by Deborah Carr
Hans had initially tried to bring back small amounts of food for them in the summer but that had soon run out and even he had lost weight. He rarely smiled now, too, and she wanted to comfort him but didn’t dare let herself, fearful of what it would lead to and her previous disloyalty.
The thing that frightened her most, apart from not having enough to eat, was being able to find enough food to feed Rebel. She had heard other rumours of Germans stealing people’s pets, what few remained, and eating them.
Christmas came and went and Estelle and Gran decided that it wasn’t worth celebrating.
‘What’s the point,’ her grandmother said. ‘It’s not as if we have any food or presents. Let’s just leave it this year. I’d rather pretend it was an ordinary day. It will be less upsetting that way.’
Estelle readily agreed. She had no wish to try to make something of a day that just made them more miserable when they compared it to past Christmases when they were together as a family and their beautiful Christmas tree standing above carefully chosen and wrapped presents. No. This year was different. It was also the fifth Christmas without Rosie and her father. There was nothing to be thankful for this year.
Someone banged heavily on the back door. ‘Estelle!’ The sound of Mr Gibault’s voice coming from outside made her heart race.
She ran to the door and pulled it open waving for him to get inside. ‘You’re soaking wet. Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Something wonderful has happened. I’m going to all the neighbours’ houses to let them know.’
‘What is it?’ she asked barely able to breathe.
‘A Canadian Red Cross ship, the SS Vega has docked in St Helier. They’ve come from Lisbon, or so I’m told, and were in Guernsey before here. One of my customers told me a short while ago. He says they’re carrying food parcels.’
Estelle knew her mouth had dropped open but it took a few seconds for her to gain enough control to be able to close it again. Did he say food? ‘Food parcels? For us? You’re certain?’
‘Yes. I’m told there’s chocolate, biscuits, soap and marmalade. Estelle, you have to get down to Patriotic Street tomorrow. They’ll be distributing them from there. You can collect a box for you and your grandmother.’ He turned to leave. ‘I have to get on and let more people know. He placed his hand on the door handle and turned his head to her smiling. ‘Isn’t this the best news? Well, almost the best news.’
‘It is,’ Estelle said barely able to conceal her emotion. ‘Thank you so much for letting us know. I’ll be there first thing tomorrow.’
She watched him leave and closed the door, leaning heavily against it. So, they hadn’t been forgotten after all. She couldn’t stop her tears from flowing for a couple of minutes. Then, wanting to let her grandmother know the good news as quickly as possible, she ran upstairs. It had been several days since Gran had bothered to get out of bed and the amount of time she lay dozing was worrying Estelle.
‘Gran! Gran!’ she shouted, bursting into her grandmother’s bedroom.
Her grandmother rubbed her eyes and scowled at her. ‘What’s all the fuss about?’
Estelle pulled open the bedroom curtains and helped her grandmother to sit up in bed, fluffing up her pillows. Once she was comfortable, Estelle sat at the edge of the bed and told her about Mr Gibault’s visit.
‘What do you think of that then? This time tomorrow, we’ll have food and even soap.’ She was hoping this wasn’t a dream, or that she might be going a little mad. ‘I’ll go down on my bike and bring back our two boxes.’
Her grandmother stared at her without saying anything.
‘Did you hear what I said, Gran?’ she asked taking the wrinkled hands in her own. ‘The Red Cross have arrived at the harbour and they’ve brought us food.’
‘I heard you, my girl.’ She gave Estelle a tight smile. It was the first time Estelle had seen her smile for months and it was almost as if she had forgotten how to do it. ‘Tomorrow is the thirty-first. Now that’s what I call the perfect end to a rotten year. Maybe this bodes well for nineteen forty-five. I do hope so.’
So did Estelle. ‘We’re going to survive this. I just know we are.’
Her gran pulled one of her hands from Estelle’s and rested it on her right cheek. ‘I think you could be right, my love. If I’m honest, I was beginning to wonder how long I could manage to keep going. This has been such a long, exhausting battle.’
She moved forward and put her arms around her grandmother, hugging her bony body tightly. ‘I was worried you might be giving up hope. I think this has come at just the right time for all of us.’
Her gran went to pour herself a glass of water from the small jug on her bedside table, but when Estelle saw how shaky her hand was, she took over.
It was the right time for everyone on the island, even the Germans. Many of the men were finding it especially difficult being stuck on the island when they learnt of how their own families were suffering in Germany. Several had committed suicide at the thought of being sent to the Eastern Front, a brutal war where Hans had lost his brothers and many friends. Estelle’s feelings towards them were complicated. Men like Herr Fischer and the Operation Todt guards deserved everything they got.
But this was the first time in months that something had happened to give her hope and Estelle was going to enjoy every minute, and morsel, of it.
Forty-Six
Estelle
March 1945
The islanders were feeling a little more positive and finally Estelle had the soap she had desperately craved. She luxuriated in the small bar that had come from the red cross and treated it like it was her most valuable possession. That, and the nutritious food brought to them on the three trips to the island by the SS Vega since December was the only good thing in their lives currently. The underlying tension caused by mounting resentment and the low morale of their occupiers was increasing to a frightening level and they were all extremely anxious wondering where it could all lead.
She understood the soldiers were starving and had to contend with the knowledge that they had pretty much lost the war, but did that necessitate them terrifying the islanders? She didn’t think so. She thought back to cycling to see Antoinette a few weeks before. She had passed several buildings with swastikas painted on them in what looked like black paint, or possibly tar. If that wasn’t bad enough three days before someone had retaliated by setting fire to the Palace Hotel, where German officers were living.
They had tried to stop the fire spreading but in doing so had ended up setting fire to a nearby ammunition store which gutted the hotel and several houses, killing and injuring soldiers and islanders. It was as if the relief in receiving the food was unable to balance out the horror of the increasing trouble.
Estelle had listened to accounts on her hidden crystal set over about mounting violence and knew she had no way of protecting her and Gran should someone come to the farm to do them harm. Then again, she thought, recalling her father’s shotgun under Gran’s bed, she did have that, and she knew she would use it to defend them. They were so close to liberation, she could feel it and no one was going to take that away from them after what they’d been through.
‘I don’t want you going into town any more,’ Gran insisted one morning in March after reports of local women being assaulted and widespread looting. For almost six weeks, Estelle did as she asked, only venturing as far as the village. Things were getting tougher and Estelle felt her father’s loss much more now than ever before. He would have protected them and made them feel safe. Would she be able to rely on Hans to do the same against his own men?
Forty-Seven
Rosie
15 April 1944
Well, it looks like it’s all happening at the moment doesn’t it Essie? So much nervous excitement going on I can almost taste it. Everyone is desperate to survive especially as we’ve come this far. If we hadn’t thought the doodlebugs were bad enough we’ve been having to contend with
V2s since late last year and I have to admit that the slightest sound in the distance has me trembling and scanning the skies. Surely, it can’t be long now, can it?
So much seems to be happening according to the news. I was sad though to read that President Roosevelt had died of a stroke and so close to what surely must now be the end of this interminable war. Thank heavens for the Red Cross. I don’t know what we would have done without replies to our telegrams and you’re probably thinking the same now that they’re bringing food and supplies to the Channel Islands.
I so want to be able to hug you Essie. I try to picture everything. The farm and how it looks now. How you wear your hair and if you and Gran are thin, which I imagine you must be after so many months on what must have been a starvation diet. I can’t wait for you to see me. I’ve grown several inches but I still don’t think I’ll be as tall as you are. My hair is a little darker I think, but that’s from not being out in the sun as much as I was at home. I look more grown up now that Aunt Muriel helps me style it a little, but she won’t let me wear lipstick yet because she said it makes me look older than I am. She says that’s a bad thing because I don’t yet have the maturity to look after myself if I receive any unwanted attention, whatever that means.
Essie, I just know if we can get through the next bit of the war that we will see each other soon and you’ll finally be able to read all my notes in this diary I’ve kept for you. I dare hardly hope that sometime soon we could be lying in the long grass among the wildflowers in the top meadow and telling each other all about our different wars.
So much has changed in the past five years since I last saw you. So much death and destruction, but Aunt Muriel keeps insisting we’ll get through this and I do believe her, although there have been times when I’ve doubted her.
Much love, Essie. I wonder how we’ll look back on this time apart? Or will we simply want to forget it ever happened? You know, I don’t think we will want to forget because whatever we’ve gone through, these experiences, for good or bad, have made us who we are.
Forty-Eight
Estelle
4 May 1945
‘Did you see last night’s Evening Post?’ Mr Gibault asked when she went to his shop.
Estelle shook her head, anxious about what bad news he might have for her. ‘No, why?’
‘I’ll show you,’ he said, grinning and reaching under his counter for something. He lifted a copy of the local newspaper and slapped it on to his wooden counter. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing to the headline. ‘Read that out loud to me, young Estelle. I want to hear it as well as see it for myself.’
Estelle read it once to herself and gasped in disbelief. ‘Really?’
‘Go on then, read what it says.’ He rested his hands on his hips. ‘Loudly.’
Estelle giggled. ‘Adolf Hitler Falls at His Post.’ Could it really be true? Was that monster dead? ‘Does that mean this is over, do you think?’
‘I think it definitely soon will be.’
She could barely believe it. ‘I’ll buy a copy please. Gran needs to see this.’
He rolled up the newspaper and handed it to Estelle. ‘No, it’s my gift to your gran.’ He stared at Estelle for a moment. ‘How is she coping?’
Estelle gave his question some thought. Her grandmother was definitely looking healthier and a little stronger since the Vega had begun delivering food parcels for them. Estelle was certain it was due to the realisation that the outside world hadn’t forgotten them. And tasting decent food after so many months eating nettle soup and bramble leaf tea wasn’t harming her either. She knew that after this war she would never eat another turnip, the very thought made her feel sick, but the tasteless vegetables had helped keep them going.
‘She’s hanging on in there, Mr Gibault. I can tell she’s putting on a brave face so that I don’t worry about her too much, but I know her well enough to see through it.’ She sighed. ‘She’s exhausted from everything we’ve gone through. It’s as simple as that. Her spirits are low and I don’t know if it was the diphtheria that sapped most of her strength, or the shortages.’ She realised she was worrying him. ‘That’s why I want to show her this headline. It’ll give her the boost to keep going that she desperately needs. It certainly gives me hope.’
‘As it does me, Estelle.’
The following few days were a mixture of excitement and frustration. ‘I don’t know why the Bailiff said we can’t raise our British flags,’ Estelle grumbled on 8 May as she climbed down the attic ladder holding some tatty bunting and two flags that her father must have put up there at some point before the war. She shook the Jersey flag and the Union Flag that her father had hung from the upstairs windows whenever there had been a Royal visit to the island. She sneezed. ‘They’re really dusty. We should have put them away in an old suitcase for the duration of the war.’
‘It’s a bit late now to worry about a speck of dust.’ Gran took one from her and the two of them went outside to the yard and gave them a good shake. ‘Anyway, you know it makes sense not to raise the flags just yet. We don’t want to get this far and antagonise the Jerries. Who knows what they might do?’
She had a point, Estelle thought, giving her flag an extra shake and watching the dust fly into the air. It was good enough just to be able to bring these outside in preparation of the celebrations they now felt certain would soon arrive.
They hadn’t seen much of Hans and she wasn’t sure what was going to happen to him. She supposed he would return to Germany and then at some point be allowed to go back to his family and carry on with his life. She hoped so.
Realising it was almost three o’clock, Estelle nudged her grandmother gently. ‘Give me that flag and let’s go inside and turn on the set. I can’t miss what Mr Churchill has to say today.’
She hung the two flags and bunting over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and sat down at the table opposite her grandmother. Estelle turned on her crystal set and waited. At exactly three o’clock, Winston Churchill’s voice crackled through the set. Estelle reached for her grandmother’s nearest hand and held on to it.
‘Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight tonight,’ he said, his familiar voice ensuring that neither of them dared barely breathe as he spoke. ‘But in the interests of saving lives, the ceasefire began yesterday, to be sounded all along the Front, and our dear Channel Islands are also to be freed today.’
Estelle couldn’t speak. She wished she could hear him repeat what he had just said, just to be certain that she hadn’t imagined the words.
Her grandmother cleared her throat. ‘Estelle you do realise that this means we’re free?’ she whispered.
Estelle could barely move. All these years hoping and wishing for this to happen, she had always imagined she would be jumping up and down cheering and shrieking. All she could manage to do was sit and stare at the crystal set as her mind slowly absorbed that this was really happening.
She bit her lower lip and looked at her grandmother. ‘You’re crying, Gran,’ she said, wondering why her grandmother didn’t wipe away her tears.
‘So are you, my love.’
Later that evening, as Estelle was making her way along the hedgerow along the back field, she spotted Hans. His hands were in his uniform trouser pockets and he was staring up at the blue sky, deep in thought. She decided not to disturb him. After so long of him being here, of the unexpected strength and comfort he gave her, he would be leaving in the next day or so.
‘Good evening, Estelle,’ Hans said, noticing her and waving.
‘Hello, Hans. Rebel and I were going for a walk.’
‘Making plans for the farm now that the war is over?’
‘Yes. I can’t say that I’m not. To have our freedom again.’
‘You can turn your clocks back to the proper time, too,’ he said in a half-hearted attempt at a joke.
‘Oh, Gran has already done that,’ she said. ‘But don’t report us, will you?’
Hans shr
ugged. ‘No one could do anything about it now, anyway.’ He stood in front of her and reached down to stroke Rebel’s head. ‘I’ll miss you, boy.’
‘He’ll miss you, too,’ Estelle said realising it for the first time. The dog had spent a lot of time with him. It dawned on her that Hans hadn’t just been standing staring at the sky. ‘You’re leaving now, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I’ve been called to the barracks. You are to have your island back, Estelle. I am pleased for you.’
She couldn’t untangle her emotions, so complicated but so strong too. ‘I’m glad that if we had to have any officer billeted with us that it was you.’
His lips drew back into a slight smile. ‘Thank you. I am happy to hear you say this. But of course you will be happier when I am gone and your little sister returns from England.’
Estelle nodded. ‘Yes, I can’t wait to see her again. It’s been a long five years.’
He patted Rebel’s head. ‘It has.’
‘Do you know what will happen to you?’ She couldn’t shake how desperately sad she felt at the thought of never seeing him again. Or her worry for what would happen to him as the loser in this terrible war.
‘No, not yet.’ He gazed at her for a few seconds. ‘I hope to be able to return home to see my mother soon though and, one day, I like to think that I will return to this pretty island and see what it is like in peace time. Would you mind me doing that?’