The Book of Lies

by Mary Horlock

  I suppose I was relieved that Mr McCracken wasn’t so innocent, but I also felt pretty Stupid. It doesn’t matter how many times I come top of the class, when it comes to the stuff that’s happening around me I’m a proper (Village) idiot. I don’t understand the first thing about living human people – why they make the choices they make, why they keep secrets. I suppose I have to accept that there’ll always be things I’m not told, little things that will come out later. It might be years and years before I finally know it all.

  But I didn’t need Therese and Mr McCracken to teach me that. All I had to do was look at Dad’s concluding chapters of Uncle Charlie’s Story.

  The Charlie Rozier Story Concluded:

  ‘The Night and Fog Descend – A Son and Brother Lost’

  [Special thanks Colin Turrell and Valerie Priaulx for new information supplied, credit and thanks also to Arlette Rozier]

  Charlie Rozier died in late December 1965. He therefore left the story of his arrest and imprisonment during the Occupation incomplete. It fell to me, his brother and confidant, to continue alone the journey upon which we had embarked together. I have done so as best I am able.

  Charlie was re-arrested by three Feldgendarmes on the morning of 13th December 1942. It was reported in the Press later that day that his father, Hubert Rozier, had been shot ‘whilst attempting to escape’. No further details were given, although it is believed that an officer on night patrol had seen Hubert walking onto the beach at Belle Grève and, after shouting several warnings, had opened fire and fatally wounded him. Hubert was clearly planning to end his life, one way or another. He had already provided the Occupying Authorities with a detailed confession, wherein he accepted full responsibility for the charges of ‘espionage’ and ‘sabotage’ that had been laid at his door. Thus and therefore, he knew he would be shot. As an ex-officer with the Royal Engineers who had seen active service during the First World War, and as a former POW and German-speaker, he fitted the enemy profile of an underground agent, even though the majority of his fellow islanders would later dismiss the idea as preposterous.

  Despite Hubert’s fervent denials, the German interrogating officers remained convinced that father and son had been working as a team. The very night his father was shot, Charlie was re-arrested and passed into the hands of Achim Burkhardt and Paul Heider, two officers of the Abwehr (Espionage, Counter Espionage and Sabotage Service of the German High Command). Heider was rightly suspicious of Hubert’s confession, and promptly concluded that his death was ‘an act of martyrdom’.

  However, it was only after Charlie’s death that his mother would finally admit the lengths that Hubert went to in order to deflect all blame from his eldest son. According to Arlette, when Charlie’s notebook was discovered by German soldiers on 9th December Hubert immediately claimed it as his own, and said that his wife could support this. He then nodded to Arlette, who deliberately and erroneously identified the handwriting as that of her husband.

  But with or without Hubert and Arlette’s efforts Charlie did not escape trial and punishment. Hubert’s tragic death did not save his son, and may even have made his predicament more perilous. The German authorities were thrown into disarray and became anxious about a possible scandal. There was irrefutable evidence of espionage activity, and the discovery of tracks on a slipway near Bordeaux confirmed that there had been an escape attempt.

  Although determined to maintain the image of a ‘Model’ Occupation, the Germans were also desirous to assert their control. There was no unanimity over what action should be taken and Charlie was kept in custody at the notorious Paradis prison. A week passed and there was much debate back and forth between Burkhardt and the Feldkommandant on the neighbouring island of Jersey. But because no one could make a decision an unfortunate fate befell Charlie. He was placed under the Nacht und Nebel Erlass (Night and Fog decree).61 Thus it came to pass that my brother, then aged fifteen, summarily vanished from Guernsey soil.

  Most people believed that he was dead, and even his own mother had given up hope of seeing him again. When he returned to the island after Liberation he was unrecognisable as the high-spirited teenager taken by the Nazis. He was but a shadow of his former self, his mind greatly altered by the trauma of his exile.

  The bare facts of his captivity were only then divulged. Having spent a fortnight in the notorious German military prison of Fresnes, Charlie had been sent to Natzweiler-Strutthof concentration camp, 31 miles south of Strasbourg, hidden in the Vosges mountains of Alsace. Natzweiler was the only concentration camp established on French soil and became the recipient of a great number of ‘NN’ prisoners, many of whom were either exterminated in the gas chamber or died working in the large stone quarry.62 Charlie worked a twelve-hour day and survived repeated beatings and constant deprivation. During that time, not a day passed when he didn’t wonder about the fate of Ray Le Poidevoin, his one-time partner in crime.

  Le Poidevoin (as it has now transpired) fared considerably better than young Charlie. He did indeed make it to Southampton, having been picked up by an English warship on the evening of 10th December. (Sarnia Chérie was then described by one eye witness as a ‘floating wreck’.) Although suffering from hypothermia Le Poidevoin was able to give British Military Intelligence a brief account of his escape. He had left Guernsey on the night of 9th December in great haste. A terrible storm blew up and he had been tossed to and fro in the heavy waters for many hours. With waves continually washing over the boat, he was unable to keep a steady course. At one point he considered turning back, but he realised it was too late. Convinced he wouldn’t make it through the night, he lay in the bottom of the boat and prayed, and it appears his prayers were answered in that the storm propelled him out to sea.

  Le Poidevoin later wrote a heavily embroidered version of events in his book ‘Flight from Fortress Isle’ (Channel Islands Publishing, 1969), which caused much excitement at the time of its publication. It remains a bitter paradox that, once the Occupation was over, the stories of successful escapees became celebrated whereas those whose escape plans had failed – and who were deported and imprisoned – received far less post-war recognition and were often criticised by their fellow islanders for putting the wider population in peril. Charlie was never seen as the innocent victim, but more as the ‘Prodigal Son’ who had paid a heavy price for his own careless acts.

  In his book, Ray Le Poidevoin claimed that he and the unfortunate J-P Duquemin were taken by surprise when they heard of the house search at the Rozier residence on the night of 9th December 1942. Colin Turrell of Les Moulins had met with them at La Folie Inn and reported that ‘the whole Rozier family’ had been taken in by the Germans and were ‘most likely done for’.63 With Sarnia Chérie in imminent danger of being discovered Ray and J-P went directly to the boatshed and agreed ‘to go it alone’, knowing the dangers of their hasty and ill-prepared flight in highly unseasonal waters. ‘It was a risk but we had sworn an oath to each other and ourselves,’ wrote Le Poidevoin. ‘I believed that Charlie could hold out against the Hun for a few hours and that might be all we had. Yes, we left Charlie behind but if we’d stayed we’d have been shot.’

  The boys were unable to set off from the intended slipway north of Bordeaux and instead dragged the boat down as far as Les Houmets. J-P went to fetch the last of the supplies, and promised Ray he’d be a matter of minutes. Ray heard a distant explosion approximately half an hour later. He waited as long as he felt able, then, assuming the worst, he launched the boat alone.

  Le Poidevoin spent the rest of the War in Cornwall, where he lived with his aunt and three younger sisters (who had all been evacuated in 1940). He returned to Guernsey only briefly, with the British liberating forces, and is currently a resident of South Australia. There, he describes himself as a ‘manager of properties’. Although disinclined to reply to my letters, he did finally respond to some of my questions via his youngest sister, Valerie Priaulx (née Le Poidevoin). He categorically denied acting as an infor
mant for the Germans and re-iterated that it was never his intention to desert his ‘friend’, but he was left with no choice by the collision of circumstances.

  It is unlikely that the events of December 1942 will ever be clarified. When Charlie returned to Guernsey he spoke out against Ray, but few people gave credence to his feverish accusations. Indeed, it did seem unlikely that Ray would have put his own plans in jeopardy by informing on Charlie. Why would he have acted so rashly? Le Poidevoin admitted to there being a history of animosity between himself and his young friend, but could boyish bravado warrant two dead bodies and three years in a concentration camp? Perhaps other persons wanted revenge on the Roziers for allowing the Germans to take control of their printing press. Many islanders who ended up in concentration camps began their journey because of an informer. We may never know all the names.

  Charlie was always convinced of Ray’s guilt and spoke out against him almost immediately upon his return to the island. From the moment of his liberation his fragile mind was set on retribution, but the British military authorities who were then in charge of hearing any grievances vis-à-vis collaborators remained deeply sceptical of all claims made, declaring that ultimately they had too much basis in ‘suspicion and hearsay’. The Channel Islanders were still not to be trusted!

  Arlette never blamed Charlie for what happened but she did not look to place the blame elsewhere. Like many islanders, she strongly opposed all talk of retaliation, believing that it would cause further suffering and heartache. Out of respect for his mother Charlie kept silent for many years. Decades passed and he didn’t mention Ray’s name, but for months he would isolate himself from everyone, trapped by a crippling depression and unable to sleep or eat. Mother and son could not be reconciled and remained for the most part estranged, even until Charlie’s death. Although they loved each other it was hard to be reminded of the suffering and the sacrifice, the great burden of loss.

  22ND DECEMBER 1985, 2.30 p.m.

  [Middle landing]

  Once Dad’s study was empty Mum said we had to put the past where it belonged. But nothing was or is that simple. I remember when she drove me back to school the day after Mr McCracken had resigned. She told me everything would be fine and that my classmates wouldn’t know anything.

  ‘They might’ve heard he’s resigned, but they won’t connect it to you,’ she promised. ‘Mrs Perrot wanted everything kept quiet.’

  As per ever she was wrong. Everywhere I went it was like the parting of the Red Sea (or was it the Dead Sea?). I was an outcast as per the Indians, or a leper from Africa. The Chinese whispering made it properly United Nations. I don’t know who had started the rumours but apparently I’d been caught screaming my head off at Mr McCracken and had totally exaggerated whatever had happened. One of the sixth formers brushed past me in the hallway and jumped back, screaming ‘Rape!’

  Hilarious, je don’t think.

  NB: There were only two rapes reported in Guernsey during the whole of the German Occupation. That might be a sign that the Germans were incredibly well behaved. But it might also mean the female population were pushovers. Mud sticks, apparently.

  ‘Some people think you made it up to get back at Mr Mac for giving you bad grades.’

  That’s what Vicky told me.

  We were filing into Double English and I was asking her what I’d missed. I was actually referring to homework. ‘I don’t care what people are saying,’ I replied. ‘If Mr McCracken’s innocent then why did he resign? He must’ve done something wrong to just give up his job. Honestly, Vick, do the Maths. Nobody’s who you think they are.’

  She opened and shut her mouth, like a goldfish catching flies.

  ‘So you mean you and him, for real?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Lisa, pushing past me with her bony elbow. ‘I wouldn’t trust her version of anything. All the stories she comes out with . . .’

  I smiled my best fake smile. ‘At least my stories have a point to them.’

  The classroom was filling up and I caught sight of Nic standing behind Lisa. Her expression was still and serious, like one of the waxworks of German soldiers in the Occupation Museum (although in fact those waxworks look like their faces are melting). I was expecting her to say something bitchy and smirk, but she didn’t. She just stared at me.

  I can’t pretend I didn’t feel a weeny bit smug. There I was, a dark/Trojan horse, crammed full of dangerous secrets. I was seriously tempted to give everyone a news-flash update vis-à-vis Therese and Mr McCracken. It was bound to come out some time and I could’ve shut them up for good. But when I looked at Nic I realised what was at stake. It wasn’t that I was scared of her. If anything, I felt sorry for her. I didn’t want all my cretinous classmates knowing her business. Yes, Mr Mac was a guilty sleaze, but maybe it was better to let them think he’d been a guilty sleaze with me. Not with Nic’s own mother.

  I hope this is proof that: (1) I’m not all bad and (2) I’m growing up.

  Of course, growing up is not necessarily a good thing. The older you get the more lies you tell. Just think about all the lies Therese must’ve told. People were shocked when Mr McCracken stood beside her at Nic’s funeral. She looked lovely, though. She’d had her roots done specially, and she was as brown as a nut. That was probably what shocked everyone the most.

  I hope they get married and stay together for ever. I hope it wasn’t just a silly affair. I’ve kept their secret for them all this time, so they’d better make it worth my effort.

  But it’s hard to know what secrets should stay secret, and here’s another good example.

  It was the most important day of Dad’s life. We’d arrived an hour early at White Rock, and we were all dressed up like it was a party. It was a lovely spring day and I felt so proud. I stupidly imagined that I’d finally see Dad happy once he had the Memorial in place. I remember looking around at all these people and thinking they were clapping for him as he stepped up to the microphone. He was wearing a dark blue suit – I think it was the suit he’d married Mum in. I looked at her and smiled. That’s when it all went wrong. Dad never normally read from notes but he pulled some crumpled papers from his jacket pocket. Then he started speaking, but he slurred and stumbled over his words and he was swaying like he’d fall right over. People started murmuring and I had to grip Mum’s hand. When a man in the crowd told Dad to speak up he glared back. Suddenly he turned and lurched down from the platform. Everyone was talking and I wanted to go after him, but Mum held onto me. I don’t remember her saying anything to anyone about blood-sugar, but apparently she did, when people asked her what was wrong. Oh well. Maybe I heard it, maybe I didn’t. That only came out later, after he was dead.

  Dad was Diabetic. Mum said it might’ve come on because of the Occupation, if he was undernourished as a baby. Her and Dr Senner were the only ones who knew and at first it wasn’t a problem, since Dad kept fit and super-healthy and ate his rabbit-food. But over time things started to slip. Mum says she saw the changes after Grandma died – Dad complained of headaches and his moods went up and down. Eventually Dr Senner persuaded him to have some tests. They said Dad needed insulin, which wasn’t good. He hit the roof, and that’s when he threw the TV out.

  Mum says Dad wasn’t ever cross with me, he was mostly cross with himself. She also says the real reason he locked himself in his study was because he didn’t ever want me to see him injecting himself.

  ‘You have to remember he wasn’t always so shut off from us. It was just the last few years. He didn’t cope well with his illness. He wouldn’t listen to me. He wouldn’t listen to anyone.’

  (I listened, though.)

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but it was what he wanted. He was so proud, and only told me the half of it, in any case.’

  We were on the sofa sitting side by side, and she reached out and squeezed my hand.

  ‘People will know soon so you should hear it first from me. They’ll be surprised. Everyone thought your father was pretty mu
ch unsinkable.’

  And then Constable Priaulx arrived.

  Dad didn’t like secrets but in the end his secret killed him. Diabetics have to be careful if they cut themselves, because of the danger of infection. Dad had been too busy organising the Occupation Memorial to get his bad hand seen to. Mum said the infection spread to his heart.

  Of course, when I found the first bottle of whisky in Dad’s study I took it straight to Mum. She said Dad couldn’t have drunk that much since there’s a lot of sugar in alcohol. She suggested he drank a bit for pain relief, after he’d cut his hand. I thought that sounded right. Until I found the other bottles. That made me worry more. So I went and asked Dr Senner if Dad had been in terrible pain. Dr Senner told me that Diabetics don’t necessarily feel pain because their nerve endings go numb. Dr Senner said Dad didn’t realise how serious his hand was, because it didn’t even hurt.

  It’s hard to know who or what to trust, but I suppose I can trust what I saw. It was the night after White Rock. Dad was in his study with the door firmly closed, and I was on the stairs. I was sitting on the very spot where I’m sitting now, in fact. I like it here, because I can see halfway into the kitchen and all the way into the sitting room, and I can listen out for the study door. I used to sit here all the time when I was meant to be in bed, hoping to see Mum and Dad touch or hug or kiss like a married couple should. I never did, and I had to wonder what it was that kept them together but so far apart.