by Mary Horlock
Donnie turned to look at me.
‘You’re all right? Good. Good.’ He sighed and swallowed. ‘What just happened back there. What just happened, didn’t happen, do you understand?’
I didn’t.
He wiped the sweat from his chins. ‘You won’t tell anyone.’
‘O-K,’ I said slowly.
‘You see why. Those girls could have me for assault. It’d be their word against mine and I wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ I shifted in my seat and made the leather fart.
Donnie shook his head. ‘Didn’t you hear them? What if anyone else heard?’ His chest rose and fell. ‘They could pin whatever they liked on me and don’t pretend your local police force wouldn’t take their side. Teenage girls, I’m easy pickings for that lot, aren’t I?’
I stared down at my muddy hands and remembered the last time I’d seen him.
‘You know what Nicolette’s like – she’ll say anything to get a reaction.’
I heard Donnie sigh. ‘It’s about more than that. You and I both know it.’
Another firework went off and I looked up into the sky, but Donnie was watching me.
‘I’ve never made anyone do anything they don’t want to. I’m not some dirty old man. I shouldn’t have to explain myself. There’s nothing to explain.’
I glanced back at him and his eyes were glittery from the fireworks.
‘You don’t think what she thinks, do you? I’m not some pervert.
’ I remembered Mr McCracken and all the things I’d called him, and then I pictured Donnie, with his shirt unbuttoned, sprawled on his sofa.
I shook my head. ‘You’re not a pervert. You’ve only ever tried to be my friend. Whatever anyone says, I’ll back you up.’
He stared off into the distance. I watched him chew at the nail of his index finger and wondered what else to say. I wanted to tell him that I’d missed him.
He sighed again, this time like he was emptying his whole chest.
‘I’ve tried to keep a low profile, since the summer. They never are.’ He glanced across at me. ‘Do you know what that’s like?’
I’m sorry for what happened between us and if I overstepped the mark. I hoped things would blow over. I should know better, of course. It is what it is and it always turns out the same. I come somewhere new and think things will be different, people will be different.
I wanted to say I did but I didn’t, since I’d never been anywhere foreign except France on our boat (which doesn’t count) and Tenerife (which is full of English people). Mum took me there after Dad’s life insurance money came through and we stayed in a fancy hotel with two enormous swimming pools. It was my-first-proper-foreign holiday and it should’ve been the-best-thing-ever, only Mum kept worrying about how much everything cost. I never understood why she worried, since nobody doubted her OFFICIAL VERSION of how Dad died, and they never once asked for the money back.
Mum worried too much – just like Donnie. He was convinced he’d get arrested and thrown into prison and nothing I could say would make a difference. That’s the real reason he’s packed up and left, by the way. I tried to convince him to stay. I honestly did. I reminded him that Guernsey wasn’t like other places on account of its History, but he wasn’t listening. If only he’d read Dad’s books he’d have realised that in Guernsey guilty people never go to prison – that’s why it’s full of posho English people and their swish-Swiss bankers.
In Guernsey, guilty people always get a second chance.
Anton A. Vern
56 Bandestrasse
34015 Vienna
12. 12. 83
Dear Emile Rozier,
It has been some years since you last wrote to me, and I am sure you have long since given up hope of a reply. I thank you for the many pamphlets and journals that you have sent to me. It is clear to me that you have understood a great deal about your island’s history. However, it is your own family history that still troubles you, as I can well understand. You wrote to me in the hope that I might shed some light on the matter and I regret very much that I can. You are the person to whom I must explain things, but this will be a great burden for you. Perhaps you of all people can appreciate that there are more than two sides to any story. The truth is like a prism through which the light shines, but the patterns it creates can distract and confuse.
I am 61 years old – which is perhaps not old, but I have cancer. I am too sick to write, therefore a friend is typing what I speak, and by the time this reaches you I trust I will be dead.
What I would like to say first is sorry. I remember you only as a small child, and since that time you have known much loss. Your late brother endured great hardships and I can well understand why he resisted talking of his experiences for so long. I have often thought of him over the years. I am sorry he did not have children. I have three sons and I am very proud of the men they have become. I will miss them.
I will say what I have to say and no more. I do not like my memories, and my emotions become troubled when I think of your island. It is still beautiful, I have no doubt, but it was never a place I would wish to return to. When I was posted to Guernsey I felt differently; we were very impressed by the beauty of the cliffs, and we felt comfortable and fortunate. I personally did not want to be sent to the Front because I was not convinced by Hitler or his War. I was pleased to be but an administrator, and did my utmost to smooth relations with the local population.
Despite my being many years his junior your father had to work for me. He did so with grace and dignity. Perhaps it helped him to know that I did not enjoy giving orders. I often felt myself to be as unhappy as a great many of the islanders. I was a long way from home and I had never been away from my loved ones before. Hubert was a quiet, devout man, greatly troubled by the War. Early on, before wireless sets were confiscated, we would listen to the BBC news together. I made the excuse it might help me with my English. I noticed he often held his Bible close to his chest and he once told me he believed that God was subjecting all of us to a most gruelling test. I sensed a deep spiritual turmoil beneath his surface, yet I could not have predicted how events would unravel.
I must now confess to my own terrible weakness. I was a young man and very immature, inexperienced and easily swayed by my passions. I regret very much that I found myself falling in love, but that is precisely what happened. It was the kind of love I had never before known, a love that was doubtless intensified by the unusual circumstances. It became my great obsession. This is a secret that I have carried with me these years.
When I first learned of your mother’s death I was unable to write to you and tell you the truth of what happened because I did not want to tarnish the memories you have of her. She was an extraordinary woman. I was very much in love with her from the moment I first met her. She only once professed to feel the same and after all these years I cannot believe it was ever true. I am sure it pains you to learn of her infidelity, but please remember the confusion and uncertainty of the time, its humiliations and temptations weighed heavily on us all.
Quite what was between us is now so difficult to describe in words. I do not wish to cheapen it. I know now there were delusions on both sides: a false longing, a need for intimacy. Arlette was still a beautiful woman, some years younger than Hubert. She doted on you, her baby boy, but found herself increasingly alienated from both her husband and her teenage son. She once told me she had chosen the security of an early marriage out of fear that she might be ‘left on the shelf’. As I understand it a great many Guernsey families had lost sons in the First World War. Arlette entertained the notion that the man she should have married had died in the trenches. She spoke of this on more than one occasion. I know that she was very young when she married Hubert and Charlie was born not long after. I am not trying to make excuses for my behaviour, but by the time I arrived on Guernsey husband and wife appeared to be ill-at-ease with one another. The pressure of the Occupation would only drive
them further apart.
I found it difficult to hide my feelings for Arlette but I had no intention of making them known. She was a married woman and a mother. I therefore kept within my boundaries. I would bring extra rations of butter or sugar when I could, and I would like to think this went some way towards keeping you nourished. All I wanted was to make life easier for the family. I am not sure how things changed, even now. The ‘affair’, when it finally began, was fleeting, and ended in the tragedy you are now so familiar with.
I must stress that it was not until 1942 that our friendship blossomed. This was a difficult year for everyone. The Führer’s grand plan of making the island an impregnable fortress dominated all other considerations. The arrival of more and more slave workers and the endless building work led to extreme shortages of food and basic necessities, tighter security and harsher punishments for ‘miscreants’. It was difficult for soldier and civilian alike. Although in a position of authority I never felt powerful and I was worried that I would be dispatched to a fighting zone at any time. I confided my fears in Arlette and slowly she began to confide in me. Hubert by then was much changed. I sensed the Occupation had broken his spirit and he was often struck down by rheumatic fever. He soon admitted to me that he was too ill to continue working in the office and I accepted this, perhaps too readily. He thanked me for my patience and asked me keep an eye on Charlie.
Charlie was supposed to work in the office alongside me, but he did not care much for my company. Despite repeated reprimands from his mother his time-keeping was erratic and I became accustomed to his long absences. I can only assume that he had already befriended Ray Le Poidevoin. I was quite unaware of their activities, however, and paid little heed to Charlie’s absences since they allowed Arlette and me to become closer. I finally had the opportunity to confess to her my feelings. She admitted she had known all along.
After that I wanted to spend as much time with her as I could, away from prying eyes. We hit upon the idea that she would wash and press German uniforms for extra money, and so she could come to my quarters during daylight hours and not arouse suspicion. It was the perfect subterfuge, although I soon learned that a number of other soldiers had concocted the same scheme. Perhaps you were not aware of this but ‘doing laundry’ for the occupying forces became a code for other activities, from which mutual benefits might be drawn.
For a brief period the excitement and anticipation of our encounters afforded us an escape from daily life. Arlette was a passionate woman. I told her I would marry her when the War was over. She reminded me that she was already married. ‘What do you intend to do about that?’ she asked. I had no answer for her.
It was during the spring that some papers entrusted to me went missing from the office. There is no mention of this in the previous letters you sent me – were you ever aware of it? It was a most serious matter and I was reprimanded by my senior officers. Arlette was convinced that Hubert was responsible and suggested that he had been spying on us. I found this hard to believe since Hubert was obviously unwell. Arlette told me not to be fooled. She also hinted to me that her husband’s espionage activities went further and that he would eventually humiliate me. She had seen him making notes, she said, and she had found some kind of map. Hubert was an intelligent man and understood German. Although his physical health was poor, nothing escaped those watchful eyes. Arlette insisted that I confront him and demand the truth. I was too afraid. The guilt of our affair was a colossal burden. That was when she said she would go to my Commanding Officer. I took her threat very seriously and was filled with despair. I feared those in authority above me. I was under no illusions what would happen to me if it was known that I had let a ‘resistant’ get the better of me.
I acted in haste and organised the search of your then family home in St Sampson so that I could discover the truth once and for all. I assure you we had no information from Ray Le Poidevoin regarding either Charlie or Hubert Rozier. The search was entirely my doing and I expected to find nothing. I wanted to show Arlette the depth of my devotion and my commitment to her. We searched the upstairs rooms first. Hubert calmly watched on, at one point remarking ‘If you could tell me what exactly you are looking for, then maybe I can help?’ The map on the wall of the box room obviously intrigued us, although on closer inspection it appeared that Hubert had marked it up with information gathered from German controlled newspapers. But the loose floorboard was soon discovered, and then this extraordinary notebook. Hubert remained calm. His life hung in the balance, but his confession came so swiftly we were taken aback.
‘Those documents are mine,’ he said. ‘My wife will confirm that they are in my handwriting. There shouldn’t be any secrets between a husband and wife but the War’s changed all that, hasn’t it?’ He looked directly at Arlette but she did not meet his gaze. She glanced at the open notebook and nodded. ‘Yes, that is my husband’s handwriting. Hubert – what have you done?’ Hubert then levelled his eyes on me. ‘You have got what you wanted.’ His words chilled me to the bone and in that instant I felt sure that he knew of our affair, and had always known. I glanced back at Arlette and she was now staring at her husband. There was almost a look of defiance in her eyes. I was confused and greatly perplexed. It was then Charlie made his entrance and began his protestations.
I must reassure you at this stage that the only ‘rumours’ regarding Hubert acting as a spy had come from his own wife. Charlie’s boasts about his father’s alleged spying never reached our ears and did not contribute to the case against them. Furthermore, it was never Hubert who informed on his own son. This last suggestion is preposterous and troubles me greatly. Whoever made such a claim is at best deluded and at worst vindictive. Why blacken Hubert’s name?
To the best of my knowledge, Charlie was never regarded as a serious threat. He was very impudent, however, and I recall Major Wessel referring to him as an ‘undesirable’. He noted that Charlie tried to take responsibility for the notebook and I remember him stating that father and son were evidently ‘working together’. Arlette was arrested and brought in for questioning separately to Hubert and Charlie, but this was a formality. She corroborated Hubert’s confession and was released. By then, of course, she knew her husband and eldest son were in serious trouble.
I wanted to console her but there was no time, events were spinning far beyond our control. Within hours an abandoned boat trailer had been discovered and the body of a young mechanic was recovered from a nearby minefield. It was clear there had been an escape attempt. I was under the confidence of Wessel and he told me that there was a secret army at work. He was a Gestapo man and very hardened. I realised Charlie and Hubert would be given more than a prison sentence. Their crime was serious enough to warrant death by firing squad. I went to Arlette immediately to break the terrible news. You were in the room, playing happily at her feet, quite unaware of the tragic events of the previous night. She kept leaning over to stroke and fuss with your hair. I reminded her that I had only been acting as she’d asked. She denied this and told me that I had completely misunderstood. I then asked if my suspicions were correct and that Hubert had discovered our affair. She replied: ‘He knew, all right. I was a good wife all these years but what does that count for now? He’s the saint and I’m the sinner, it’s as he wanted.’
I was surprised by the bitterness of her tone and tried to comfort her, but she told me to leave and never come back. She wanted to forget everything that had gone on.
It seems clear to me that Arlette would have done anything rather than be confronted with her own shameful truth. She had spoken out against Hubert in the interest of self-preservation, for fear he would denounce us. I was meant to warn him off and no more. But I am certain she never imagined he might end up facing a death sentence. I have now had more experience with women and as far as I see they often act impetuously. In this respect, Arlette was true to her sex. She was worn down by the Occupation and lashed out indiscriminately.
Hubert’s confes
sion had already sealed his fate. Once he was in the grips of Wessel and his men it was merely a matter of time. He chose to walk out across Belle Grève Bay and die on his beloved island, rather than die in the camps or be shot by the firing squad.
I fully accept the part I played in this most appalling tragedy. No words are suffice to tell you how I regret my involvement. I am quite prepared to accept any punishment I receive in the next life, but I would like you to know that I have prayed every day for forgiveness.
To complete the story, I asked to be transferred to the Russian Front immediately. My Kommandant was most sympathetic and wished for no scandal. I never spoke with or saw Arlette again but I know she was full of guilt for what we together had caused. She did write to me once, via the International Red Cross. It was a brief note telling me that Charlie had survived and returned to the island. She said there was little chance of them ever being reconciled, since she could not even look him in the eye. She reminded me of my promise never to speak of what she referred to as ‘a silly mistake’.
I did note that she signed herself Arlette Prevost, which I remember to be her maiden name. I suspect that she was too ashamed to use the Rozier name thereafter.
I am in doubt whether my disclosure helps you any. I am sure that you must now hate me and your mother, but I believe we gain very little from hating the dead. As a father, I believe parents rarely live up to the expectations of their children. We are human, flesh and blood. And please believe me when I assure you that, as long as I lived, I tried to be a better man.
Your obedient servant,
Anton Vern
23RD DECEMBER 1985, 6.30 p.m.
[Bedroom, packing]
Warning: shock and horror ahead. It’s been almost a day since I last wrote this and you won’t believe what’s just happened. Vicky tried to kill herself. Yes, that’s right. My so-called, one-time friend who abandoned me to potential incineration on Bonfire Night, has taken an overdose and ended up in hospital. Apparently she feels guilty and blames herself for what happened to Nic. Therefore she decided to end it all.