by Libby Cone
Sarmsen paused again, clasping his hands together. ‘But your Counsel has not insulted you.’
‘I suppose that insult must always be a matter of personal feeling. Still, if anyone told you that you had allowed yourself to be influenced by a propaganda which appealed to the lowest instincts of human beings, I think you would not like it.’
She coolly observed his reaction, one of clasping his hands even more tightly together, the knuckles turning white. ‘If you were conducting your own case, what would you say?’
Well, now he’ll know I’m getting some outside information. So be it, she thought. She took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and looked at him.
‘I think that I would have asked you one question: If, at this very moment, you were told that, in Aachen, two German women were doing exactly what we have done here, would you blame them?’
He sat up straighter; his hands clasped even more tightly, shaking. If this were not a matter of life and death, if he did not represent the evil of the fascist state, she would have felt sorry for him.
‘What do you mean by “Aachen”?’ he asked, licking his dry lips.
She phrased carefully. ‘It is known that Aachen has been bombed severely, and is under siege. Would you blame German women if they spread propaganda to the Allies, urging them to desert?’
‘But, Miss Schwob, that is a different case entirely.’
‘Is it?’ He now looked impatient. She could not see Suzanne’s face.
‘Miss Schwob, we are not besieging and bombing you.’
‘You are starving us, deporting us and arresting us.’
‘Those are people who work against the Reich, Miss Schwob.’
‘I see we are getting nowhere, Herr Oberst.’
She did not want to talk to him any more, but she wanted to prolong her and Suzanne’s time together in the room. She turned to look at Suzanne, who at first looked quite grave. Then she pressed the corners of her mouth together in something Lucy thought was a smile. The Oberst turned to Suzanne.
‘Miss Malherbe, do you have anything to say?’
‘No, Herr Oberst.’ She then broke into a broad smile which, though displaying teeth lost or blackened by malnutrition, was a beam of pure light to Lucille.
The Oberst said nothing for a moment. Then he rose and called for a guard. He did not look at Lucille or Suzanne and remained standing as a young Feldgendarme escorted them into a small anteroom with a table and chairs, decorated with old posters of the Swiss Alps. They were brought ersatz coffee in tin mugs by a second Feldgendarme. Soon, as if they were in a cafè on Bath Street, they were chatting in English, French and German about Switzerland. After about fifteen minutes of feeling like normal human beings, they were startled by the door opening. The Feldgendarmen sprung to their feet as Sarmsen appeared in the doorway.
‘I do not think we will discuss this further today,’ he said with a note of relief in his voice. ‘The Major is scheduling your trial for mid-November. Please think about what we talked about before coming to our next meeting.’
The women nodded. Sarmsen left, and the Feldgendarmen, acting more like dance partners than prison guards, escorted them back to their cells.
CHAPTER 61
Gloucester Street Prison
November 1944
The guards were growing more lenient, and Lucy was now able to smuggle letters to Suzanne. A rustling and a tube of paper emerging from the opening for the water pipes would be the usual signal for a successfully smuggled missive. She bent to retrieve one in early November, while she waited for the ‘trial’ that they knew would find them guilty, and possibly condemn them to death.
...a slight Russian advance in Central Europe, according to the names, it must be in Hungary. They say they are managing the Russian attacks in oriental Prussia ... but that which is depressing, if it be true, and I’m afraid it might be, is that they say that Churchill would have told the Commons that the war against Germany would not be over before next summer. Did he really say it like that, or did they give his speech the worst interpretation - we won’t know. No use in getting sad over it. If they let us live, we will spend the winter here - and undoubtedly, that will be better for us than if they sent us to spend it somewhere else. Let us speak about more uplifting things. I played postman this morning, during my walk in the hallway, Otto being out, the kid from #2 called me and asked me to pass a note on to #7.I protested: but they are Russians! And he said, ‘my buddy is with them.’ I took the note and went to look through the window of the #7, and indeed saw, besides the Russians, a kid who seemed to me skinny like one of those big mosquitoes with long legs. Impression accentuated by his position, glued to the wall really like an insect, tied to the open window and looking into the courtyard. I let W. know I had a note for the kid. W. went to pull on his legs while pointing to the door. The kid first thought that W. wanted to let him know a guard was looking at him; he shrugged his shoulders with a defiant look and went back to the window. But since W. was insisting, he decided to get down and come look through the small window. When he saw me waving the note, he broke into a big smile with excited gestures and ran to take the wood off the door, which shows me that he is not the first one [to know that trick]. The third one of the group is downstairs; I didn’t see him. The two of our floor are different physically from the common guys we’ve had in here. More refined. But when they speak in the evening, they have the typical local accent. I had the impression that they were bringing in yet another new person last night, heard coming and going downstairs, and the door of a cell shutting. But I don’t know anything specific. Will tell you if I get any info. Vera brought very nice apples; didn’t see her, nor E.; when things are such that Otto doesn’t let me out, there are no chances. He could have let me go out. It’s because Otto wanted to go to the pictures yesterday afternoon when the boss handled some of the outings. But Otto met with a disappointment. When I asked him yesterday evening if the cinema was nice, he answered sadly, ‘Nix Kino,’ there was no electricity in the afternoon. He stuck me in the back courtyard again this morning. It’s becoming a habit. The kid you saw yesterday, if he lives downstairs, must be the one named Claud. The one from #2 was saying last night that they still had two weeks before the judgment. He added the following declaration: ‘They can keep me here as long as they bloody well like, they won’t get me down.’ It’s been some time that I’ve been wanting to send you the words to the song, ‘There’ll always be an England,’ and I keep forgetting. That’s what the English deported men sang on the boat the evening they took them away: ‘There’ll always be an England, and England shall be free. If England means as much to you, as England means to me’I also heard a variant: ‘As long as England means to you, What England means to me.’ Then there is a refrain with variations on the words: ‘Red,’ ‘White,’ and ‘Blue.’ I find that quatrain particularly moving, compared to common nationalistic songs. They don’t ask for glory or crowns, but only the ... right to be that which one wants to be. The other song that is often heard around here dates I believe from the last war. But I was only able to catch some of the lyrics. It goes like this: ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag. And smile, smile, SMILE!’
Surely we heard that one before. I was thinking last night, God knows why, about our postman’s wife at St. Brelade. Do you remember that on a summer morning, two years ago, we came back up with her from the beach, via Mrs Steele’s property. We had just gone to swim and she to fetch some seawater. She told us that the war would be over in 1944, that it was written in Nostradamus’ quatrains. He has not even quite two months for his prediction to come to pass. I wonder if she still believes in it with the same faith she had two years ago? Well, you know me, you know how I make use of superstitions. I think of them from time to time, when they are auspicious, because it’s comforting, and that one doesn’t have many comforting things in this life. But I accept them without believing in them, because if I were to really believe in them, once disappointed in one of them,
I would be unable to accept any other, and that would be too bad. Still, I’m disappointed when Churchill’s last predictions do not continue, like the last ones, to agree with Nostradamus’ - or at least with the postman’s wife, for after all, as far as Nostradamus goes, she is the one quoting him. The rain annoyed me last night. It’s really necessary, if the Allies win this war, that God be for them, for the weather conditions have almost all the time been against them.
CHAPTER 62
St Helier, Jersey
November 1944
Erica and the latest Russian escapee crouched under blankets in the low-ceilinged cellar. They could hear the footsteps overhead of Germans searching the place; their leisurely arrival gave Erica time to hurry downstairs. This Russian could speak English quite well; they conversed frequently but were silent for this emergency. They both found themselves shifting their positions a great deal; they had little meat left on their bones to cushion them from the hard floor. Albert’s clients’ farm outputs were closely monitored by the Germans, so it was difficult for them to smuggle out their edible payments to him. Poor man, he had received news of his wife’s death in a twenty-five-word Red Cross letter, several months old, from his daughter in Devon. He was so upset, he did not know what to write on the back for the reply; Erica had calmed him down and told him to reassure his daughter that at least one parent was all right. How long would he or anybody be all right? They were starving. But the news they were able to get from the wireless was sounding better. The Germans were at their wits’ end; why they were doing this search was anybody’s guess. The prisons were full and they couldn’t take anyone to France.
Erica had been optimistic that she might be able to end her hiding and return to take care of Edmund, who had grown increasingly frail. This search was a setback, though she had the feeling it was a general search for wirelesses or escapees or any other thing they could find; it would give them the excuse of taking the food in the pantry. Finally the knock they had agreed upon sounded at the door; they pulled themselves up off the floor with difficulty and emerged from the cellar.
‘They were looking for a wireless,’ said Albert. ‘They seemed quite disappointed not to find one.’ He chuckled.
Leo, the Russian, scowled. ‘They are desperate dogs. Their days will be over.’
‘Well,’ said Albert, ‘they are certainly committing suicide and executing their own at a good clip.’
‘So I understand,’ said Erica. ‘They get shot for stealing food.’
‘They think they can steal from the farms to feed themselves, but they underestimate the wiliness of Jersey farmers.’ Albert observed, ‘My clients are lying low right now, but I think we can count on more sugar beet syrup and rabbit meat soon.’
‘One would hope.’
It was still daylight; Albert could not take Erica back to the house yet. As Leo made up his bed in the back room, she asked, ‘Albert, when do you think they will have forgotten me? When can I go back to Edmund?’
He looked thoughtful. ‘I will miss your company, but I wouldn’t dream of keeping you a moment longer than necessary, dear. I think, with all these searches, they still look at their little lists of missing persons. But soon, if the Allies continue with their successes, they will be too busy to notice you. Let’s see what we hear on the wireless.’
‘Thank you, Albert. Some day, the Dutch government will thank you for what you are doing.’
‘Oh, nonsense, dear! It is the least I can do. Look, when it gets dark, perhaps we can play some cards.’
She heard the grief and loneliness in his voice.
‘That would be lovely.’
CHAPTER 63
Gloucester Street Prison
16 November 1944
It was hard to feel anything different on the day of the trial. Lucy had written to Suzanne:
What I fear is a magnanimous condemnation of 10 to 20 years in prison, and then, when people will shrug their shoulders saying ‘it will be only for the duration of the war’, that they fly us to Germany to show that the military tribunal’s sentences are no joke. Perhaps I see things in a pessimistic way, but to know that their planes are able to go through, even if only 2 a month, brought me down. To be shot here, that’s nothing compared to what can be feared to happen over there. Anyway, all we can do is wait, right, and try to keep one’s peace of mind - not the easiest thing, my poor little chick. If one became totally sick, maybe that would make matters simpler - but it’s not easy either to come up with a real sickness at will. There remains for us courage, focus on stable and dear ideas in order to tune out this painful present, and patience - by having lots of it, it’ll have to turn into genius - that famous transmutation of quantity into quality, which always rubbed me the wrong way.
They sat in the same hearing room, the nurse behind them; Lohse, the interpreter, Lung and Sarmsen all sitting at one table in front of them. Two NCOs were taking notes, trying to make everything look more official. Sarmsen had not been able to mount much of a defence; Lucy and Suzanne had admitted to everything. He looked despondent in spite of his effort to appear indifferent; looking indifferent was Lohse’s specialty.
At one point a loud explosion was heard outside; they all looked up, saying ‘What was that?’ without regard for rank. When reassured that it had nothing to do with the prison, they resumed their discussion. Finally, Lohse stood.
‘Misses Schwob and Malherbe, please stand.’
They did.
‘This Reich Court Martial session finds you both guilty of unlawful possession of a wireless set and for spreading hostile propaganda with intent to undermine the German Army.’
They nodded blandly.
‘For the wireless possession, your sentence is five years in prison.’
He paused.
‘For the propaganda crime, the Reich sentences you to death by firing squad.’
Silence dropped upon the room like a net. Then Lucille spoke.
‘Herr Major, which sentence do we serve first?’
She grinned. One of the NCOs snorted. Suzanne was horrified.
Lohse at first looked enraged, then managed to regain his usual blandness, perhaps thinking that vermin weren’t capable of deep feelings, perhaps thinking in his alternate universe that justice had been served.
‘This session is concluded,’ he barked.
Sarmsen appeared to be trembling. The four officers left. The interpreter turned to Lucy; she and Suzanne had sat down. ‘You are not afraid?’
She hesitated ‘I am not afraid of the idea of death. Perhaps I shall be afraid when the time comes. I cannot tell.’
‘No ... no one can tell.’
Lucy was able to quickly kiss Suzanne before they were separated and led out. She was locked in the corridor for a while; the other prisoners, waiting at the windows for news about their sentence, looked crushed as she faced each window and drew a finger across her neck. They answered with clenched fists and then thumbs up. Evelyn, a Jersey woman held in ‘preventive’ downstairs (for the crime of trying to escape from Jersey), made an extra effort to shuttle notes and treats from visitors’ packages to them.
CHAPTER 64
22nd November 1944
The Platzkommandant,
Baron von Aufsess informed me on November 20th, 1944, that sentence of death had been pronounced by the Fortress Court on two women of French nationality for offences against the Occupying Authority, which were not offences of violence.
I have since become aware from more than one source that the knowledge that such a sentence has been pronounced is causing anxiety and distress amongst the population, not because of any particular acquaintance with or sympathy for the condemned persons, but because of a feeling of repugnance against the carrying out of a sentence of death on women.
I confirm, as I told Baron von Aufsess on November 20th, 1944, that the condemned persons are not well known in the Island nor is their position one of any influence.
In view of the great difficulties whic
h are facing the civil population in the future and of my desire to avoid anything calculated to arouse passion, I desire strongly to appeal for mercy on behalf of the two women in question.
Alexander Coutanche
Bailiff
CHAPTER 65
Gloucester Street Prison
2 December 1944
Suzanne was pacing her cell when keys rattled, the door opened, and she saw their lawyer from pre-war days, Advocate Giffard, enter. She stood still, staring at him. She could not have been more surprised if Charles de Gaulle had just come in for a chat. Otto stood in the background, then proceeded down the corridor to allow them privacy.
She rushed up to Giffard and shook hands with the scrawny, but still dapper, emissary from her previous life. She found cigarettes pressed into her hand.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he began, ‘you are bearing up well, I see.’
‘Have you seen Lucy?’ she demanded.
‘No, I have come to see you first.’ He made a motion of writing in his palm, saying, ‘You wish to convey your wishes to her, I am sure.’
She rushed to her bed, removed some folded toilet paper. He held out a pen and made small talk as she wrote.
‘It has been a fairly mild winter thus far. I hope it will stay that way. I enjoy a walk before curfew.’
As he babbled, he removed a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out to her. Then he dug in his trouser pocket and took out some boiled sweets, still in the wrappers, and a pencil, and some matches. She stopped writing and held the handkerchief open to receive them, nodding her gratitude. She finished the note, slipped it to him and sat down on the bed, motioning him to stand closer.
‘Can you help us? I thought this was a court martial, and we could not appeal.’
‘Alas, mademoiselle, I am not here about an appeal. The Feldkommandantur asked the Bailiff to enquire about your property and gave him a caveat. Because you have been sentenced to death, they need to make sure you do not try to sell La Rocquaise. The Bailiff ordered me to see you and Mademoiselle Schwob, to obtain your assurance that you have no intention to sell your property.’