“I can see your point.” Henry cocked his head to the side, a slight chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Although, you are forgetting one important detail.”
“And what’s that?”
“That I might not see Evelyn in the way you think I do. She is a friend, and yes, while I agree she is a lovely woman, I see her as a friend.”
“Do you think Amelia loves you?”
“If she did, she would be a fool. Look, we’ve been together all of a couple of weeks. And even in those weeks, we talked about how it might not work between us.”
“Why?”
“Because she wants to leave Guernsey. She wants to go off to university and study journalism. She wants to work for a newspaper, not stay here and be a wife to a grocery story owner. We agreed we would take day by day, and that’s all.”
“Which is where lies my concern. A free man is a free man, Henry. Even if you never date Amelia again, you can’t come between sisters.”
Henry’s mirth faded with Ernest’s words, and he cleared his throat as he shrugged. “I’m not letting her stay in her parents’ house by herself. No matter what happens. No matter what you worry about. No matter how serious or ridiculous I feel your concern is. I won’t leave her to live with the Germans.”
NINE
Amelia - July 1940
I remember one time Mum telling me stories about children who lost their parents. Orphans, she called them. There were also other children whose parents walked away, giving up custody for one reason or another. Of course, this notion scared me when I was little. How could a parent not want their child? But as I grew older, I understood it better. Perhaps they had been in a horrible situation and had no other choice. Or perhaps they were actually helping the child, getting the young thing away from an abusive family member. Becoming an orphan, no matter how and no matter by what means, wasn’t something to look upon the child with pity over. It was, perhaps, the thing that saved them.
These children—as Mum had explained—were sent to live in boarding houses. Mansions with enormous rooms for holding as many children as they could. The children would grow up in these homes, sometimes spending most of their childhoods there, eating meals around gigantic tables and celebrating holidays with other children, and the nuns who took care of them. They played together, went to school together, ate together, said their nightly prayers together, and only when they reached adulthood, or a family adopted them, would they leave the orphanage.
Hearing Mum’s stories, I often wondered how it would feel to live in such a way. Of course, I never thought I would actually find out. Oh, how life can change. While my parents were still alive and living in Guernsey, I had lived the last several days as an orphan would, living in a house with dozens of other children and young women, eating together, going to sleep together, and waking together.
The Guernsey refugees were scattered throughout London and the surrounding areas, separated into groups and sent away. We said goodbye to some friends while staying with others. Our time together cut short, as the train rolled away from the first stop with over half of us still on board.
All the children in my group followed Mrs. Pembroke and several of the young mothers to what they called the Burdain House, a mansion that held twenty children in each of the six bedrooms. With only three bathrooms and two living rooms, I often found myself sitting on my makeshift bed, trying to steal whatever hours of the day I could, alone. My time spent mostly writing letters to my family and to Henry. When I wasn’t writing, I read whatever books I could find on the bookshelves. Covered in such a thick layer of dust, I wondered if anyone ever even read them or if someone put them there just to look pretty. With each one, I’d think of how much Evelyn would love to have them for her bookshop.
The bedroom door flung open, hitting the wall behind it as Nora rushed in the room. “Amelia! Oh, Amelia! Did you hear the news?” Tears streamed down her checks and before she reached my bed, she dropped to her knees, sobbing.
“Nora, what’s wrong? What happened?” I slapped the book shut in my hand and tossed it on the bed as I leapt from the mattress and rushed toward her. “Nora, tell me what happened?”
She opened her mouth, but only incoherent words spewed out between her fits of crying.
“Nora? Amelia?” Mrs. Pembroke poked her head around the doorframe. “Oh, there you two are. I need to speak with the both of you downstairs.”
“But what’s going on?”
The three of us made our way down the stairs and into the main living room where the rest of the children and the young mothers were all waiting for us. A few of the other children were crying while as they clung to the adults sitting with them.
“So, what is going on?” one mother asked. She cradled her infant in her arms, patting it on the butt as it kicked at the blanket wrapped around it.
Mrs. Pembroke said nothing and sat down next to the radio sitting in the corner. She leaned over and flipped the dial, turning it on.
A man’s voice blared through the speakers, echoing throughout the room.
“Again, just to bring you the latest, we have received word that in the morning hours of June 28, 1940, the German Luftwaffe bombed ports in Guernsey and Jersey. The death toll is unknown at this time. Earlier reports stated that at least thirty to forty people have been killed and perhaps double have been injured, however, this is speculation. We can report that all four of the Channel Islands—Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, and Sark—are now under German control. They cut all communications to and from the islands.”
Mrs. Pembroke turned the volume down on the radio. She swallowed hard as she faced everyone in the room.
My blood ran cold through my veins as the announcement repeated inside my head.
The Germans bombed Guernsey.
Thirty to forty people killed.
They cut all communications to and from the island.
But what did that mean? “I’m confused.”
“About what, dear?” Mrs. Pembroke said to me.
“Was the entire island bombed? Does that mean the Germans are now on the islands?”
She dropped her gaze for a moment, then stood and made her way to me, reaching out for my hands.
“Yes. They are. They started arriving two days after they bombed St. Peter’s Port.”
“But . . . but who was killed?”
“We don’t know. They have cut off the telephone and telegraph lines. No one can get word to or from the islands.”
“But how do we find out who died? How do we get a hold of our families?”
She heaved a deep sigh, biting her lip for a moment before answering. “We don’t.”
While I could tell she wanted to whisper her answer, as though she believed doing so would lessen the pain her words caused us, she didn’t. Her tone, though deep, still cracked, and as I jerked my hands from hers and backed away, she moved forward, trying to hug me.
I held up my hands, shoving her away as I shook my head and backed up several more steps. “Get away. I . . . just get away.”
Everyone else in the room began crying, and the confusion over what they were told and why all the adults were in tears, made all the children cry, too. Nora collapsed on the ground, falling off the couch she’d sat on when she entered the room. She tucked her legs up against her chest.
The walls of the living room closed in on me, and my breaths shortened in my lungs as though fighting against the notion they needed the air. My hands trembled and my knees grew weak, threatening with the urge to buckle under my weight.
“But why can’t . . . can’t the British Army go to the islands and take them back?”
Mrs. Pembroke shook her head. “It’s not that simple, dear.”
“So . . . so what are we supposed to do?”
“There is nothing we can do.”
I shoved my way past her, darting for the radio. I turned the knob, turning it back on and cranking the volume. The man’s voice echoed again.
“Churchill has
been in session all morning in what we can only hope are meetings with officials in order to come up with a solution. All that we know is in the morning hours of June 28th, the German Luftwaffe flew over the major shipping ports on the islands of Guernsey and Jersey in the towns of St. Helier Harbor and St. Peter’s Port. We estimate thirty to forty people are dead or injured. As of right now, no additional information is coming in and we have little to pass along. This is Clive Benson, signing off.”
The radio went silent.
“What do you mean signing off?” I screamed at the machine. “You can’t sign off. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
I banged on the top of the radio with my hand. Each pound brought another twinge of anger. I hit it harder and harder and harder until pain shot through my hand and my skin was bright red.
Mrs. Pembroke rushed to my side, grabbing my hand to stop me.
“That will not help you.”
“What do you know about what will help me?” I leapt away from her, smacking her away.
She tried to hug me again, but I waved my arms, fleeing from her.
“Stop trying to hug me. Just get away from me.”
“Amelia, you need to calm down.”
“Calm down? Calm down? I can’t calm down. Not until someone tells me what the bloody hell is going on!” I paced the room. My hand slapped against my forehead as I imagined bombs blowing up the streets of St. Peter’s Port. My parents often visited the lorries when they went into town, buying up fresh produce. With the war, however, their trips became more infrequent as Dad preferred to stay home.
Had they stayed home that day? Or had they gone into town?
And what of the town?
What buildings had gotten damaged? Was it only the harbor and the markets along the docks? Or did other buildings get destroyed?
Other buildings like Henry’s grocery store or my sister’s bookshop?
I stopped pacing and dropped my gaze to the floor. My eyes blurred, unfocusing on everything around me while my mind went to places I didn’t know if I wanted to go—more images of fire, pain, and death, and my family—my parents, my sister—and Henry in the middle of it all.
My knees gave out, and I collapsed to the ground. With my cheek lying against the hardwood, I tucked my legs into my chest and sobbed.
It was the only thing I knew to do.
As the others around me broke down, Mrs. Pembroke did her best to comfort them. Nothing but a room of sorrow. They mourned, they cried, they hugged one another.
“Amelia?” Mrs. Pembroke whispered, kneeling down beside me. “Why don’t we get you some warm milk and let you lie in bed and rest for a bit?”
“I don’t want any warm milk, and I don’t want to rest.”
“I think it would help.”
“You think wrong.” I sniffed as another tear ran down my cheek and dripped on the floor.
She laid her hand on my shoulder, and I cringed away from her touch.
“I know how you are feeling,” she said. “I know you think I don’t, but I do. My husband is still there, and I don’t know if he’s all right or not.”
My eyes burned and felt tight and swollen. “I’m sorry for being so mean.”
“It’s all right, dear. I understand why you were. Don’t think that I haven’t wanted to fall apart since learning the news myself. Unfortunately, though, I have children, like yourself, to look after first.” She snorted a chuckle. “Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you all of this. It’s not for you to worry about.”
“Mrs. Pembroke?” Nora asked, finally able to compose herself enough to speak, but she still stuttered on her words. “So, what’s going to happen to all of us now?”
Mrs. Pembroke stood, shifting away from me as I sat up and brought my knees up to my chest before wrapping my arms around them.
“Well, I’ve been in a meeting with the headmaster all morning trying to answer this very question,” our teacher said. “He feels you all should be billeted; however, I feel you all should stay together, and stay with me. I fear they will have no other choice, though. Rations are so limited already.”
“So, what are we supposed to do then?” another young mother asked. With her infant in her arms, she bounced in her seat to rock the child.
“Well, there are lots of families all throughout the country who are willing to take refugees. We just need to match everyone up, find the ones who will take more than one.”
“You mean they will separate us?” I asked.
“I’m afraid so.” She rubbed my shoulder, giving me a warm smile. “But it’s nothing to worry over. I’m sure the families will be nice and welcoming, and their homes will be far more inviting and pleasant than what you’ve had here.”
The telephone rang from the other room, and the sound vibrated through the walls several times before someone answered it, and Mrs. Pembroke left to see to the matter herself. Her heels clicked on the floor.
I thought of my parents and Evelyn, and I thought of Henry. I didn’t wish to believe they were dead, but I wanted nothing more than to believe they were alive. Scared, but alive. So many times since I left the island, I had wanted to go back. But now I knew I couldn’t. Even if I wanted to, and even if I could find a boat to take me, it was next to impossible.
Germany controlled Guernsey now.
And I couldn’t do a thing about it.
“Well, it’s just as I thought.” Mrs. Pembroke came back into the room, exhaling a deep sigh. “It appears we are going to be leaving Burdain House.”
“Leaving? For where?”
“All over. They have already begun matching families to refugees. We are to head to the train station in a week. From there, everyone will head to the different foster families who have offered to take you all in.”
The next week, arriving at the train station, I yawned for what felt like the hundredth time since I left the Burdain House. Not getting much sleep the night before, I tossed and turned in my bed, the thoughts of where I would go and who I would live with replayed like a broken phonograph, spinning the gramophone record around as it skipped.
The train whistle blew, causing several of the kids to flinch. Their heads jerked toward the locomotive.
“Susan Rushburn? Where are you?” Mrs. Pembroke asked.
“I’m over here,” a little girl called out. She waved her hand and weaved through the other kids over to our teacher.
Mrs. Pembroke handed her an envelope. “Here is your ticket and your paperwork. You will stay in London with the Thomas family. They are a nice family with a daughter just about your age, so I know you will have a lovely time with them.”
She patted the little girl on the head before the little girl trotted off toward one of the young mothers assigned to take her and several other children on a train to London. With most of them already gone, including Nora, I waited with the last group, watching as everyone got their envelopes and were sent off to their new homes.
New homes.
The thought brought a snort of annoyance to my mind.
Why I had even thought of it that way, I didn’t know.
They weren’t our new homes. They weren’t our new families. We had homes. We had families. They were nothing more than places they forced us to go to because we all had no other choice in the matter. Just like when we were sent here.
Of course, I don’t begrudge the parents who sent their young children. However, at seventeen, I should have stayed in Guernsey. I shouldn’t have left.
Damn you, Evelyn. Why did you make me leave?
I growled under my breath, both wishing to continue to hold anger toward her, and yet, feeling guilty about it at the same time.
I shouldn’t say such things, shouldn’t even think such things. I didn’t know what my sister was facing in this moment, and while my own future wasn’t certain or anything I wished to live through, I couldn’t imagine what was happening in Guernsey.
The thought of it shuddered down my skin.
&n
bsp; “Amelia?” Mrs. Pembroke faced me and handed me an envelope. “Here is your paperwork. You will travel to Derbyshire, where a Mr. and Mrs. Davenport will meet you at the station. They will be your host family.”
“How long am I supposed to stay with them?”
Mrs. Pembroke’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know, dear. As long as Guernsey is under German control, we won’t be able to return home.”
Her words haunted me more than any ghost or demon ever could, and they followed me while I boarded the train and found my seat, listening as the train whistle blew for the last time and watching as the station and the people—the only ones I knew—vanished as they waved and the train rolled down the tracks.
Out of all the refugees at the station, only me and a little boy from another group, headed off to Derbyshire. No more than six or seven years old, he sat across the seat from me. His little legs hung off the side of the seat, dangling high off the ground, and he kicked them a few times as though bored.
“Do you know the name of the family you are staying with?” I asked him.
He blinked at me, then drew his hand to his nose, scratching the side of it as he shook his head.
“Would you like me to check your paperwork?”
He nodded and handed me his envelope.
I withdrew the papers from it, unfolding them as I scanned them for a name. “Mr. and Mrs. Davenport. Huh. That’s who I’m going to be staying with too. I guess they are taking the both of us. Isn’t that nice?”
He nodded, and for a second, a smile beamed across his tiny face.
“How old are you?”
“Six, Miss.”
“And what is your name?”
“Elijah, Miss.” His voice sounded a little hoarse, as though he had a frog in his throat, and he coughed a couple of times.
“Well, Elijah, I’m Amelia. It’s nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you too, Miss.”
“You know, you don’t have to call me Miss all the time. It’s all right for you not to. So, what is your last name?”
Yours: An Emotional and Gripping WWII Family Saga (The Promises Between Us Trilogy Book 1) Page 9