“So, we’re going to St. Peter’s Port, then are we?”
She swiped her finger under one eye and then the other, wiping away the laughing tears as she calmed. “Yes, so we should probably get some room organized in the cellar and clean out those boards under the floor.”
FIVE
Evelyn - June 1940
St. Peter’s Port.
The heart of our little town, and practically the heartbeat of the island of Guernsey.
I always loved coming to the town to see the hustle and bustle of a life that I didn’t see in the country. People darted in all directions, their destinations ranged from visiting the newspaper office to grab a copy of the daily news, heading to the post office with parcels for the postmaster, to stopping by the grocery store—owned by Henry’s grandfather, Ian, who had not only owned the place for the last several decades, but worked there as a young lad when his father and grandfather owned it.
“Looks like the lorries are all set up this afternoon,” Mum said, pointing down toward the dock. Perhaps we should see about picking up a few things after your appointment.” She tightened her arm hooked around Dad’s as she glanced at him. A smile beamed across her lips.
Having spent the last couple of days cooped up in the house, worried and wondering about Amelia, she was—just as I was—eager to take a walk and get some sunlight on her face.
Dad checked his watch, nodding. “We actually have some time if you wanted to check now.”
“Are we that early?”
“We have time.” He patted her hand, and the two pushed on a few more feet in front of me.
Down the winding, cobbled street, I continued to follow my parents until we reached the middle of town. Alive from the early morning hours of shopping, the lorries, like Mum mentioned, had already begun their set up. With tables and carts full of tomatoes, the men worked, while passersby meandered through them, stopping to check the inventory before moving on.
“I think I’m going to go into the grocery store first,” I said, backing a few steps away from them. “Do we need anything?”
Mum and Dad stopped and turned inward toward each other as Dad reached into his pocket. “Here is the list I made. See if he can hold everything in the back of the storeroom until we are ready to leave town.”
I nodded as I grabbed the scrap of paper and spun away, trotting back up the curve of the hill toward the store.
The bell above the door chimed as I entered, and the soft ping echoed off the glass in the door and windows. Shockingly quiet inside, only one other customer mulled around the shelves as I made my way up to the front counter, smiling at Henry as I approached. With his chin tucked toward his chest, his eyebrows furrowed as he studied a piece of paper. His lips were moving as if he was reading it to himself.
“Something must be awfully interesting.” I set my purse on the counter, waiting for him to answer me. He didn’t. “Hello?” I waved. “Did you not even hear the bell?”
He finally looked up at me. “Oh, hello. No, I didn’t hear it.”
“What are you reading?”
He flipped over the newspaper and held it up. The black printed words popped from the white page he had folded in half.
“Don’t be yellow, stay at home,” I read. “What does that mean?”
He heaved a deep sigh and slapped the paper back down on the counter. “Can you believe they are posting these all over the town?”
“What do they mean?”
“They are propaganda for the residents of Guernsey to stay on the island and not leave. Some man posted it on my door. I ripped it down. Told him if they put up another one, I would take it down, too, and shove it down his throat.” Henry snorted, shaking his head. “Parents are only trying to protect their children. No one has the right to call them yellow. And what of the Jews living here? Are they yellow for wanting to flee?”
“It’s just someone’s opinion. It doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“It’s not true, but they are acting as though it is. Bloody fools. How can they even think we have a chance since they demilitarized us? And yet, they then call us yellow.”
“They still could not even come here. I mean, if they know the British Army has left the island, what purpose would it serve? It isn’t like we offer much by way of imports or even exports. It’s just land. Land surrounded by sea, and not much at that.”
“It’s still British soil, and they would be foolish not to come here. Should British troops return, we could aid France from here.” He shook his head. “The Germans are coming. I bet my life on it.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I talked with Rose yesterday.”
“Rose Danbury?”
He nodded. “I asked her why she wasn’t on the boat with the children and young mothers since most of the other Jews in town are leaving. She said she isn’t planning to leave, and Francis stayed with her.”
“But he’s just a boy?”
“She wants to stay here in her home, and he wants to stay, too. I suppose to protect his grandmother.”
“And what will happen if the Germans come?”
He shrugged. “She said it was her choice, and she knows the risk.”
“Knowing and taking are two different things. I couldn’t stay and live in such fear. I mean, I already am, but for her . . .” I brushed my fingertips across my forehead. “What do you think is going to happen?”
He shrugged and flattened his lip with a half smirk. “I don’t know. Are you going to stop by your bookshop this afternoon?”
I snorted. “And do what? Look at the two empty shelves I moved in there in my excitement?” I pointed toward the flyer. “I don’t know if I’m going to open now.”
“You should still try. No matter what happens.” He paused for a moment. “Did you get the boxes of books from your house?”
“No, not yet. They are down in the cellar. I was going to take them this weekend, but with the evacuation and now all of this. I don’t have the time.”
As I dropped my gaze to the counter, thinking of the two boxes of books I had already collected to sell at my bookshop, a rumble from outside grew louder and louder. I’d heard the sound before; at least I had from a distance along the coast of France. German planes. The ones that flew over the lands of France, dropping bombs down upon the cities and towns, killing who knows how many people and destroying everything in their wake.
Henry and I looked at each other, and while I could only guess we shared the same thought, we remained silent.
The planes drew closer and closer, and the vibrating sound they made became louder and higher pitched.
“They sound like they are lowering to the ground,” I said, my words nothing more than whispers against the noise above our heads.
A whistle began blowing like a firecracker sails up into the air with a hiss to it.
“What is—”
A large boom hit and the ground underneath our feet shook. The other woman in the store screamed and ran from the window, covering her head with her hands and arms. Another whistle hissed and within seconds a second boom rattled the walls. Bottles of olive oil tipped over and fell off the shelves, shattering as they hit the floor. Henry ran around from the counter and ran toward the door. I followed him and I gasped as we reached the window.
“The Germans! They’re bombing the lorries!” I lunged for the door, but Henry blocked me, slamming me up against a set of shelves. “Let go of me.”
“You can’t go down there.”
“My parents are down there!”
With a deep groan, he released me, and I darted out the door, the chime of the bell was lost in the sounds of the planes, the whistles of the bombs dropping from the sky, and the screams of the people down and around the docks.
“Evelyn! Evelyn! Wait! You can’t just go running down there.” As he stopped me once more, he pointed toward the sky. Two Heinkel He 111 bombers flew over our heads, followed by another pair. More whistles hissed.
&nbs
p; “Evelyn, watch out!” Henry jerked me back toward the side of the store, throwing me up against the wall. My head smacked against the brick as he pressed his body into mine. Another bomb hit the town, targeted for the building just across the street from us. Dust enveloped us with a thick haze that burned my lungs and eyes.
Another Heinkel soared toward us. Firing off bullets that hit the stone, the ground, and even people fleeing the streets. Each one that hit created puffs of dirt or shards of rock into the air. Men and women screamed as they ran past us. One woman, hit by a bullet, fell to the ground, blood splattered all over the back of her dress.
As the plane vanished in the smoke, Henry grabbed my arm and dragged me back toward the store.
“Wait! Wait! I think it’s coming back,” I shouted, tugging against him. “It’s coming back!”
The bomber hissed above us once more, sending a rainfall down upon us. More bullets pelted the surrounding ground. Henry screamed out in pain and fell to the ground.
“Henry!”
He clutched his leg as he howled, and blood began pooling on his pants. “They got my leg.”
I knelt down and hooked his arm around my shoulder. “Can you get up with your other leg?”
He nodded, blinking as sweat beaded along his forehead.
With his body leaned against mine, I stood, drawing him up with me. He stumbled a few steps, wincing and crying out several times before finding his balance with mine. Half carrying him, we both staggered over to the nearest building, finding cover in the overhang near the door. Henry leaned against the wall and slid down. His eyes glazed over. I knelt down beside him once more.
“I’ve got to check how bad it is.”
He nodded again as he closed his eyes.
My hands trembled as I reached for his pant leg and inched it up. Blood ran down his leg, dripping off his skin.
“We’ll get you to the hospital as soon they stop bombing.” I glanced around, but a blanket of smoke covered the town and the haze disoriented me. I didn’t know what was land or sky, didn’t know what was a building or just smoky air. I went back to his leg, rolling his pants up several more inches.
“AAHH.”
“I’m sorry. I know this hurts.” I wiped at my own sweat slicked across my forehead. “I don’t know if I can reach it. Your pants, they won’t roll up as far as I need them to.” My eyes misted with tears. The utter hopelessness overwhelmed me. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what to do.” With my admission, tears flooded my eyes and streamed down my cheeks. “Tell me what to do.”
“Evelyn, don’t cry.” He heaved deep sighs as even his thoughts brought him great pain. “Don’t cry. I’ll be fine. We’ll get to the hospital and everything will be all right. Can you tie something around my leg, just above my knee?” His words stuttered through his breaths.
“A tourniquet?”
“Yes. Just above the knee.”
“What should I use?”
He leaned forward, and heaving several more breaths, he tugged his shirt over his head, handing it to me.
I folded it over several times and looped it around his leg, tugging it down tight around his limb. He winced again, growling as he slammed his head into the building behind him.
“Giving yourself a concussion will not help the situation.”
“Maybe not, but it gives me somewhat of a distraction.”
“Just don’t knock yourself out. I’m not strong enough to drag you through town.”
“I promise not to do that. Although, I can’t promise I won’t lose consciousness.”
More Heinkel bombers flew over our heads, dropping bombs on the town below them. I leaned into Henry, burying my face in his neck. He wrapped his arms around me, clutching me tight.
“It will be all right,” he said, his voice echoing through his chest. “It will be all right.”
After what could have been mere minutes or even an hour, I didn’t know, the planes vanished, and the bombs stopped. A gentle breeze blew out the dust, leaving only the smoke billowing from several buildings in town.
Henry’s arms had loosened around me and I as I pulled away, I noticed his chin had tucked, cocking his head to one side and his eyes were closed.
“Henry?”
He didn’t stir.
“Henry!” I shoved against his shoulders. “Henry, wake up.”
His eyes fluttered and opened but remained nothing more than slits.
“Henry, wake up. I’m not strong enough to carry or drag you to the hospital.”
“I’m awake.” He coughed, his voice was weak, strained, and it cracked on his words. “Don’t worry. I’m awake.”
I dug my hands into the ground as I hoisted myself up to standing and then brushed the pebbles of sand off my palms. I leaned over him, hooking my arm under his. He leaned back, pressing himself into the wall as he reached above his head and grabbed the window box. His arm flexed as he pulled himself up and leaned on me. Just as before, he stumbled a few steps, however, unlike before he couldn’t get a handle on his balance as quick and we nearly tumbled to the ground.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t do that. Don’t apologize. Let’s just get you to the hospital. I still need to go find my parents.”
We both staggered down the street, weaving through the rubble and smoke. A few bodies lay among the stones, their eyes open, with a far-off look to them. The mere sight of them made me want to scream. Henry did as best as he could to shield me from them, by either blocking my face, or drawing me in to him so I could hide while I helped him along. He didn’t need my sight. He only needed my strength.
People who hadn’t died either cried out in pain from their injuries or, if they weren’t hurt, darted around helping those they could. One woman reached out, grabbing my ankle as we passed her.
“Help me! Please. I can’t feel my legs.”
“I’ve got to get him to the hospital and then I will come back for you,” I told her.
Her grip tightened. “No, help me now. I don’t want to die.”
“You aren’t going to die. But I cannot help you both.” I kicked my foot away from her, yanking myself free from her grasp. “I promise I will come back, or I will send someone to help you.”
She began sobbing, and as I walked away from her—utterly feeling like a cold-hearted wench—her cries caught the attention of a man a few yards away.
“I’ll help her.” He rushed toward her, falling to his knees as he reached her. “Where does it hurt?”
Henry and I didn’t wait around to hear her answers or the rest of their conversation. I continued helping him down another street. His pant leg now drenched in blood, his skin had paled and he wobbled more and more every few dozen meters.
“If you fall, I can’t help you,” I reminded him.
He nodded, perking up for a few steps.
We followed this pattern the rest of the way to the hospital, and it wasn’t until we had reached the stairs that he finally collapsed. His body weight leaned so hard against mine; I dropped to my knees next to him. Before I could call out for help, two men rushed to us. One of them helped me to my feet while the other checked Henry’s vitals and motioned toward the other to grab his feet.
“We need to get him inside.”
I didn’t know which was filled with more chaos—the world outside or the one inside the hospital. Doctors and nurses darted in every direction, shouting at one another while patients lay on every available bed, some screaming for help while others writhed in pain. The noise deafened me while the sight of blood squirting from people along with the copper stench twisted in my gut. I covered my mouth, closing my eyes as much as I could as I followed behind the two men.
After putting Henry in a bed, they rushed off, back through the crowd and back outside to, perhaps, rescue more people. I leaned over Henry, shaking him.
“Henry? Henry, you must stay awake.”
He stirred, blinking a few times before falling back asleep.
A nurse ran up to the bed. “Do you know where he’s hurt?” she asked.
“His leg. He was shot. I tied it off to help stop the bleeding, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”
Throughout her working on him, Henry’s eyes fluttered open from time to time, but he remained still and silent. Whether or not he could feel anything, I didn’t know. But from the sounds behind my back, the clanking of the tools and the grunting of the nurse, it was probably for the better if he couldn’t.
“Doctor!” the nurse called out. “I have a bullet wound. Over here.”
The panicked tone of her voice sent me burying my head in Henry’s chest. Part to hide away from what was going on around me, and part to pray he would live through this.
“This is . . . ma’am? Ma’am?” A hand touched my shoulder, and I jerked around to face the doctor. “Ma’am. I’m going to need you to step aside for a bit while we work on your husband.”
“He’s not my husband.” I shook my head, wiping my hand over my mouth for a moment.
“Well, friend, then. But we‘re still going to need you to step aside and give us some room.” By the time the doctor finished, he had already placed his hands on my shoulders and was guiding me away from Henry. I glanced over my shoulder. His skin had paled so much I could hardly distinguish between him and the sheet the nurse had laid over him.
“Is he going to be all right?”
“He’s lost a lot of blood, but we will do everything we can.”
“Can you . . . please tell him I went to look for my parents?”
“I will.”
The doctor released my shoulders then darted off, back toward Henry. His hands moving quickly as he and the nurse worked, barking out orders to others in uniforms passing by. Their calls drowned by the others around me. So many shouting for help, drugs, and bandages, the sounds overwhelmed and disoriented me. My feet felt like they were in quicksand instead of on the floor and I spun in several circles looking for the door, and yet, passing over it as my gaze fell upon injured person after person. One man sat upon a bed, screaming at the top of his lungs while half of his face, neck, and torso were black, burned so badly his clothes had melted to his skin. He held his arm out toward me, and his fingers were gone.
Yours: An Emotional and Gripping WWII Family Saga (The Promises Between Us Trilogy Book 1) Page 5