The Hidden

by Mary Chamberlain

  They pushed her forward. Behind her she heard Geoffrey, his breath heavy, growling. The front door was open. Dora stepped outside. A glint of sun on glass from the hillside hit her eye and she squinted. It was gone. There were two Kübelwagen. They had meant business. Shoved her towards the first. The Feldpolizisten paused and Dora watched as they manhandled the prisoners out of the door. The sergeant, the one she’d met that last time, picked up his Mauser, held it against the young lad’s temple.

  Head open like a starburst.

  Dora smelled the soot. Vomited. The Feldpolizist shot again and again and laughed, came towards her, pistol steaming, pushed it against her arm so she felt its burn.

  ‘Steigen Sie ins Auto.’

  She tripped on the running board, was yanked up, thrown forward. She scrabbled into the seat, turned round. Geoffrey was being thrust into the second Kübelwagen. Behind him, one Feldpolizist was tying the other prisoner to the back of the car while another pistol-whipped his feet so he jumped and danced like a performing bear.

  Geoffrey looked up, caught Dora’s eye. I’m sorry. He’d guessed this was coming. Or had he known all along? She looked at him, courage. The Feldpolizist shoved Geoffrey’s head down, pushed him into the car. Dora heard the engines turn, the mechanical chug as the pistons and cylinders ground into motion and the vehicles moved forward, dragging the screaming prisoner behind them.

  The cell had no window. Dora had no idea how long she had been there sitting in the pitch-black. She ran her finger along the cold, tiled walls, feeling the condensation. There was a wooden platform for sleeping and a galvanised bucket in the corner, smelling of urine. A small grille was set into the door, and the guard used it to run his baton across, clink-clank, clink-clank, clink-clank.

  ‘Mögen Sie meine Musik?’

  She wanted to cry out, ‘Nein, leave me alone.’ But her jaw was too tender from where the Feldpolizist had punched it, her throat too sore to talk.

  ‘Who were you working with?’

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘How many prisoners have you helped?’

  ‘Who are your accomplices?’

  ‘Who gives you the money?’

  I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.

  The grille had been opened once and a chipped enamel cup passed through. In the dim light from the opening, she saw it was filled with a thin, grey liquid in which bits of cabbage floated.

  It was tasteless. She sat on her bed, back up against the corner, hugging her knees. Where was Geoffrey? What had happened to him? What had he been thinking when he caught her eye in the Kübelwagen? It will be all right. Or more? I love you. Did he love her? Or was she just convenient for him? With her nursing skills and German? Had he even betrayed her? Was he saying, forgive me, searching for absolution? He’d betrayed a woman before. Her shoulder sockets ached from where the Feldpolizist had wrenched her arms behind her back, and her lip throbbed from the blow she had received from one of the Feldkommandant’s henchmen.

  He had stood there, Colonel Knackfuss himself. Polite at first.

  ‘I am the Feldkommandant, Fräulein Simon. Permit me to introduce Oberleutnant Zepernick.’ He’d smiled, bowed, a click of his heels. ‘Head of the Geheime Feldpolizei.’

  Zepernick had bowed his head, too. Civilised. Just like us.

  ‘We have a few questions to ask you. It won’t take long.’

  They didn’t ask about Geoffrey. Not a single question. Didn’t ask her why she went to his house, how often she went. What did they know?

  Knackfuss had stepped forward, face close to hers so she saw the bristles in his nose and his crooked teeth. She smelled his sour breath. What did Geoffrey know?

  ‘Sind Sie eine Jüdin?’

  Are you a Jew? She’d looked up, caught off her guard. He’d said it in German, and she’d responded. And he’d come straight out with it. She’d given herself away. It didn’t take much. One look.

  ‘Antworten Sie mir auf Deutsch.’ Answer me in German.

  ‘You see,’ Zepernick said. ‘We know you are a Jew.’

  Who had told them? The Jurat? He had no proof.

  ‘And you speak German.’

  ‘No,’ Dora said, shaking her head. ‘No.’

  Nein, nein, nein.

  Geoffrey was the only one who knew. Had he told them? Turned her in to save his skin?

  ‘Warum geben Sie es nicht zu?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Dora said.

  Zepernick slammed his fist into her jaw, and her head jolted to one side. ‘Why don’t you admit it?’

  Her hands were still tied behind her. She could do nothing to soothe her jaw. They’re bluffing, she told herself. They have no evidence. Did they need evidence? These weren’t rational, civilised people.

  ‘What do you know?’ Knackfuss said.

  ‘Nothing.’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘I know nothing.’

  ‘Put her away,’ Zepernick said. One of the Feldpolizisten yanked her by the arm. It was numb, dead, tied too tight. She cried out, her shoulders wrenched and sore. He pulled her towards the door.

  ‘Oh, Miss Simon,’ Colonel Knackfuss said. ‘One more thing before you go.’ He walked towards her. ‘I am a fair man, you will find. A reasonable man.’ He signalled to the Feldpolizist to release her handcuffs. The blood came rushing back, the nerve ends in her shoulders and elbows stinging, her fingertips a mass of vicious pins and needles. ‘Allow me to share a few ideas with you.’

  There was a table in the room and he sauntered over to it, perched himself on the edge, swung his leg. ‘You are guilty of a very serious crime,’ he said. ‘Aiding escaped prisoners. Consorting with the resistance, with the enemy. I could shoot you. I should shoot you.’ He drummed his fingers against his chin. ‘At Charing Cross, perhaps, or the parade ground. Somewhere public, as an example. You are a respected woman, after all. A respectable woman. Do you speak French, Miss Simon?’

  Dora stared at the brown and black floor tiles, at the dust that had gathered in balls by the skirting.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ Knackfuss said, slapping his hand on the tabletop. ‘Answer me. Do you speak French?’

  ‘A little,’ Dora said. ‘I speak a little.’

  ‘Then you will understand my thinking here,’ he said. ‘Pour encourager les autres. Or–’

  He paused and Dora could feel the pressure of his gaze. She dared not look up, meet him in the eye.

  ‘I could send you to Ravensbrück. That is a camp, for women like you. We have already sent a number of women from Jersey there. You won’t be alone.’ She heard him push himself off the table. ‘They will determine whether you are Jewish and will deal with you accordingly.’

  He began to drum his fingers on the table, then stopped, walked towards her, his boots a steady clop, clop on the hard floor.

  ‘Or.’ He put a finger under her chin, tilted her face so she was forced to look into his. He pushed her hair away from her cheek, tucked it behind her ear. Dora flinched. ‘Bruising fades, wounds heal.’ He brushed his fingers against the side of her face. ‘We could use you here, in Jersey.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Oberleutnant Zepernick, what do you think?’

  He flicked his wrist in dismissal and the Feldpolizist marched her from the room, his fingers digging into the tender muscle of her arm.

  A cramp began in Dora’s stomach, a slow squeeze along her bowel. She felt for the bucket in the dark, squatted over its rim. There was no paper, not even torn-up scraps of newspaper. She felt sick and soiled.

  Who knew she was here? She could just vanish. Plenty of people in Germany disappeared when Hitler came to power. Or ended up in labour camps like the ones in Jersey. What had happened to the Jews they’d sent away? Or the British? Or the men and women who’d stood up to them? Kept a wireless, helped a prisoner? Gone. Not a word since.

  And Geoffrey? What had they done with Geoffrey? She closed her eyes, seeing his bowed frame as they led him away. Had they broken him?

&
nbsp; The baton rattled across the grille. She jumped. The keys were in the door and a Feldgendarm in an ill-fitting uniform and cap grabbed her arm, slapped on handcuffs and pulled her towards the door. He walked fast and she had difficulty keeping up with him, tripping on her wooden shoes, which slipped from her heel and twisted under her foot. Upstairs, down again, along one corridor, then another, green below the rail, cream above, brown and black tiles on the floor.

  They had entered the main entrance hall. Two more Feldgendarmen were there. The scruffy one yanked her back so she stopped. She saw the man nod. A movement behind her, and a sack tugged down over her head, the strings tied round her neck. No. She tried to scream, no, to breathe. They were going to kill her, string her from a lamppost. They covered heads first, didn’t they, when they did that? Shoot her through the temple. Her breath came in shallow gulps. The hessian stuck to her mouth and nose. Her head spun, her knees buckled. Her stomach cramped again. No, please no. The soldier pushed her forward, clumsy palsied steps. She was crying, her nose running, the hessian rubbing. I don’t want to die.

  And Geoffrey? Would they kill him too, the pair of them, together? Lined up and shot, a single bullet to the head. Who first? Would they make her watch him die, as they had when they killed the prisoner? Or would it be the rat-a-tat of the machine gun, and falling together, like skittles, limbs tangled in death? She didn’t want to die. Please.

  She was propelled down the stairs, tumbling, dragged. Shoved into a car. She could sense the two Feldgendarmen following, sitting either side of her. She was aware of their arms, the hard metal badge on their chests, aware of them making gestures.

  The car was driving fast, tyres squealing as they rounded corners, hitting the kerbstones as they went, throwing Dora against the Feldgendarmen. The car came to a halt, the door opened.

  ‘Raus.’

  They pulled her out. She could smell the sea, hear the breath of waves as they lapped against stone. Gulls screeched above. She was still in town. Perhaps by the harbour, in the square in front of the Pomme d’Or. A Feldgendarm grabbed her arm, marched her up steps. The Pomme d’Or had no stairs. She caught the scent of jasmine through the mouldy hessian of her hood. Jasmine.

  She knew where she was. Not in town at all. She knew the place where jasmine climbed the walls and filled the gardens with its fragrance. She was pushed through the doors, into a hall, shoes clattering on the marble floor. She had no idea why they had brought her here. She could picture it, black and white chequered floor, the sweep of the stairs with their polished balustrades, the heavy Victorian furniture, to the left the saloon bar with its gracious chairs, to the right the dining room. She’d known this place too, before the Germans came. A door opened, laughter, the refrains of a song drifting through, Dora knew the words. Lili Marleen. The door shut. These weren’t offices of the Feldkommandantur.

  She was in the Hotel Maison Victor Hugo. La Greve d’Azette. The tide was in, the jasmine in bloom, ‘Lili Marleen’ was playing on a gramophone through the hallway and she was being led up the stairs.

  ‘Walk forward.’ A woman’s voice, in English. The sack round her head smelled of earth and mushrooms, of Miss Besson’s house. She sensed the woman coming close, heard her breathing, fiddling with the ties of the sack, forcing a cold blade between it and her neck, sawing. The sack loosened, was pulled off. Shafts of sunlight danced like a kaleidoscope on the floor. Dora breathed deep. Behind her she could feel the person tugging at her handcuffs, the sharp edges of the steel pinching Dora’s palms.

  ‘Gottverdammt.’

  The woman went over to her desk. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform, her black lace-up shoes squeaking as she walked. She rummaged in a drawer, produced a bunch of keys, returned to Dora. Her face was round and ruddy, her body force-ripe, the kind that would go to seed fast. Her hair was dull brown, cut short.

  Dora waited, heard the lock on the handcuffs grind and click, felt the pressure on her wrists give. She shook them free, winced as the blood rushed back.

  She looked around the room. A doctor’s surgery. A set of scales stood next to the desk, and a measurement chart. There was a surgical bed at right angles against the wall and a set of powerful lights hanging from the ceiling. There was a medicine cabinet on another wall with a red cross painted on the door, and beneath it a large refrigerator. The contents of the room looked proficient.

  ‘Undress.’

  ‘Undress?’ Dora said.

  ‘Take your clothes off and go over to the bed.’

  Dora unbuttoned her uniform, stepped out of it.

  ‘Everything,’ the nurse said. ‘Underwear.’

  Dora did as she was told, stepped over to the bed, sat on it.

  ‘Lie down, open your legs.’

  Dora had examined enough women to know what the nurse was about to do. Prodded, poked. The nurse ticked items off her list as she went.

  ‘To the scales.’

  She was weighed and measured. The nurse brought out a small steel contraption, placed it on Dora’s head, adjusting dials, wrote down the results. Shone a light into Dora’s eyes, cut a lock of her hair and held it against a chart.

  ‘Is your hair dyed?’

  ‘No.’

  Dora stood in the centre of the room. She folded her arms over her breasts, naked, vulnerable. The nurse had returned to her desk and was transferring the data into a ledger. Dora reached over for her clothes.

  ‘Nein,’ the nurse shouted. ‘You wait for the doctor.’

  Dora waited as the sun sank low. She watched the sky turn deep as the devil’s lapis and the jagged kaleidoscope on the floor retreated into shadow. Finally the door opened and a man came in, white coat, stethoscope. He pointed to the bed.

  ‘Lie down.’

  He was rougher than the nurse.

  ‘Sit up.’ Clamped the stethoscope to her chest and back, pulled back her lips, studied her teeth, peered into her eyes. The nurse showed him the ledger and he studied it.

  ‘Aryan,’ he said. Nodded, left the room. ‘Sicherlich nicht jüdisch.’ Certainly not Jewish. ‘Proceed.’

  ‘Come,’ the nurse said. Dora followed her into a small room that led off the surgery. Dresses hung on rails, meticulously ordered by length, colour and, Dora guessed, size. The nurse pulled out a red one, a cocktail dress with flimsy straps and a fishtail skirt. She pointed to a sink underneath the window. ‘Wash. Then put this on.’

  The dress was tight, and Dora had to step into it and pull it up. There was a row of buttons on the side, covered in the same slippery fabric as the dress. Dora’s fingers fumbled as she did them up.

  ‘They say strawberry blondes shouldn’t wear red,’ the nurse said. ‘I disagree.’ She spoke without a smile or warmth, although, Dora thought, it was such a womanly detail to share. Intimate, almost, after the cold intricacies of the medical examination.

  ‘Shoes.’ She pulled out a pair of high heels. ‘They should fit.’

  They returned to the surgery. ‘A photograph.’ The nurse pulled down a screen, turned on the lights. ‘Stand.’ She fished in her drawer, pulled out a small box camera. An Agfa, Dora knew. Her father’d had the same.

  ‘Face me.’ She took her time adjusting the lens. Click. ‘To the side.’ Click. ‘The other side.’ Click. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘I have no underwear,’ Dora said.

  The nurse sniffed.

  She led her into a room at the end of the corridor, with thick flock wallpaper, a large bed, and velvet curtains that hung in swags. There was a rug on the floor, a console table with bottles of schnapps and scotch and brandy, a large mahogany wardrobe and a tallboy. The fireplace was marble and in front of it was an embroidered fire screen, like the one that sat in Miss Besson’s parlour, a picture of a country cottage out of place in the high-class opulence of this room. An ornate sofa upholstered in red brocade faced the fire and Dora knew, in that moment, what kind of use Knackfuss had in mind for her.

  The nurse left, locking the door. Dora ran to the window. The
room was on the second floor, faced the sea. It must be ten metres to the ground. High enough to kill her, if she jumped. Dora pulled at the sash, but it would not move. The panes were too small to crawl through. She swallowed. Rushed to the chimney. She’d heard they used to build them with steps for cleaning. She could climb up, wait on the roof, shimmy down when it was dark.

  The door unlocked, opened, and a man came in. He wore a greyish uniform, not one Dora had seen before. He took off his cap, placed it on the console table.

  ‘Pour me a scotch,’ he said, sitting on the sofa, crossing his legs. Dora was shaking. Perhaps he hadn’t locked the door. She could make a run for it.

  ‘Now.’ The German turned round. ‘I am watching you.’

  Dora walked towards the table. His cap had a skull on it, an eagle too, the visor shiny. She eyed him on the sofa, staring at her. He was in his thirties, she guessed, blond hair shorn at the temples. Handsome, in a Germanic way. She’d seen his type in Berlin, bankers, lawyers. Educated men with manicured nails. She pulled out the stopper, poured the scotch. Vati drank scotch, poured it halfway up the glass, No ice, no water. Like a Scot.

  ‘Half and half,’ the German said. ‘Remember that.’ There was a carafe of water, and Dora filled the glass, walked over to him, hand shaking.

  ‘That is a lot of scotch,’ he said. ‘Do you want to kill me?’

  Dora said nothing. She saw the runes of the SS insignia on his collar and was back in Berlin as Brownshirts poked her father in the chest, pushing him so he toppled. Who are you? Some kind of Bolshevik? A Jewish traitor?

  SS Totenkopf. A skull, Dora thought, the death’s head. She hadn’t seen them in Jersey before. Not the SS.

  ‘I am a busy man,’ he said. ‘Have you washed?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  JOE

  Jersey: June 1985

  Two weeks after Barbara Hummel’s visit, Joe wrote three letters, scribbled please forward on the envelopes. He sent one to the PO box number, one to the Hotel de France and one to the editor of the Evening Post, who, he thought, may have her contact details. He’d heard nothing more and regretted sending her away now. Geoffrey looked hurt and puzzled.