the skinny boy, who she recognised as being Chantal’s oldest son. ‘Your mum sent you to do this, didn’t she?’ Estelle asked, aware that as much as she might be hungry the thought of killing Clara to eat her was something she would never have been able to do. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, motioning for Hans to let the boy go. ‘He’s only doing what his mum has told him to do.’
‘I was only going to take the bird,’ he sobbed. ‘I didn’t mean to kill it, but I fell over when he came back and chased me.’ He glared at Hans. ‘It’s your fault the bird is dead, you Jerry b—’
‘That’s enough!’ Estelle shouted. She could see by the expression on Hans’s face that the boy was speaking the truth. She thought of the times he had helped her feed the chickens and clean them out and knew he would be as upset as her about Clara’s demise. ‘I’ve got some blackberries and apples that you can take home to your mum, but you need to leave the chicken here.’
Hans let go of the boy’s collar and the boy nodded. ‘Thanks, Miss. I daren’t go home empty-handed. She’ll go barmy if I do that.’
‘You won’t have to. Tell her we were here so you were unable to take the chicken. You can say you found the fruit on the way home. All right?’
He nodded slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Miss.’
‘I don’t want to see you here again. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘We have nothing left for you to steal, so there’s really no point in coming back.’
Hans took a deep breath. ‘And I will be watching out for you next time.’
The boy gave him a sideways glance. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not coming here again.’
Estelle told the boy to follow her. She collected her basket and took it inside. Then finding an old tin scooped several handfuls into it. There were a few apples in a fruit bowl on the kitchen table waiting for stewing that evening. ‘Take these. Now, get going before my grandmother discovers what you’ve done, or there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘All right, I’m goin’.’ He reached the kitchen door and turned back to face Estelle. ‘Thanks for these, Miss. Me mum will have given me a cuff around the ear if I’d gone home with nothin’.’
She wasn’t surprised to hear it. Estelle couldn’t imagine any mother being harsh with their children especially over something like this. Although it must be terrifying not having enough to feed your children, she thought trying to see things from Chantal’s point of view. None of them could do much about the scarcity of the food on the island, especially not a young boy. ‘Right, off you go.’
He had only been gone a few seconds when her grandmother rushed into the room. ‘What’s all the racket outside? Are those blackberries?’ she grinned, picking one up and popping it into her mouth. She closed her eyes and Estelle could see how delighted she was to taste the sweet fruit.
Estelle watched her eat another few blackberries. Let her enjoy them while she can, she thought miserably. How was she going to break the news about Clara?
Forty-Four
Rosie
We’re very worried about you and Gran, Essie. Aunt Muriel has heard that there is no food reaching the island since D-Day. I know you’re clever and will have thought of something, but I can’t think what. We don’t have much here, but Aunt Muriel insists we have a lot more than everyone in the Channel Islands. How are you surviving? What will you do when the food runs out? I know you’ll hate to eat the chickens, but Aunt Muriel said that you will have no choice and that having been brought up on a farm you will understand that. I tried to tell her that our farm was mostly crops but she didn’t seem to understand there was a difference, which I found odd.
Every time I don’t like something Aunt Muriel has cooked for me or the dinners at school I make myself eat them knowing that you would be grateful to have the chance to do so. Oh, Essie, please, please think of something. I know this will all be over soon. It has to be, surely? It can’t be too much longer. Aunt Muriel says that it’s like running a cross country race where you are so exhausted near the end that you think you’ve run out of energy but you have to dig deep and find it somehow.
Dig deep, Essie. I know you can’t hear me but maybe if I wish or pray hard enough you’ll know that I’m willing you to keep going. I can’t bear the thought of not seeing you and Gran again. I know that I will and I know that one day we’ll be able to go down to Greve de Lecq with our swimsuits and lie on the warm golden sand with our toes in the sea and share a picnic and share all our experiences while we’ve been apart. Please keep fighting, Essie. For me.
Forty-Five
Estelle
December 1944
Estelle stood in front of her grandmother’s pantry with one hand on the open do
or and the other resting on her bony hip. It was pouring with rain outside, yet again. In fact, Estelle thought miserably it hadn’t seemed to stop raining for the past three months. In November, the Germans had come to the farm and inspected it, making a list of their food and meagre stocks. It hadn’t taken long and a week ago they had returned and taken all the potatoes and vegetables she and Gran had left. Estelle was relieved they didn’t still have her father’s cows from before the war when she heard that the Jerries had started slaughtering all the cattle to feed their troops.
The pantry shelves offered no solace. They were completely bare. Nothing was left. They had long ago used all the tins of food that had been sitting at the back of the shelves gathering dust because no one fancied eating whatever was in them. At least in September they had been able to eat fruit and other foods that Estelle had foraged for, but now the weather was very cold and miserable and all she could think about was how her hunger seemed to gnaw at her stomach. She was starving, they all were – ever since the food supplies had been cut off after D-Day, the Jerries hadn’t been able to bring anything through France and into the island. She had always been slim but hated catching sight of herself in the bathroom mirror and seeing how gaunt she looked. She had no idea how long her grandmother’s health would keep up if this carried on for much longer. Why did the British Forces not do something? Didn’t they know how much they were all suffering? Wasn’t it bad enough to live under siege without being starved, too?
Estelle had heard rumours that the Red Cross would come and help them, but she had also listened to the same people insisting that the islands would be liberated back in June and that hadn’t happened. It was difficult to keep her spirits up. There was no point sitting up in the darker evenings, so she and Gran took to their beds much earlier than they did earlier in the war. They may as well be warm, it wasn’t as if they had anything to eat, or candles to be able to read books by. Estelle was beginning to think that they had been forgotten and that this was it for them all.