War on the Margins

by Libby Cone

  ‘I don’t want your bloody paper. It’s from the bloody jerries, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, madam, it is.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this? Do you want me to go mad, too? My husband, who isn’t a Jew in the first place, can’t go out of the house? Are you a jerry, too?’

  ‘No, madam, uh …’

  Suddenly Mr Davidson began to twitch; his face reddened. He stood up and glared down wildly at Orange and began to roar, ‘GET OUT, YOU BLOODY THIEF! GET OUT!!! STOP STEALING! STOP WATCHING ME!!!’ He flailed his arms in quick flying movements that terrified Orange. The wife was still standing there, crying and wringing her hands.

  Orange stood up slowly, as if he were just finishing his tea, but his hands were trembling.

  ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you. I need to leave this paper with you.’ He tried to make himself heard above Mr Davidson’s roaring and Mrs Davidson’s weeping. Mrs Davidson turned to her husband, caught his hands, and started to help him back down into the chair. Orange clumsily laid the paper down on a scarred side table and tried to take his leave as quietly as possible. Mrs Davidson levelled a look of pure hatred upon him; he felt it burning through the back of his head after he had closed the door behind him. He hoped Aubin would not give him any trouble over this one; he had done his best.

  He started the coughing motor and headed the car east to St Saviour. It was a hot day and he was thirsty. Why wouldn’t people understand that these registrations had been ordered by the Germans, that an order was an order? He wanted to avoid repercussions at all costs. If a few people had to be inconvenienced to protect the many, so be it. Nobody had forced them to register, in any case. Now all the nasty work fell to him.

  Mrs Richardson lived on Dicq Road. She was a problem case. She hadn’t registered in 1940 as a Jew, but had registered as a non-Jewish citizen in 1941 when printed identity cards were ordered for the entire population. She had claimed ‘N. Amsterdam, British Guiana’ as her birthplace and listed her maiden name as ‘Algernon’. Sometimes she listed herself as ‘Erica’ and sometimes as ‘Mary Erica’. Aubin had asked him to investigate; the Germans suspected she was a Jew. She lived with her husband Edmund, a retired sea captain. Orange drove the short distance, passing people riding bicycles in the required single-file, nodding to officers in their cars. People trudged along the pavements, avoiding the intrusive glare of the Feldpolizei, who made every conversation their business.

  Orange got out of the car in front of the Richardson flat carrying his envelope, went down the few stairs leading to the entrance, and knocked on the door. A moment later it was answered by a short, greying woman with a thick accent and a large nose. Dutch, he thought. A Dutch Jewess. She was wearing a steel-blue dress and little gold earrings.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, looking at him a bit warily. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I am here to see Mrs Richardson. I am Mr Orange, the Chief Aliens Officer for Jersey.’

  ‘I am Mrs Richardson. Will you come in, Mr Orange?’

  Well, this was more like it. Just a friendly chat, citizen to citizen, he thought, looking around the well-appointed flat. Portraits and seascapes hung on the walls; a worn but beautiful Persian carpet covered the floor. The furniture looked sturdy and comfortable.

  ‘Would you like some tea, sir?’

  He wondered if it would be real tea. That would be quite good after his exhausting morning. ‘Yes, Mrs Richardson, that would be very nice.’

  ‘There isn’t much real tea left. I can only make it weak.’

  ‘That is quite all right, Mrs Richardson.’

  She bustled about the hearth, stirring up the fire. The gas had been shut off again. Soon, she reappeared with a Delft teapot and cups, and some potato bread.

  ‘I’m sorry, there’s no sugar. There is a little milk, though.’

  ‘That is all right, madam. I will take it without milk or sugar.’ The weak tea helped the potato bread go down.

  ‘Mrs Richardson,’ he began, picking up the envelope and removing the Order.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  He looked up; her words suddenly sounded choked. Indeed, her face was drained of colour as she busied herself with the teapot. Her cup rattled in its saucer; her hands must have been trembling. What an unpleasant job this was!

  ‘I must give you the latest Order concerning Measures against the Jews.’

  ‘But, Mr Orange, I am not Jewish.’

  ‘Madam, I am sorry, but the Attorney General has reason to believe that you are.’

  She took a long sip of tea. ‘No, sir, I am not a Jewess. Unfortunately, my husband, he is ill at the moment. Otherwise he could talk to you.’

  ‘This does not concern him, madam. It only concerns you.’

  She put down her cup and saucer a little too firmly and looked at him. ‘Mr Orange, please, I do not know what you are talking about.’

  ‘Mrs Richardson, allow me to show you the Order. It is up to you whether you follow it or not.’

  He held the paper in front of her. She read it slowly, her face turning paler.

  ‘All right, Mr Orange, I have read it,’ she said, looking away from him. He was pretty sure now that she was, in fact, Jewish.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Richardson. I trust you understand its contents.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Feeling a little uncomfortable, he finished his tea. He could not manage more than half the bread. ‘I wish you a good day, Mrs Richardson.’

  ‘Good day, Mr Orange.’

  Was that a hint of a sneer in her voice? He chose to ignore it. She escorted him out. He unlocked the car, started it up, and continued on his task.

  Mrs Richardson sat back on the sofa and clenched and unclenched her fists. ‘Scheiss,’ she muttered, ‘scheiss, scheiss, scheiss, scheiss.’ Then she did what she usually did when life had dealt her a blow. She phoned her masseur.

  CHAPTER 32

  St Brelade, Jersey

  September 1942

  In September, new terror. Unbeknownst to the Islanders, it was to pay for the British/Soviet takeover of the German embassy in Teheran. What has Teheran got to do with the Channel Islands? Both have palm trees and both were places of interest to Hitler. The Channel Islands, for defensive purposes. Iran, for its oil. Iran started out the Forties as a neutral country, but one which had often been under British and Russian/Soviet sway. Unable to attract the interest of the Americans, the Shah then approached the Third Reich, receiving a warm response. Several hundred German ‘advisors’ were stationed there, looking out for Germany’s interests. As it became increasingly clear that Hitler considered Czechoslovakia to be an appetiser, Britain and the Soviet Union decided to invade and occupy Iran to protect the oil. In August 1941, they invaded and easily defeated the Iranian armed forces. British troops surrounded the German embassy in Teheran.

  So one of Hitler’s insane quids pro quo began. He wanted a number of Channel Islanders, tenfold the number of interned Germans, rounded up and sent to the Pripet Marshes on the Eastern Front. As there was ongoing fighting there, this was not practical. The Wehrmacht delayed successfully for a year (a popular way of dealing with impossible orders by the Führer; tragically, the Final Solution somehow did not seem so daunting); then, when Hitler found out nothing had happened, he turned up the heat. Now the problem was the security of the Germans on the Channel Islands amongst so many British citizens. The Iran Germans had served their purpose and were forgotten. This time, the Wehrmacht sprung into action.

  New photo identity cards were to be issued; there were rumours of upcoming deportations. The three women sat in the parlour, trying to decide on a plan. Marlene was rigid with fear.

  ‘What if she and I use the same card?’ asked Lucille, wringing her hands. ‘I have enough disguises, so they will easily confuse us, one for the other.’

  ‘I don’t know, cherie,’ sighed Suzanne, exhaling cigarette smoke. ‘It may just bring trouble for two instead of one.’

  ‘I should just leave, then.
I am bringing trouble on you both, when you have been so good to me,’ said Marlene.

  ‘NO! We will not hear of it!’ said Lucille, almost shouting. ‘You are helping us as well, and you are helping the Resistance.’ Suzanne nodded in agreement.

  Marlene was beginning to be able to unfreeze her mind and formulate a plan, astonishing herself.

  ‘I think we may need to hide. I don’t know if anyone knows you are Jewish, but people in St Helier know my father was a Jew, and I am worried they will arrest us all.’

  ‘People do not know we are Jews, I think,’ said Lucille. ‘It would be suspicious for us to disappear. Besides, we are older. They may not harm us if we are quiet.’

  ‘Do you think so, cherie?’ asked Suzanne. ‘I do not trust the bloody jerries at all.’

  ‘I think so, Suzanne. Anyway, do you want to live in a chicken coop?’ They all laughed nervously.

  ‘Marlene, what do you think? Do you think you should move into the cellar?’

  Suzanne asked this, looking intently at Marlene. Marlene held her head in her hands.

  ‘Yes, I think so. I am afraid. I cannot get papers. I do not want to be arrested for not having papers. I don’t want to bring trouble to you ...’

  Lucille cut Marlene off. ‘Marlene, you shall move into the cellar, but you can go out sometimes with my card. I will disguise you.’ She glanced at Suzanne, who looked a little less doubtful than she had a moment before.

  ‘Is that all right with you, dear Marlene?’

  ‘Yes, yes. It’s all right.’

  ‘Very well, then. Let us set up the cellar.’

  A camp bed was placed on the cool stone floor; it could be hidden easily in an emergency. One of the wireless sets was put in a cloth bag buried under the sand in a box used to hold carrots, swedes and potatoes over the winter. Marlene hung her coat on a nail at the back door upstairs in case she needed to leave in a hurry. She was given brown and red wigs to keep with her.

  The next day, Suzanne and Lucille went to register. Lucille was right; the officials did not know they were Jews, or did not let on if they did. When they were required to post a list of the house’s residents inside the front door, only two names were listed. Marlene had again disappeared.

  The rumours proved accurate; all English-born non-permanent residents were to be deported to internment camps, one step up from concentration camps in that they could receive Red Cross parcels, in Germany. This was announced on 15 September; the deportations began the next day.

  All over the islands, the parish constables served evacuation notices to people who didn’t know Teheran from Stratford-on-Avon. The hurried packing of suitcases ensued. Some people ‘disappeared’; one committed suicide. Mr Davidson, all his fears realised (except for the primacy of the Church’s role), was judged insane and hospitalised. The other Jews, banned from public places and without income, treated by their government in a way which would later be called Kafkaesque, sick with apprehension, trembled inside their homes and hiding places.

  Suzanne and Lucille wrote a new letter on gummed paper and pasted it on Nazi police car windows:

  The cowardly police bureaucrats, who live on lies and shameful cruelty, will be DESTROYED by the Soldiers Without Names.

  CHAPTER 33

  Lager Himmelman, Jersey

  October 1942

  Peter had been put in with the Ukrainians and other Untermenschen slated to be worked to death. Juancito and the other Spaniards received poor treatment, to be sure, but a little more food and even some money. This, Juancito tried to share with Peter.

  The five a.m. banging on the ceiling rail heralded a new day of suffering. Everyone sprang as quickly as he could from his bunk; the slowest were beaten. They filed out to the mess line, where brown lukewarm water was doled out by a sneering OT worker. After the thirty seconds or so allotted to drinking this breakfast, a whistle sounded and they lurched to attention. Roll was called; a few more men were beaten. Then they were marched out of the camp and onto the road; this time they were not being trucked to the worksite. Peter and Juancito, coming from their separate barracks, managed to wind up next to each other as usual. Juancito looked especially ashen.

  ‘What’s the matter, camarada?’ asked Peter, when he thought he could risk a whisper. Both men noticed they were being marched on a different route onto the one used to take them to the railroad site.

  ‘I think I am going to die.’

  ‘Why? Are you sick?’

  ‘No, no more than you. I just saw something last night in my barracks that makes me want to die.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone had been caught stealing cabbage. We had a different head guard; I never saw him before. He hated Spaniards; I think he had been in the Condor Legion in the Spanish War, and he just hated everything about Spain. He pulled the man to the middle of the barracks and then called for one of the man’s friends. His friend stood up; he was ordered to kill the man.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Could it get any worse? ‘What did he do?’

  “The man begged his friend to kill him, to save the others. They were both crying. His friend tried to raise his hand against him, but could not. The filthy Nazi bastard hit both of them, then called up another friend, from the same village in Andalusia, to kill the man. Everyone was sick. Some men were crying and praying. The second friend started kicking the man, screaming and crying and laughing. It took for ever, Pedro, for ever. The man was awake for most of it. Finally, he died. Oh, God! Where was Your mercy? The Nazi left. The second friend hanged himself during the night. They left his body in the barracks when they marched us out.’

  Juancito was choking with sobs as he marched.

  ‘Oh, Pedro, what will we do? What if they want me to kill you, or you to kill me? Oh, shit, I cannot do this any more!’

  He fell to his knees. Peter quickly grabbed him and held him up.

  ‘Stay up, Juancito. Please, I don’t know what to do. We are in different barracks. It won’t happen.’

  ‘No, no, it can happen anywhere! I don’t want to kill you! I don’t want you to kill me!’ He was wailing; it was starting to draw the attention of a guard.

  ‘We will think of something, camarada, don’t worry. Maybe we can agree on something in case it happens.’

  ‘What can we agree on? This is insane!’

  Juancito had managed to stop crying; he now looked angry. Peter noted with self-disgust that he felt even more fearful.

  Juancito continued. ‘What if one kills the other, and then kills himself? Then it’s only two people involved instead of three.’

  ‘I am not going to kill you like a rat. Rats kill their young, not humans.’

  ‘You have my permission, camarada. If it comes to that, I want you to kill me. You don’t even have to kill yourself afterwards; you know I gave you permission. Holy Mother of God, why are we in hell? Why have you forgotten us?’ Now he was crying again.

  ‘It’s not the Mother of God, it’s the fucking fascists. Remember that.’

  Peter did not dare ask Juan what he wanted if he, Peter, was chosen for death; Juan was in no condition to talk about it, needing all his strength to march. They trudged on in silence, on an unfamiliar road. They approached a hill. As they got closer, they could see holes in the rocky sides. They were herded with truncheons into one hole, which turned out to be a tunnel. They were handed picks and shovels and driven deep into the damp interior of several tunnels, which they were called upon to excavate further. A few men were given trolley carts to remove the debris. The rumble of what turned out to be a cement mixer was heard far off. They were building a hospital, of all things. The tiny bit of mercy these swine had was spent on their bloodthirsty fellows-in-arms, to get them back to battle as quickly as possible. The dead of the Untermenschen would be the foundation of the hospital. What do you call such a place, Peter wondered bitterly, his mouth trembling. The Charnel House Hospital? The Murderers’ Polyclinic? He shakily raised his pick and began to chip away at the ro
ck. It truly felt like digging his own grave.

  CHAPTER 34

  St Helier, Jersey

  August 1942

  Albert Bedane, born in France, naturalised British subject, ladies’ man and masseur extraordinaire, held his physiotherapy clinic in one of the properties he had acquired through marriage to his wealthy and uncomplaining wife Clara. It was called Greenwood, on Roseville Street. Mrs Richardson was only one of his myriad clients. There was nothing out of the ordinary about her calling him.

  ‘Hello, Bedane here.’

  ‘Albert? It’s Mrs Richardson.’

  ‘Mrs Richardson, how are you?’ He pictured her in his mind instantly; a tiny pleasant older woman with a Dutch accent, often with painful knees; always paid her bill promptly.

  ‘I, uh, well, I am fine, but I need a massage.’

  ‘Oh, are your knees bothering you, dear?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I have an opening at two p.m.. Can you stop over then?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Her knees really weren’t so badly off; her neck muscles, though, were tight as bowstrings. She had waved off the usual chaperoning by his nurse (a ladies’ man needs to take precautions, but with someone Mrs Richardson’s age it didn’t look very suspicious not to have another lady present). He worked on her neck as she gasped.

  ‘Mrs Richardson, your neck is awfully tight today, I must say. Did you not sleep well?’

  ‘No, Albert, I slept well. I did have a fright, though.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘You know I won’t.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Well, someone from the Aliens Office came by with a paper saying that Jews cannot go out in public except between three and four o’clock.’

  ‘Three and four o’clock?’ He dug his knuckles into her trapezius muscles, willing them to yield. ‘That’s dreadful! Why did they bring it to you?’

  ‘They think I’m Jewish.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘I mean, maybe my zayd – uh, I mean my grandfather might have been, but I always consider myself to be Dutch only. I didn’t register back when the occupation began and they made the Jews register.’