by Jenny Lecoat
Kurt cast a wistful look at the bare boughs of the birch tree outside the window as they bounced in the wind against the evening sky, and suppressed a sigh. He didn’t even know why he’d been summoned to this stupid meeting. The subject he was here to advise on – the adaptation of the local airport to accommodate new Luftwaffe fighters – was listed on the agenda as ‘Other Business Time Permitting’, and as it was now nearing six, it was obvious that his presence was a total waste of time. He could have been with Hedy today. Saturday was usually a good day to avoid her neighbours, with many of them out queuing at the market or visiting family. They could be tucked up in that tiny bed together right now. He felt a surge of resentment as his mind drifted to the mossy scent of her hair, the softness of her fingers, that supple, responsive body.
It was more than that now, though. Of course he’d had girlfriends back home – a couple he’d been quite keen on at the time – but what he’d felt in recent weeks, this new depth of emotion, genuinely shocked him. He found himself thinking about her all the time, wanting to share any interesting moment of the day, longing to hear her voice. It was affecting his attitude to his colleagues too. In the kitchen of his billet, he would often hear the other officers laughing as they swapped stories about some girl they had flirted with, or fucked in the back of the clubhouse. They would slap each other’s knees in boyish congratulation over some brunette who had given them head in the back of a car for a kilo of fish, one crowing that he’d had both mother and daughter in return for 200 French cigarettes. Kurt had never felt comfortable around this kind of talk, but now he found it positively distasteful. More than that, it baffled him. What satisfaction lay there? What challenge, what discovery? Sure, at the start it was lust that had driven him towards Hedy. But now … now it was that internal darkness that kept him coming back for more. The mix of anger and sadness in her eyes that masked a mystery so complex it frightened him. How could a woman give her body to him with such abandon yet simultaneously hide so much? Like a fisherman at the end of the day who has caught only tiddlers, but knows that great, fat fish still swim beneath the surface, Kurt couldn’t drag himself away.
‘Some additional fuel restrictions,’ Doctor Casper was droning through his interpreter, a slight, bespectacled young man who could have passed for Casper’s own son. ‘From next week gas will only be available between seven a.m. and two thirty p.m., and between five thirty and nine p.m. And Field Command wishes to procure the contents of the island’s current wood stores. We will, of course, be happy to negotiate a settlement on an amicable basis.’
A new voice piped up: ‘That firewood is needed by the local population for heating and cooking. What if we do not wish to negotiate?’
Kurt turned his attention back to the table to see who had spoken. A tired Jerseyman with thinning grey hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, who Kurt understood to be the local councillor for labour issues, was glaring at Casper with ill-disguised contempt.
Casper merely shrugged. ‘Then, Mr Le Quesne, we will take it anyway. Field Command must place the needs of the island garrison before the needs of … Einheimische.’ Casper wiped his dry lips with his fingers as if the word ‘locals’ had caused an unpleasant taste. ‘We also require that the contents of your glasshouses be placed at the disposal of the military.’
Kurt looked down at the papers before him, careful to keep his expression neutral. Inwardly, he flinched. Every day for months now he’d listened to his colleague Fischer bleat on about the idiocy of the local Superior Council members – these dumb provincials, with their stubborn refusal to accept the natural, common-sense orders of their masters, and their rustic small-mindedness that prevented them from helping themselves. Even Kurt himself, watching Hedy eke out her meagre vegetables for the week, had privately wondered if these shortages had more to do with the failings of local agricultural policy than Field Command’s interference. Yet here was the new governor stealing food from the locals and not even bothering to lie about it.
‘Oh, I think we fully understand the status of the “locals”, Doctor Casper,’ Le Quesne chipped back, undimmed. ‘Your imprisonment of my messenger boy, whose stammer prevented him from apologising when he brushed against a German officer on the street, made that crystal clear. As has your latest measure – ordering us to seize the proceeds of all Jewish businesses.’
Kurt looked to Casper, wondering if this would result in a sharp rebuke or something worse, when another Jersey voice rang out from the far end of the table. It came from a flaky-skinned fellow sporting a moustache and heavy eyebrows.
‘I don’t believe, Mr Le Quesne,’ the newcomer chimed in nasal tones, ‘that deliberate antagonism will serve anyone here. Last year, you yourself were one of the strongest advocates of the Jersey Superior Council retaining civil authority, that we might act as a bridge of communication, so to speak, between our German visitors and the local population. On that basis, implementation of Doctor Casper’s wishes is both our duty and obligation.’ The speaker turned to Casper and offered him a simpering smile that turned Kurt’s stomach.
‘I am grateful,’ Casper replied with a nod, ‘to Chief Aliens Officer Mr Clifford Orange for his pragmatic and courteous response. And as time is running on, I believe, on that basis we should conclude.’
Casper snapped his folder together, as did his uniformed minions, and rose to his feet. Kurt, grateful for the release, but with his anger still churning, followed the line of obedient uniforms out of the chamber and towards the grand marble stairs of the council building. As they made their way down the steps, he found himself next to Manfred.
Kurt greeted him with a pat on the shoulder. ‘Hey, Manfred, what did you make of that?’ He was careful to keep his voice under the level of communal chatter.
Manfred looked up at him, apparently taken aback to be addressed by a senior officer. ‘Sir? You mean the meeting?’
‘Did you know that we were requisitioning food from the locals to feed the garrison?’
Manfred nodded. Kurt spotted a tic in the boy’s eye. ‘Not surprising, I guess, sir. Our being here has pretty much doubled the population. Only so much they can bring over from France.’
‘Doesn’t really fit with the promise we made, though, does it? About guaranteeing their liberty.’ Manfred gave no reply, but threw Kurt a tortured look.
‘You don’t have a view on this?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I thought you wanted to make Obergefreiter next year?’ Kurt pressed him. ‘If you want to climb the ladder, you have to express an opinion occasionally.’
‘Yes sir, but …’
Sensing his discomfort, Kurt waited for the rest of the contingent to move on before taking Manfred to one side. In the pink reflected glow of the giant swastika flag that hung in the entrance, Kurt took his remaining tobacco from his breast pocket and offered Manfred a roll-up, which the youth happily accepted.
Kurt waited for him to take a deep drag. ‘But what?
It was Manfred’s turn to lower his voice. ‘Lieutenant, you’re a good guy, sir. I – I admire you, you know? But if people know I’ve had this kind of conversation with you—’
Kurt raised an eyebrow. ‘Because of that petrol coupon business?’
‘Lieutenant Fischer, he says we need to be careful who we mix with. And that guy with the hat …’
‘Erich Wildgrube?’
‘Yes, him. He drops in at all the barracks, talks about watching out for the bad apples.’
‘So much for paying for your mistake and moving on.’
‘See, sir, my family depends on my wages.’ Manfred took another deep drag on the precious tobacco, holding it down before he spoke. ‘Making Obergefreiter is important. They need me to do well, you understand? If it was down to me …’
‘Don’t apologise. You run along. And, Manfred? Don’t worry – this conversation never happened, okay?’
Kurt slapped the lad on the shoulder and pushed him towards the door, giving it a moment before
he followed. He’d suspected as much, but the confirmation hurt. Fucking Fischer, fucking Wildgrube. Fucking pointless rules and mindless fucking loyalties. He stepped out into the chilly darkness and set off towards the coast road, deciding that the long walk back to Pontac Common would do him good. But his mind continued to bounce from one ugly image to the next. German soldiers loading up barrows from the greenhouses of local farmers. Wildgrube’s ugly, pasty face with those furtive little eyes. But mainly Kurt kept thinking of King Canute, sitting stubbornly on his throne, gasping for air between the crashing waves as the tide moved unceasingly towards him.
The paraffin lamps around the shop gave off an eerie blue glow, throwing strange, looming shadows on the tiled walls. From the darkness of the street, the empty display window revealed the story within, like watching a movie on a screen. At the rear, Anton, in his white apron and pillbox baker’s cap, moved effortlessly around the room, sweeping the floor and wiping down surfaces in a series of methodical arcs, while at the front counter the ebullient Mr Reis, visibly slimmer these days, was patiently explaining to the last customer of the day that he had nothing left to sell her at any price. Even from her viewpoint on the bench across the street, Hedy could see the woman’s desperation as she waved a pair of children’s shoes in front of him, pleading for a bartering deal on the burnt rejects she hoped lay under the counter. But the old man continued to pacify her, smiling apologetically and patting her hand, until eventually she nodded and let herself out through the shop door, shuffling down the road with her shopping bag swinging empty at her side.
The freezing seat penetrated the thin fabric of her coat as Hedy shifted her sitting position. She watched Mr Reis close the door behind the customer and pull the bolts across – three of them now, due to the recent night-time raids on food premises – and turn the sign to ‘Closed’. Ten more minutes, and Anton would be upstairs in his apartment. She decided to give it fifteen before she followed him up there; give him time to shake off the bakery dust and feel a little more conversational. Assuming, of course, that he let her in at all.
Her breath came in unsteady little pants as she climbed the stairs. The door to the flat was ajar and she could hear Anton padding around, no doubt trying to figure out what kind of evening meal was possible. As she neared his apartment door, his voice from within took her by surprise.
‘Come in, Hedy. I know it’s you.’
Hedy slunk in, leaving the door open, staying close to the wall. ‘How did you know?’
‘You were sitting on that bench for half an hour. I’m not blind!’
‘Can we talk?’
‘Yes, but Dory will be here in ten minutes.’
Hedy tiptoed across the floor and took her old seat by the window, one leg tucked under her body as always. It was months since she’d been here. How long ago it seemed, cooking that meal for Kurt in this very room.
‘You must be freezing. I’m afraid I’ve nothing much to offer you,’ Anton continued. ‘But I can warm some water for you? Maybe with a spoonful of sugar beet syrup?’
Hedy nodded her gratitude, and Anton busied himself in the kitchen area.
‘How’d you make the syrup?’
‘Skin a turnip and boil it for hours.’ Anton banged the tap above the sink with the flat of his hand to get it to work properly. ‘But you didn’t come to talk about that, did you?’
Hedy clenched her fists and stared at the back of her hands as she spoke. ‘I want to apologise. I understand why you’re angry. I’m angry with myself. Me and Kurt … it was the last thing I wanted to happen, but …’
Anton continued to fiddle with pots and matches. ‘Is it serious?’
‘Nothing’s been said, exactly, but … I really care about him. And I think he feels the same.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ He looked at her properly for the first time. ‘Sorry I lost my temper. But you’re like a sister to me. And the fact that you lied for so long—’
‘I was ashamed. And I also wanted to protect you. The less people know, the less trouble they can get into – sometimes it’s safer to lie.’ She rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand. ‘And I seem to be getting rather good at it.’
‘What do you mean? Anything else I ought to know?’
A short silence. To hell with it, she thought. ‘I’m still stealing coupons for Doctor Maine.’
His face was a picture. ‘What?’
‘Actually, I never stopped. I still meet him every week to deliver them. Kurt doesn’t know. No one does.’
Another silence endured, longer than the first. Then, to her relief he broke it with a grin of disbelief. ‘For God’s sake, Hedy. Do you have a death wish or something?’
‘Apparently.’ A manic giggle escaped from her nose; she attempted to sniff it back up. ‘Papa always said I never made things easy for myself. But I don’t think even he could have imagined this.’ Another giggle leaked out. ‘Stealing from my enemy during the day, and sleeping with him at night. I know … I must be out of my mind.’
The chuckle fizzed between them for a moment, faded. Anton put down the matches. ‘You have to tell Kurt – I mean, about your race classification. He will find out eventually.’
‘I’m seeing him tomorrow. I’m going to tell him then.’
‘And you’re prepared for him to end it? Because he’ll have to, if he wants to protect himself.’
‘I know.’ She got up, crossed over to Anton and gave him a hug. ‘Thank you. I’m so sorry, Anton. Sometimes I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ But as she spoke the words, she felt a stiffness, a retreat. ‘What did I say?’
‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you, either.’
The water in the tiny saucepan began to boil but neither of them moved.
Hedy’s first thought was that Dorothea was pregnant. ‘Tell me?’ ‘I’ve been drafted.’
Hedy’s stomach seemed to drop into a lower space. ‘You mean …’
‘Letter arrived that day we went to the Opera House. I’ve not even told Dory yet. I’ll be signed up in a few weeks, assigned local duties. After that, who knows? Way things are going, it could be the Eastern Front.’
She felt light-headed. Her hand instinctively reached out to grasp the counter top and steady herself. ‘But you’re a food producer. You’re classed as an essential worker.’
‘Obviously they’ve decided they need soldiers more.’
Hedy felt her throat closing. She blinked hard but the tears leaked out anyway. ‘But it’s not fair! You’re not German!’
‘We’re both technically German citizens now.’
‘But you … you might …’
‘Might not come back? Of course. But if I refuse, they’ll shoot me anyway.’
‘Who would shoot you? What’s happened?’
Hedy and Anton both whipped around to see Dorothea standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with fear; her grandmother’s coat swamped her tiny frame, making her look even more vulnerable. Anton moved quickly towards her and enveloped her in his arms.
‘I’ve had my orders to join the Wehrmacht. I’m so sorry, Dory.’
Dorothea let out a howl of despair, burying her face in his chest. ‘No! No, I need you here! What if you get hurt or killed? I can’t bear it!’
Hedy hung back, embarrassed to be a witness to such an intimate moment, yet sensing that to leave now would be as bad. She could hear Dorothea’s breaths becoming shorter and wheezier, and tried to recall what Maine’s advice had been in the event of another attack. Her eyes darted to Anton’s store cupboard, wondering if it contained any mustard. But what happened next pushed any such thoughts from her head.
‘I know, and I want to make sure you’ll be protected, whatever the future holds,’ Anton was saying. ‘That’s why today I got this.’ He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small box. As he opened it, Hedy could just make out the glint of something shiny. ‘It’s not new, of course – it belonged to Mr Reis’s aunt. But it’s small,
so I think it might fit you. The stone is an opal, I think.’ Taking Dorothea’s hand, he stared into her stunned, tear-stained face. ‘Dorothea, will you marry me?’
Dorothea clapped both hands to her mouth to muffle another cry, this one mixed with joy. ‘Oh, Anton! Of course I will!’ She flung her arms around his skinny body, clinging so hard his spine made a faint cracking sound. They both turned towards Hedy.
‘You hear that, Hedy? She said yes! We’re getting married!’
Hedy looked from one to the other as they hugged, kissed each other long on the lips, then hugged again. Her throat was still full of rocks from Anton’s first news; events were now turning to quicksand beneath her feet. She saw Dorothea’s beaming, tear-streaked face and felt a surge of pity and loss, though who it was for, she couldn’t say. Eventually she gained enough control to croak out the compulsory sentences: ‘Congratulations, I’m so happy for you both. Everything will work out, I know it.’
She’d been mistaken, she thought, as she gathered up her coat and bag, wished them luck and hurried down the narrow stairs towards the street. She wasn’t getting any better at lying at all.
Pulling her scarf tighter around her neck, Hedy perched on one of the granite bollards placed along the quay for boat anchorage, and knocked her feet together to get the blood flowing. The icy gusts from the ocean beyond rippled the black water around the fishing boats. The locals called this little marina, tucked away at the back of the main port, the French Harbour. This had been her idea for a meeting place this evening – quiet but not secluded, private enough for the conversation she planned, but public enough to summon help if things should turn ugly. The road here from the town was lined with harbour warehouses, hulking great slabs with ribbed doors that roared like engines as they were rolled up and down. Behind her rose the vast, impenetrable walls of Fort Regent, raised by Royal Engineers over a century before. This was a charmless, transient place where no one ever lingered, but simply did what whatever job needed to be done and moved on. Appropriate, then, for her task today: deliver her message and walk off into the darkness.