The Viennese Girl

by Jenny Lecoat

  Kurt shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench, eyeing the other officers nearby. All were smoking or engaged in stilted, distracted conversations. It was a high-ranking affair, to be sure – no one under the rank of lieutenant, and a generous sprinkling of captains. It was clear that none of them knew why they had been summoned today, and equally clear that this was something big. The sun, strikingly warm for September, poured through the casement windows of College House, turning the grey stone corridor into a slow-bake oven; several of the older officers had already turned an unhealthy shade of puce. Much longer stuck here, Kurt thought, and Berlin might have to replace the entire Field Command.

  He looked around the grand interior with its ancient flagstones and crafted wood trim, the perfect example of the British Victorian boarding school it had been before the war, and tried to imagine snotty-faced boys tumbling through these hallways. Where were those kids now? Probably stuffed in some prefabricated wooden hut, compulsory German grammars perched on their knees. This place must have seemed a daunting enough environment to a young lad; now, inhabited by the uniformed pen pushers of the Field Command, it reminded Kurt of a hive, and the buzzing, claustrophobic cells around a queen bee.

  On the far side of the room he spotted Fischer, deep in some private conversation with an administrator. Fischer had been chummy with Kurt lately, apologising for the mess in his half of their shared room, and offering Kurt a substantial amount of the cigarettes his brother had sent from Germany. But there was a coldness beneath the camaraderie, and Kurt was aware that conversations at the billet often ended abruptly when he entered a room. Kurt knew Fischer’s game but continued to ignore it. If Wildgrube and his gorillas chose to spy on him from time to time, he’d just have to make sure he gave them nothing to see; he was scrupulous now about looking over his shoulder. And the way things were going on the Continent, they could all be out of here within six months.

  A uniformed lackey emerged from a wooden double door and waved them forward. Kurt followed the crowd into the large meeting room, finding a space to stand at the back with a decent view of the senior commanders around the table. The windows here were even larger, the stuffy heat even more unbearable. Whatever this news was, Kurt thought, let it be delivered quickly.

  Colonel Knackfuss himself was seated at the centre of the table. Kurt stared at the man’s stiff decorative collar, biting into his craggy neck, and the tiny scabs at the side of his head where some barber had shaved the stubble growth with excessive speed. The officers arranged themselves around the room as the colonel’s deep-set eyes remained fixed on the paperwork before him, evidently glad of the extra time to prepare his statement. Then silence fell, and Knackfuss’s rasping tones rang out.

  ‘I summoned you here today because the Swiss Government has recently asked the German High Command to consider an exchange of prisoners of war. As you may be aware, several thousand German citizens are currently interned in Persia by order of the British.’ A lightning exchange of confused looks pinged around the room. What did this have to do with the administration of the Channel Islands? ‘One year ago,’ Knackfuss continued, ‘when the internment first came to light, an order was issued that, in retaliation, Feldkommandantur 515 should immediately deport all British residents not born within the Channel Islands, at a ratio of ten to one for those held in Persia.’ The silence deepened as minds began to turn over, unravelling the significance. Kurt sensed that a number of people in the room had actually stopped breathing. ‘This order was never enacted. In January of this year I made known my objections to 319 Infantry: it is my view that the British-born islanders serve as a shield to attacking Allied forces, and that such a deportation would create additional defensive problems, including potential resistance. However …’ Knackfuss shuffled the papers before him, as if it might somehow alter what was typed upon them. ‘However, the new applications of the Swiss have brought this situation to the attention of the Führer, who is displeased that previous orders were ignored. Berlin now insists that the deportations be carried out as directed: that is, all British subjects without permanent residence, and all British men between the ages of sixteen and seventy born on the British mainland, along with their families, be sent forthwith to internment camps in Germany.’

  Knackfuss lowered his papers and scanned the room, giving his officers permission to react. A low rumble of muttering rolled through the room. Several heads had dropped in anticipation of what the next weeks would involve, others maintained expressions of cautious neutrality. Fischer, Kurt noticed, was one of those glaring at Knackfuss, clearly incensed that one so senior should question the Führer’s orders. The heat of the room fizzed in Kurt’s bones and made him nauseous. He tried to think of mountain streams and glasses brimming with ice cubes.

  ‘We calculate that the number of islanders affected,’ Knackfuss went on, ‘amounts to approximately two thousand, around one in twenty of the population. The announcement will be made in the Evening Post on the fifteenth, that is, in five days’ time, with the first deportations taking place the following day.’ The muttering grew louder. Kurt heard distinct phrases such as ‘twenty-four hours?’ and ‘got to be kidding!’ bubbling up in pockets around him. Knackfuss, aware of the disturbance, raised his own volume against it. ‘This will present significant challenges, but gives us the advantage of surprise. The less time people are given to organise their personal affairs, the less opportunity they will have for opposition.’

  He gazed around the room – making mental notes, Kurt suspected, of the less forgiving faces and to whom they belonged. Fischer had now arranged his own visage into a model of impartiality; Kurt made a feeble attempt to copy it, but when he caught his reflection in the window, he just looked mildly deranged. ‘There may well be resistance,’ Knackfuss continued, ‘but this order comes from the Führer himself with the highest priority, and no exceptions can be made. I need not tell you that this remains highly classified information until it is publicly released, and that no mention of this will be made outside this room, other than to those within Field Command involved in the practical arrangements. That is all. Heil Hitler.’

  A forest of hands rose in salute, and then Knackfuss was gone, whisked away to some private office deep within the building. The explosion of conversation went off like a bazooka. Kurt muttered something to his neighbour about making a telephone call, and slid silently from the room, down the grand corridor and out through the nearest exit. As he trotted down Mont Millais towards the town, the queasiness persisted. He looked at each local he passed – ordinary men and women going about their daily business, heading home on lunch breaks, shopping or pushing prams. How many of them would have their lives turned inside out within a few days? How many kids and elderly people would not survive the journey? How many more would perish in internment camps? But Kurt knew full well the real reason for his churning stomach. This order meant that all pretence of reasonable behaviour from his administration was now finished. If Berlin was prepared to treat British subjects with this degree of contempt, a new sweep of foreign nationals and Jews would likely follow. He would have to see Hedy tonight and warn her. They would need to stash more money behind the skirting, and he would suggest she keep a bag packed at all times.

  The sun was burning the skin on his face, cooking his body through the thick wool of his tunic. It was already far too hot for September. But the distant high clouds were static, and the stillness in the air promised an even hotter night to come.

  It was a noise Hedy had never heard before in these streets. A cacophony of singing, wailing and roars of defiance, individual voices occasionally cutting through the hubbub and rising to the surface. Somewhere to her right was a rousing chorus of the song she had heard sung in public houses in the months before the Occupation, ‘There’ll Always Be An England’. To her left came the anguished high-pitched cries of a woman and her children. On Commercial Street a group of men had gathered in an ominous, illegal group of ten or twelve, yelling and gestic
ulating to the world at large. Pushing her way past them and the milling crowds blocking the thoroughfare, Hedy grabbed hold of Dorothea’s hand for security as they pressed on towards the harbour.

  As the narrow street gave onto the open expanse of the Weighbridge, the sight stopped both of them dead. Hundreds of people in small groups, standing or collapsed on their haunches, all of them bundled in layers of clothes far too hot for the day’s searing heat. Each clutched a battered packing case, or a roll of blankets tied up with string. Grim-faced men herded their families; their wilting, red-faced wives dispensed fragments of scorched swede to their hungry young, while older children bounced screaming toddlers to no avail. Wherever she looked Hedy could see people hugging each other. Many were weeping. Families, neighbours, work colleagues – people who had all considered themselves locals until the previous night, when a sharp rap on the door and a sheaf of papers had brutally delivered a different interpretation. Women who had escaped the order ran to friends and in-laws who had not, pressing into their hands whatever treasures had been found at the back of the store cupboard – a tin of tunny fish, a couple of undersized apples. Men sweating in their winter coats thrashed out hurried deals with pals and neighbours over the upkeep of properties, custody of businesses, care or disposal of family pets. The scene formed a grey, raucous mural of despair.

  Hedy turned to Dorothea to see her hand clasped to her mouth. ‘I didn’t believe it till now. How can they do this?’ Dorothea looked around, searching. ‘I have to find her.’

  Hedy followed her gaze over the sea of heads. ‘I’m not sure you’ll be able to find anyone in this crowd.’

  ‘I have to try.’

  They tiptoed through the chaos, stepping over legs, children and belongings, peering into assembled groups. The sun was now reaching its height, and Hedy yearned for shade.

  Suddenly Dorothea gave a shout. ‘That’s her! Over there!’ She pointed to a small group sitting in a semi-circle on the ground near the bottom end of Commercial Buildings. ‘Sandy? Sandy, it’s me!’ Hedy found herself dragged along by Dorothea’s fierce grip, bumping into people and stumbling over luggage, until they reached the family group. One of them was a woman of Dorothea’s age, with striking dark hair and olive eyes, a winter coat tucked under her bottom as a cushion. Next to her, a man Hedy assumed to be her father, sporting ruddy cheeks and a booming voice, was engaged in an intense conversation with another gentleman. As they drew near, Hedy realised that the second man was the deputy they had met on the day of the wireless collection.

  ‘But why have the Jersey States allowed this to happen?’ the father was shouting. ‘We’ve lived in the island for thirty years, Le Quesne, do we have no rights?

  The deputy’s eyelids were heavy, as if the simple challenge of wakefulness was too much for his ageing body. ‘We have done everything in our power. We refused to serve the notices, but the Germans dragged parish officials from their homes and ordered them on pain of imprisonment.’

  ‘You’re supposed to protect us. It’s a damned disgrace.’

  Le Quesne trudged off, only to be accosted by another furious deportee.

  Dorothea threw her arms around her friend. ‘Sandy! I had to come to say goodbye. Do you have any idea where they’re sending you?’

  ‘All we know is that it’s some camp in Germany,’ the woman replied. The phrase turned Hedy’s stomach. ‘They only told us last night.’ She looked composed, but Hedy could sense the turmoil underneath.

  Dorothea took a small jar of sugar from her bag and pressed it into Sandy’s hand. ‘I’ve been saving this for something important, I want you to have it.’

  Sandy smiled with gratitude, but her father immediately stepped forward. ‘We don’t need anything from your sort, thank you.’

  ‘Daddy, please!’ Sandy jumped in, but the old man pushed himself in between her and Dorothea.

  ‘You’re married to one of them – you’re on their side. You stay away from my daughter. Go on, clear off.’

  Seeing the hurt on Dorothea’s face, Hedy took hold of her elbow to draw her away. But to her surprise Dorothea drew herself up. ‘I may love a man in the German army but I know whose side I’m on, thank you very much.’ She reached out and squeezed Sandy’s hand. ‘Take care of yourself, my love.’

  She turned on her heel and walked away. Hedy hurried after her, knowing she could lose her in a moment. ‘That was brave.’

  Dorothea shrugged. ‘It’s not the first time. Won’t be the last.’ Then she stopped, her head on one side. ‘Listen – there are people down there singing the national anthem.’ It was true. ‘God Save The King’ was now plainly audible from a large group over by the quay. ‘Let’s go and join them.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. The Jerries are jumpy today, they could start shooting.’

  But Dorothea shook her head. ‘Let them. These are my people, I’ll not let them be packed off to God knows where without letting them know how I feel about it.’ She marched off in the direction of the quay.

  Hedy hesitated, half wanting to go home, half feeling that she should support Dorothea. Duty finally forced her on, but as she traipsed along behind Dorothea’s purposeful figure, she felt a twinge of admiration. The island community had already spat this woman out as trash, yet here she was defending them. Anton had been right, Hedy reflected, about her good heart.

  The two of them picked their way through the crowd until they reached the quayside and the improvised choir of locals, self-consciously attaching themselves to the edge of the throng. As a scrappy version of ‘Keep The Home Fires Burning’ started up, Dorothea joined in, tentative at first, then belting it out with gusto. She sang as if it were the last song of her life, her usual wheezing temporarily vanished. Hedy, looking around for soldiers and spies, timidly mimed along. The song ended and was immediately replaced with ‘We’ll Meet Again’. Then another, noisier version of the national anthem, and a somewhat chaotic rendition of ‘Run, Rabbit, Run’. Minutes turned into hours, and as the Germans continued to stare vacantly above the heads of the rebels, Hedy, finally familiar with the words and tunes, let her voice ring out and reverberate in her chest in a way she had forgotten it could. Now and then she and Dorothea would turn, in the middle of a phrase, and grin at each other.

  The sun slowly arced around to the west, and as it did so the mass of people and the baked paving stones beneath their feet intensified the heat of the day, shimmering off the quayside in distorted waves. By the time the first boat began to board, the Germans’ rifles were primed and aimed at the crowd, ready to stop any last-minute rebellion. The singers’ voices, hoarse as they were, grew louder and more defiant. And at that moment Hedy was struck by a single, powerful certainty. Kurt’s suspicions were right: everything that had happened in the last two years had simply been a rehearsal. The real Occupation was only now beginning – a new, bitter wind was blowing in. Soon, perhaps sooner than anyone imagined, everything was going to change. At that moment and with great clarity, Hedy understood that she was no more than a cork bobbing on the surface of the harbour, waiting to see where the current would take her.

  She took a deep breath and bellowed out the final chorus of ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’, and her voice travelled out across the water and into the void.

  8

  1943

  The clock on the wall showed 5.55. Hedy tore the last sheet from her typewriter and placed it on the pile of finished reports. She scanned the room, noting the position of every staff member, calculating their precise stage of departure; she knew all their habits well enough by now. Bruna, the tall girl from Munich who always brushed her hair for two minutes before leaving, presumably to impress her endless succession of boyfriends. Rosamund, Miss Vogt’s pinch-lipped favourite, who always lingered by the supervisor’s desk in the hope of soliciting a compliment on her day’s work. Smelly Derek with his stench of mould, who fussed over his station each night before putting on his jacket, obsessed with leaving everything perfectly
tidy. It was vital that Hedy chose exactly the right moment to transfer the petrol coupons from her desk to her coat, just when everyone was distracted. Pretending to look for something in her bag, she waited for her moment. Then, as Derek bent over to tuck the dust cover under his machine, Hedy moved, deftly slipping the coupons into her inside pocket. Another sweep of the room told her that, as usual, no one had noticed. Projecting an air of calm indifference, she took her bag from the back of her chair, collected her coat, and strolled out into the dusty exterior of the compound.

  Walking towards the exit gate she kept her eyes ahead of her, as always. It was rare for her to catch a glimpse of Kurt at this time of day – normally he was over in the warehouses, doing the last stocktake of the day – but they had long ago agreed that they should never be seen speaking to each other at work. On the occasions when they did pass each other on the pathways, both of them would look the other way or, in Kurt’s case, manufacture a conversation with a colleague as a sleight of hand. Hedy had never trusted anyone at Lager Hühnlein, but now she viewed everyone as a potential enemy. People could be seen whispering in quiet corners of the canteen, in the shadows of filing cabinets or outside toilet cubicles – rumours about spies and collaborators, about imminent Allied raids and possible German reprisals. It was impossible to separate cynical German employees, who genuinely wouldn’t have cared if you stole an entire desk from under their noses, from secret police operatives snooping for information. Even harder to tell the difference between resistance-minded locals and those who would sell their own grandmothers for a cash reward. The only safe option was to keep your mouth shut at all times and, if asked anything, profess complete ignorance.

  Last year’s fears of a new, more repressive phase had proved all too correct. Paranoia was now the default mood of the German authorities. Rations had been cut for several months as ‘punishment’ for the sinking of German ships, and a number of local people, including a recalcitrant canon, had been sent to punishment camps for listening to the BBC news. Worst of all had been the announcement made one cold, wet day in the early spring that, in retaliation for an abortive British commando raid on the sister island of Sark, a further two hundred islanders were to be deported. Neither Hedy nor Kurt needed to be told that this latest seizure would be certain to include the few remaining Jews.