The Viennese Girl

by Jenny Lecoat

  ‘Why is it I who must provide proof? If you don’t believe me, is it not up to you, or the Germans, to provide proof that I am Jewish?’ She stopped and bit her lip, remembering Anton’s advice to placate, not provoke. In her lap, her nails dug into her palms.

  Orange was glaring at her now, and returned to his seat as if to wrap things up. ‘On the contrary,’ he replied. ‘The Field Commandant’s instructions state quite clearly that where any doubt exists, one should take the precautionary measure of classifying that person as Jewish.’

  Hedy took a deep breath. She sensed she had only seconds left. ‘Mr Orange …’ She was careful to pronounce the ‘g’ softly in the French style, not hard like the English fruit. ‘I have seen in Vienna how the Germans treat the Jews. If you register me as a Jew, I will be watched constantly. I may be imprisoned, perhaps worse. You will be placing me in grave danger.’

  Orange frowned at her, a father disappointed in his errant child. ‘No active measures have been taken against Jewish citizens.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean they are not planned.’

  ‘If you are so fearful of the Germans why did you not evacuate in June?’

  ‘I would have done, if England had accepted my current visa status.’ She dabbed at her top lip with the back of her hand. ‘If you submit the information I have told you today, the Germans will accept your word. There is no reason why anyone should question my race status for the rest of this war.’ She raised her eyes to meet his, a final appeal. Orange looked from her face to her file and back again, before closing the file.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Bercu, but given the information I have, it would be remiss of me not to classify you as Jewish by Romanian parentage within the current regulations. If I were to bypass the rules, and the Germans were to discover at some later date that I had done so, I could risk not just my own position but the whole relationship of co-operation between the Jersey Government and our occupiers, on which this island’s security depends. I’m sure you understand.’ She continued to stare at him and, suddenly uncomfortable, Orange began to chatter on with false cheerfulness while shuffling his papers. ‘You really have nothing to worry about, you know. Whatever irregularities may have occurred in your home country, registration is simply a formality here, part of the German zeal for good administration. Those of us in government have found most of them perfectly reasonable and courteous. We simply have to play by their rules for the foreseeable future.’ She knew he was waiting for her to stand, but Hedy remained where she was, as if refusing to move from this chair might somehow alter the course of her destiny. ‘Anyway, I think that’s all for today.’

  It was over. Hedy stood with difficulty, trying to recalibrate her new position. Her fate had now been sealed, her life transformed by the stroke of a pen. She glanced about her, noticing other things in the office – the brass banker’s lamp set at a perfect forty-five degree angle, the shelves of perfectly aligned alphabetical files on Jersey law. And in the furthest, dimmest corner, a globe on a stand, bearing a fine coating of dust, unturned in many months. She had never stood a chance.

  Orange held out his hand for her to shake. ‘Good day, Miss Bercu.’

  Hedy stared at his hand without extending her own, then looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘Fick dich selbst.’

  And she turned on her heel and left.

  2

  1941

  St Ouen’s bay on the west coast was the wildest, most dramatic side of the island. Five miles of pristine sand, curved into a perfect arc, provided an open graveyard for the foam-topped rollers that glided up the gulf from the Atlantic, rising and swelling before crashing onto the sand with the force of advancing tanks, blasting white spray into the air. The bay was broken only by rocky outcrops at each end, and La Rocco Tower half a mile out, a stubborn little edifice from the days of Napoleon still holding its own against the bay’s strong currents. Hedy loved that little tower. This was her favourite place to walk, even though the bitter wind blew straight through the disintegrating fabric of her old woollen coat. And for want of proper glue, the sole of her left lace-up shoe, by now her only remaining pair, was trying to separate itself from the leather.

  Spring had refused to appear this year. The sun that should by now be warming the soil, coaxing the flowers and tomatoes into premature season and injecting its unique, nutty flavour into the island’s potatoes, glowed pale and watery. Hedy made her way along the path between the sharp blades of seagrass, feeling the penetrating sand grate between her toes. Behind the open spread of the beach, undulating sand dunes seeped into the gentle slopes of nearby farmland. If any Allied counter-attack should come, it would surely be here. Little wonder that this bay was now the focus of Hitler’s obsession with steel and concrete, shoring up his beloved Atlantic wall against a force he was certain was on its way. Feeling the vibration of distant trucks, Hedy turned to see a column of grey and khaki trundle its way up the Five Mile Road, weighed down with cargoes of metal and cement. Mines were being planted all along the shore, and new defences were springing up from La Pulente in the south to Grosnez in the north, hulking grey towers with shadowy armament slits, squat concrete bunkers and gun emplacements. St Ouen’s would never look the same again.

  The bus back to town was due in twenty minutes. Hedy considered a final stroll down to Le Braye slip, but decided against it; there was only one service today, and if she mistimed her return she knew she would not have the energy to run to catch it, nor to walk the six kilometres back to town. In recent months she had learned the role of fats in the human diet, and what happened when they were removed. Shivering, she stuffed her hands in her pockets, shuffled to the bus stop, grateful for the stone bench beside it, and slumped down, waiting for her breathing to return to normal. That was when she spotted the copy of yesterday’s Evening Post lying on the grass behind the seat.

  Hedy looked around in surprise, half expecting someone to appear and claim it. Newspaper could be used for kindling, stopping draughts or cleaning windows – discarding an entire edition was unthinkable, and the paper’s owner must have been furious to discover its loss. Thrilled with her treasure, Hedy flicked through the eight dual-language pages, filled with orders and propaganda disguised as news. Later she could have fun scouring the columns for translation errors, the ones deliberately left in by the Jersey editors to let their readership know exactly which articles had been dictated. And she would read the exchange and mart columns too, even though Hedy had long ago exchanged any possession of any value she could afford to part with.

  As she sat reading, her eyes caught the headline on page three: ‘THIRD ORDER relating to measures against Jews.’ The same proclamation had been printed the previous week. Hedy had no wish to read it again and tried to turn the page, but found herself drawn in by ghoulish fascination.

  … shall be prohibited from carrying on the following economic activities:

  (a) wholesale and retail trade;

  (b) hotel and catering industry;

  (c) insurance;

  (d) navigation;

  (e) dispatch and storage;

  (f) travel agencies, organisation of tours;

  (g) guides;

  (h) transport undertakings of all descriptions, including the hire of motor and other vehicles;

  (i) banking and money exchange;

  …

  The list ran on to the bottom of the page, but Hedy folded the pages back together and stuffed the whole paper into her coat’s inside pocket. Depressing as it was, in the end this latest order made no difference to her. No one would employ a Jew anyway, for fear of upsetting the Germans. Even her last job as a school cleaner was deemed too risky by the headmaster, who packed her off with a week’s wages and some excuse about unsatisfactory toilets. For three months now she had lived on nothing but her meagre savings and the charity of Anton, who saved every burnt crust in the bakery and often slipped her a few pennies to buy rations. But this morning as she wrapped up for her walk, she had
noticed how the clothes hung loose on her body, and her skin, once creamy and lustrous, had become dry and sallow. This, she sometimes thought, was how it would end. The Germans weren’t going to shoot her after all. They were just going to starve her to death.

  The bus arrived, packed, and Hedy, having counted out the fare in small change, wriggled through and found a seat at the very back. Here she could take in the scenery without getting drawn into conversation. Too often she had seen people recoil at her accent, taking her for a German secretary or even a spy. Invisibility and silence were a simpler option these days. The bus pulled away up the hill and Hedy craned her neck to see La Rocco Tower disappear in the rear window, the water swirling and sucking at the rocks beneath.

  At least tonight she had something to look forward to. Anton had offered to pay for her to go to West’s cinema to see The Wizard of Oz, and although she had seen it six times since the picture house got stuck with it last year, it was a welcome change from another evening alone in her apartment. In the early days the cinema had sold mugs of cocoa in the interval, though nothing so lavish was available now. Hedy’s stomach growled and her mouth watered at the memory, and for the rest of the journey she forced herself to count trucks of soldiers on the road ahead. Thinking about food achieved nothing but misery.

  She alighted the bus at the Weighbridge and made her way to the cinema where the queue was already winding out of the building and down the street. It was always Jersey folk here, the Germans preferring films in their own language at the Forum picture house, though the field police sent down the occasional spy to keep an eye on events. Hedy searched the queue for Anton, and for a moment thought she had arrived before him. And then she saw. In the centre of the queue, his tousled hair combed back into an impression of slickness, Anton was squashed tightly against a woman, a little older than himself, with a pale oval face and light blue eyes. Her black hair, worn in a homemade copy of a Greer Garson crop, made her look younger than her thirty-odd years, and a little vulnerable. She and Anton stood arm in arm, and Anton was laughing at something she’d said – a gurgling giggle Hedy hadn’t heard in quite a while. Hedy felt a rush of curiosity. She had often seen Anton stare blushingly at pretty girls in parks and cafés, but he had never had the courage to ask anyone out before. Hedy edged towards them and waited.

  Anton beamed and breathed in deeply as he always did before speaking in English. ‘Hedy, this is Dorothea. We met last week when she came to the bakery.’

  Dorothea ignored Hedy’s outstretched hand and rushed at her cheek, her lips already pursed for a kiss. ‘Anton’s told me so much about you,’ she gushed. ‘I know what good friends you are. I do hope we can be friends too.’

  The woman’s fingernails, Hedy noticed, were bitten down to the quick, and her movements as fluttery as a baby bird. But the most startling thing was the strength of her Jersey accent, a twanging inflection Hedy had learned to recognise. Hedy glanced at Anton, surprised by his choice of a local girl. She smiled at Dorothea. ‘I like your haircut.’

  Dorothea flushed with obvious pleasure. ‘Thanks, my mother does it. It’s easier to manage like this when you can’t buy shampoo.’ Hedy’s hand went automatically to her own lank, papery locks. ‘You’re from Vienna too?’

  ‘I am, from Romania originally.’

  ‘And you’re a Jew?’

  Hedy took half a step back. Her eyes, bright with accusation, moved directly to Anton, but to her annoyance Anton’s gaze never left Dorothea. Hedy peered ostentatiously around the queue, indicating that this wasn’t a conversation for a public place. Eventually she answered quietly. ‘I am registered as a Jew, yes.’

  Dorothea, oblivious to Hedy’s discomfort, shook her head with sympathy. ‘I think it’s awful the way they’re treating you. I don’t know why Hitler hates Jews so much. How are you supposed to manage if you’re not allowed to work?’ Hedy felt suddenly aware of her frayed coat and gaping shoe. But then an idea lit up Dorothea’s face. ‘I tell you what I saw the other day – an advert for translators.’

  ‘Translators?’ Hedy stared at her, confused.

  ‘That new transport compound the Germans are building at Millbrook? Apparently they want people who can speak English and German to work in the offices. You should apply. Your English is wonderful!’ she added with a broad smile.

  Hedy’s mouth opened and shut, at a loss how to reply. She turned to Anton for a reaction but her friend, finally aware of the brewing storm, had developed a fascination with his own feet. A painful silence expanded in the space between them, until Hedy cleared her throat and spoke deliberately slowly. ‘You are suggesting that I, a Jewish girl, apply for a job in a German office?’

  ‘They’re probably desperate,’ Dorothea replied, as if dispensing a compliment. ‘Not many local people speak German – well, it’s such a hard language, isn’t it? The advert said the pay was good too.’

  At that moment a boy in a maroon uniform far too big for him pushed open the doors to the cinema, and Anton stepped forward.

  ‘You said you needed the Ladies’, Dory? Go ahead and I’ll get the tickets.’

  Dorothea gave him a loud kiss on the cheek and hurried off. Anton checked she was out of earshot before turning to Hedy, looking like a child awaiting the cane. ‘Please don’t judge her, Hedy,’ he muttered in German. ‘She’s got a heart of gold. She’s just not very worldly.’

  ‘Anton, what are you playing at?’ Hedy’s voice came out as a hiss. ‘Telling my business to a total stranger?’

  ‘It just came out – we’ve shared a lot of things this week. Don’t worry, she’s completely trustworthy.’

  ‘You hardly know her! In any case, she’s an islander – she’ll get labelled a Jerrybag going out with you.’

  Anton refused to meet her gaze. ‘She knows I’m not German.’

  ‘Let’s not have that discussion again! Good God, Anton, did you hear what she said to me? Does she even know what this war is about? She’s a shoyte!’ Hedy shifted to try to force herself into Anton’s eyeline but he continued to glance about him, intent on everything but her.

  ‘Lots of people are having to work for the Germans now, whether they want to or not. In your position it might be worth considering.’

  ‘My position?’ Hedy glared at him. ‘My position is, those bastards drove us from our homeland and view me as no better than an animal! And you’re saying I should help them with their administration?’

  ‘I’m saying you need money.’ Anton’s voice was quiet but steady. ‘Hedy, you’re my friend. I worry about you. I want to help you but every week it gets harder. What Dorothea is suggesting might be a practical solution …’ He reached out for her arm.

  She brushed his hand away. ‘So this is how we behave now? We just accept what’s happened – make friends with the Krauts?’ She threw her arms in the air, exasperated. ‘I can’t believe you’re taking her side. Or that you’re even interested in a woman like that. You know what?’ She tugged her coat a little tighter around her. ‘I’m going home. I don’t want to see the stupid Wizard of Oz anyway.’ And turning so that Anton would not see the hurt in her eyes, she stomped off. When she finally found the courage to glance back, the queue had disappeared into the cinema.

  The concrete steps of the house were badly cracked, and the communal door beneath the once ornate portico was so swollen from rain and lack of paint that it barely closed. Hedy slunk into the building and began the long climb up the wide, unlit staircase to her apartment. She heard the creak of dry, ancient wood as she stepped slowly onto each step, and felt as if the sound were coming from within her. Resentment mixed with acid in her empty stomach and ripped at the lining. How would she fill her evening now? The BBC news at nine o’clock, with more depressing reports of Allied defeats in North Africa? Climb into bed with Hemingway and a library book, pull the heavy curtain that separated her ‘bedroom’ area, and close out the world for a few hours? Her spirits sank at the thought. She knew she’d been hasty walking off lik
e that. That idiotic, petulant temper from her father’s side. But it was too late now.

  On the first floor she heard the predictable scrape of Mrs Le Couteur’s door as it opened an inch, saw one droopy eye peering out from the darkness. In her first weeks here Hedy used to call out a greeting to her neighbour to reassure her, hoping that it might allay the old widow’s suspicions and perhaps build a little trust between them. But Hedy had never received more than a grunt in reply, and after she found the pensioner in the downstairs hallway, holding Hedy’s mail up to the light to assess the contents, Hedy had given up. Now she ignored the old bat as she passed by, and heard the door click shut again as she continued her steady ascent to the top floor.

  The apartment was gloomy, with only the last grey fingers of dusk throwing a little light onto the linoleum. It was bitterly cold. Hemingway padded across to greet her, and Hedy picked him up and held him close, glad of his warm silkiness on her face. But quickly realising there was no food about her body, the ungrateful beast wriggled out of her arms and returned to his basket in front of the fireplace. He sniffed at the empty grate, throwing her hopeful looks.

  ‘Some chance,’ Hedy muttered, pulling down the blackout blind. Then, with a slow, reluctant stretch, she took one of the precious candles from the box under the sink. They had cost most of her remaining savings on the black market, and she’d meticulously nicked the wax of each one with a knife, limiting her nightly usage. No Hanukkah ceremony this year. Taking a match from the box on the windowsill, she struck it carefully so that it would light first time without splitting. The wick flared and she placed her hands around its small gold flame.

  Now the chill of the room began to bite, bringing with it a crowd of righteous justifications for her stormy departure. She had a right, did she not, to feel upset at Anton’s carelessness? Betraying his only friend, in the face of such meshugas – from a woman he’d only just met! Might be worth considering? This, from the man who complained when he was forced to serve German soldiers in the bakery? If there was one thing she’d always admired about Anton it was his moral compass. Had he just tossed it aside for the sake of a pretty face?