by Jenny Lecoat
It was the kind of day that summer tourists would have embraced just a few years ago. Then, there would have been women in swimsuits lounging on the magnolia sands around the corner in St Brelade’s bay, and children splashing each other in the shallows. There would have been ice creams and blankets, and the air would have been pierced by excited shouts. Now, it was hard to find any sliver of coast free from mines and barbed wire. And these days, Hedy found it hard to look at such fortifications.
Since the night of Kurt’s revelations, she found many sights painful. High stone walls, bars on windows, the small train that ran along the front of St Aubin’s bay to transport building materials. Children crying, people coughing. The hiss of a gas heater. Everything she saw and touched projected her into the horror. She saw the tiny square of sky through the vent in the boxcars used to transport them. She reeled back as the doors opened and the limp bodies were disgorged, smelled the shit on the floors and heard the clank of the oven door as the bolts sealed her inside. And she would think of her mama and papa, the same people who had cuddled and sung to her, washed her hands at the kitchen tap while she stood on a stool, and she couldn’t put the two halves together. How was it possible that this had happened to them? To anyone?
She had faked an illness for a week to stay home from work, knowing she couldn’t trust herself around the Germans. Kurt had waited for Doctor Maine outside the hospital and acquired a sick note for Hedy to give to the compound authorities, as well as a prescription for a small bottle of brandy. For six days she had lain on her bed, watching the sun appear and disappear in the skylight above, wondering if she, too, would die, not much caring either way. But on the sixth day she felt hungry, ate a little vegetable soup, and poured a bowl of water to wash herself all over, grateful for the sensation of the sponge against her skin. If she was the only one of her family left, she considered, she carried a responsibility now. She needed to stand up straight again, get a grip on herself. She forced herself to do some dishes, buy her rations – and even, the next week, return to work. And as the days grew longer and warmer, honeying her skin and melting the frozen tundra beneath it, she began to perceive a future again. Because now she was no longer on her own. She and Kurt were finally, properly together.
Over a long, intense evening, crouched in this very spot among the rocks and huddled against the wind, they had formulated the basis of their new relationship, consisting of three heartfelt promises. First, that both of them would carry on with their lives as if nothing had happened – although in reality they would do every little thing they could to wreck the system while they waited for their deliverance. Second, they would repeat nothing to anyone of what they had learned; a leak of such sensitive information could too easily be traced back to Kurt’s conversation with Wildgrube, and the consequences could snowball quickly. Plus, with letters from Anton so few and infrequent, there was no point in upsetting Dorothea any further.
Their last undertaking proved a little more complicated. Kurt insisted that Hedy needed to move – too many neighbours in the New Street building would be aware of Kurt’s nocturnal visit, making future contact there risky. Hedy, sick of the stairs and Mrs Le Couteur’s (now quite blatant) snooping, willingly agreed. But a trawl through the rentals column in the Post revealed no affordable apartments within walking distance of Hedy’s work; every town property was now filled with soldiers or local farming families kicked off their land in the early months of Occupation. For several days Hedy had scoured the library notice board and the scant offerings of the rental agency, but found nothing.
Once again, it was Doctor Maine who came to the rescue. Without even enquiring why Hedy needed such help, the doctor pushed a note through her letterbox, informing her that a patient of his on Pierson Road had died, and that the woman’s son was giving notice on her apartment that week. Hedy was there within an hour. It was a small, dingy basement, close to Anton and Dorothea’s house, with a distinct smell of mould; the only view was people’s feet as they passed on the road outside, and the no-pets rule meant leaving Hemingway behind. But it was cheap and convenient, furnished with a double bed, and the spivvy-looking landlord seemed happy to take her money without references. Hedy thrust the first fortnight’s rent into his hand before he had time to reconsider. The next day she fed Hemingway his last meal, stroked his little grey head, pinned a note to his collar, and left him outside the door of the new lady tenant who was always stroking him in the hallway. Then she took her old wicker bag stuffed only with a few garments, a toothbrush and her parents’ beloved letters, and moved into her new life.
Now she and Kurt met as often as schedules and security allowed. They used hidden locations such as Belcroute or, on occasion, Hedy’s new apartment, Kurt slipping in with his own key after dark and sneaking away early before he was missed at his billet. Neither of them ever joked about the excitement of the subterfuge. Both knew it was far too serious for that.
Hedy shuffled a little closer to him as they squashed together on the pebbles between the jagged boulders, and squeezed his hand. ‘Did you manage to find out any more about getting a crystal radio set?’
Kurt nodded. ‘That radio and gramophone shop near Anton’s old flat? Apparently the owner makes them for people in the back room. But there’s a waiting list, and I suspect he only helps people he knows.’
Hedy pushed her bare toes into the tiny warm stones at her feet. ‘Guess I’ll have to carry on relying on Dorothea.’
‘I’m so sick of the nonsense the RRG puts out.’ Kurt picked up a pebble and threw it down the beach where it bounced on the shingle. ‘They’re still reporting the Pacific like Midway never happened. And as for what’s going on in the east …’ An image of Anton squatting in some dugout flashed in Hedy’s brain. She quickly pushed it away. ‘It’s madness – everyone knows it’s all lies. Even Colonel Knackfuss has a radio in his office for listening to the BBC.’ He picked up another pebble, but Hedy, mindful of the footpaths above them, gently took it from him. ‘The Yanks are hammering our cities. At this rate there’ll be nothing left by the end.’ He turned to her with an ironic smile. ‘I’m starting to think Sydney might be a good place for us, afterwards. Can’t get much further away than that!’
Hedy forced a smile in return. As wonderful as it was to be with Kurt again, talk of a future beyond the war still frightened her. He dropped a lot of such references into the conversation, mentioning the style of house he’d like to live in, or a boy’s name he particularly liked. No doubt Kurt thought it showed confidence and commitment; he was certain that in a postwar world, mixed marriages would be lawful, perhaps even encouraged. Hedy kept her own thoughts private: that laws don’t change people’s minds, and that the hatred between Jews and Germans would likely last for generations. Nor did she mention that this new world terrified her, that she dreaded an Austria where her family no longer existed and the neighbourhoods of her childhood had been razed. To Hedy, the coming years seemed so fraught with danger and complexity that she blocked the idea out. Surviving each day, each week, was as much as she could manage right now.
She shivered again and changed the subject. ‘Remember that peg-leg fisherman Oliver Maine told me about?’
‘The one who sells black market fish?’
‘I found his mooring the other day, near some steps at the English harbour. Bought a mackerel before the German inspectors arrived to take his catch.’
‘A whole mackerel? Lucky you!’
‘Oliver says the guy’s building a boat in secret, somewhere out at Fauvic. When the time’s right, he plans to use it to escape.’
Kurt wrinkled his nose. ‘Have to be some boat to reach England from here. If he heads for the French coast, he’ll be shot before he’s landed.’
‘Still, it shows you people are fighting back. And the mackerel was delicious – I’ll go back again next week.’
Kurt pushed the hair from her face. ‘Take care. This new Jewish curfew …’
Hedy dismissed the comment
with a wave of her hand, even though the same anxiety had kept her awake on many nights. ‘I keep an eye on the time. Anyway, I’m an insurgent now, aren’t I?’
Kurt laughed. ‘I nearly forgot.’ He rummaged in his pocket, drew out a bundle of paper Reichmarks and pressed them into her hand. ‘There you go. Resistance wages.’
Hedy pulled a face. ‘I don’t like taking money from you.’
‘I told you, this is for both of us – for emergencies. Are you keeping it somewhere safe?’
‘Behind that loose skirting board by the bed.’
‘First rule of revolution: always have a stash of money you can access quickly.’ He grinned, and Hedy saluted to join in the game. Perhaps Kurt was right – perhaps a little self-delusion was no bad thing for the spirit. She tucked the money away in her bag, and when she turned back Kurt was still watching her.
‘Look at you! You are so gorgeous. Can I come over this evening?’
‘If the coast is clear. Come the long way round, through the park – make sure you’re not followed.’
He nodded, placing his other arm around her. ‘I’m always careful. Now give me a kiss.’
She didn’t need to be asked twice.
The café was tiny, with a dark interior, chipped paint and grubby curtains. The air was filled with the scent of charred vegetables, the only food that had been cooked here for many months, and the tablecloths had long ago been scrapped for lack of any detergent to wash them in. Pictures of happier times, poorly painted (by the proprietor, Hedy suspected) hung on the walls under thick layers of dust. As usual, it was empty, the owners presumably keeping the place running as a reason to get out of bed in the morning, rather than to provide a meaningful service. But it was a useful private space, away from prying eyes. Hedy took a corner seat, asked for any kind of hot drink they could provide – they all tasted the same anyway, no matter what you called them – and waited for the doctor to arrive.
Fifteen minutes later, her drink cooled and stewed in its cup, the shop door pinged and Maine shuffled in, lifting his heavy doctor’s bag over the backs of the chairs as he pushed his way through the tables. He glanced around to choose an appropriate seat, but Hedy caught his eye and gestured for him to sit at her table, as the elderly woman at the counter – probably the owner’s mother – had such poor eyesight she barely knew who she was serving. He slumped onto the seat opposite, placed his bag on the floor and smiled. ‘Good day, my dear, and how are you?’
‘Mustn’t grumble.’ She had recently learned the phrase from listening to local women in the covered market, and now liked to drop it into conversation whenever she got the chance. Checking that the old lady’s attention was elsewhere, she slid the envelope of petrol coupons across the table. ‘And yourself?’
‘A little tired, but aren’t we all? How is your friend?’
A code had evolved between them over the months: ‘your friend’ meant Dorothea, ‘your other friend’ meant Anton, and ‘your additional friend’ referred to Kurt. They also referred to the petrol coupons, on the rare occasion they needed to, as postcards.
Hedy pulled a face to indicate she was giving only part of the story. ‘I saw her yesterday. I think the stress of her situation is affecting her.’ She patted her chest to clarify her point, and the doctor nodded. In fact, Hedy had stayed at Dorothea’s house for an hour after the end of the news bulletin the previous night, alarmed by her enduring cough and the disturbing bluish shade of her lips. In recent weeks Dorothea’s health had noticeably declined, worsened by a poor diet and her anxiety about Anton. She often said herself that she dreaded another winter under Occupation. Yet she often seemed more focused on her movie scrapbooks than the details of the BBC reports, and Hedy often had to repeat the salient points to her after the broadcast. In truth, Hedy was finding the role of guardian increasingly testing; it certainly involved a lot more than popping round every few days to make sure she had food in the cupboard.
Maine reached into his bag, drawing out a tiny jar of pale flakes. ‘Grated ginger,’ he muttered, pushing the jar across the table towards her. ‘From a patient of mine. It’s far from fresh, but she can sprinkle a little on her evening meal. Or add it to a chest rub, if she can find any oils.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Six years’ medical training, and I’m reduced to dispensing folk treatments like some old peasant woman.’
Hedy reached across for the jar, letting her fingers cover his for a moment. She remembered how, at their first meeting, he had reminded her of her uncle Otto. Otto was likely dead now, caught up in the same haul as her parents, and this man was probably the only person left of that generation who she trusted. She wished she could just climb into his lap and have him sing her a lullaby.
‘Thank you. I don’t know what we would do without you.’
Maine smiled with a rare vulnerability, revealing the gratitude of a man who received few compliments. He was on the edge of a reply when the room was filled with a violent rushing noise, and the café door flew open. Their hands sprung instantly apart, and each of them pinned themselves back in their seats. All eyes were on this sudden, alarming intruder.
‘You got any water there? Give us a glass, would you? I’ve a terrible thirst.’
The man was tall and well built, his thick-set features pulled into a scowl, his rusty hair unkempt. His voice was deep and powerful, and Hedy knew at once that he had an accent, though she did not know then that it was Irish. The man stomped up to the counter, where the old lady quietly poured him a glass of water and watched him down it in one go, as if huge men burst into the place every day demanding drinks.
The envelope of coupons, Hedy realised, was still sitting on the table. She glanced up at the doctor, indicating that he should put it out of sight, when she realised that Maine was turning in his seat, trying to keep his face out of the newcomer’s eyeline. Hedy felt a rising panic; something frightening was happening, but she wasn’t sure what. At that moment the man at the counter looked towards their table and peered at Maine’s face, seeking out the features.
‘The doctor, is it?’ Hedy’s stomach somersaulted. ‘Fintan Quinn – you patched up my mate down the hospital two weeks back, after that fall, remember?’
Maine smiled at Quinn. Hedy wondered if it looked as unconvincing to its recipient as it did to her. She pulled the envelope back to her side of the table and dropped it into her lap, out of sight.
‘Indeed. Is he recovering well?’
‘Ah, sure. He’s back on the job, good as new now.’
Quinn helped himself to another glass of water while Hedy’s mind galloped on. If that was the extent of their relationship, there was no need to panic. All the man had seen was a doctor he barely knew, sitting in a café with a young woman. She breathed deeply, scoffing at herself – some resistance fighter she was, panicking at every passing remark. But what the man said next almost stopped her heart.
‘And you – you work up at Lager Hühnlein, don’t you?’
Hedy turned to Quinn and nodded, calculating that an obvious lie could backfire. Now she could see his face full on, it did look vaguely familiar. Yes, she had seen him driving trucks of cement and girders in and out of the compound, his arm casually draped from the window, that blank, ruddy face perusing the site. He stood out from the other mercenaries because of that rumbling voice and wild ginger hair. Hedy gave him a cool, courteous smile, hoping to hit the sweet spot between encouragement and hostility.
‘That’s right.’
‘Thought I recognised you. Never forget a face.’
The man downed the second glass then turned and headed for the door, giving them both a small American-style salute with two fingers as he passed. Then he was out the door as rapidly as he’d entered.
Hedy and Maine stared at each other for several moments, communicating only through nervous glances. As soon as the old lady disappeared into the back, Hedy pressed the coupon envelope into Maine’s hands. She leaned forward to whisper across the table. ‘You think he saw an
ything?’
Maine shook his head. ‘What could he see? It’s just an envelope.’
Hedy sat back and nodded, breathing out for what felt like the first time in several minutes. ‘It’s just that we’ve been linked together, by someone who can identify both of us …’
Maine leaned in, his turn now to cover her hand. ‘My dear Hedy, from what I saw of those gentlemen at the hospital, I don’t believe they’d even be interested. All any of them cared about was how quickly the chap could get back to work, so that they didn’t miss a day’s pay.’
‘But if he were to find out about … me.’ She was careful to observe their unwritten rule, never to say the word ‘Jewish’ in public. ‘You know they deported those women from Guernsey a few weeks ago?’ She bit her lip, wishing she could tell him all she knew of their probable fate.
He patted her fingers. ‘You have cause to be careful, and I know you always are. But you have enough real worries, without inventing new ones.’
Hedy nodded, forcing a smile, vowing that the next time she saw the peg-leg fisherman she would buy an extra mackerel for the doctor and his wife. ‘You’re right. This bloody war, it’s making me so edgy. But perhaps a different venue next week?’
‘That would be sensible, I think. You want to leave first? I’m not on call till four.’
Hedy paid the woman for her drink and slipped out into the cobbled street, trying to shake off the sense of anxiety that had planted itself in her stomach. It was a warm afternoon, and as she reached the park the sun on her skin felt like treacle. She tossed her hair a little and instructed herself to relax, to live a little in the moment. After all, she had done good work today. The coupons would enable Maine to reach dozens of sick people in the parishes. She was expanding her contacts to acquire food supplies – and tomorrow night she would see Kurt again. There was still much to feel thankful for, she reminded herself, as she slipped silently through the backstreets of St Helier, passing the swastika flags and soldiers without a second glance.