The Girl from the Channel Islands

by Jenny Lecoat

  In tiny Belcroute bay the waves slapped rhythmically at the water’s edge. The tide was still coming in; soon the glassy rock pools would disappear in gushes of silvery water, absorbed back into the ocean. Hedy clambered over the slimy rocks, leaving her hands free to break any slip, steering well clear of the flat areas of the beach where mines might be laid. She looked for the line of discarded seaweed on the shingle, and was relieved to see the ragged marker lay a good two meters beyond the low sea wall. Soon the spring tides would swell the flow, trapping any careless visitor and forcing them to scrabble up to the steep woodland above. But today she would be safe.

  Edging around the corner where the foliage still grew thick, she threw a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was following. Then, reaching the familiar gap between the rocks she had come to view as her own, she crouched down and snuggled into the gap, making sure to keep her back tight against the slab so that no one walking on the pathway above could peer over and see her. The breeze was stiff, but the sun still held a little warmth, and its position told her it was around midday. She pulled off her hat and made herself comfortable, knowing she wouldn’t have long to wait.

  So far, November had been a harsh month. The bread ration had been cut again. There were rumors circulating about further restrictions to the gas supply. And the arrival of more German troops from France, hundred after hundred swarming off boats in St. Helier harbor, had caused a collective wave of despair through the community. What were all these soldiers for? What would they do here? It could only mean more orders and new harassments. Still, sitting here with the sun’s rays on her eyelids, and no sound except the lapping water, there was no denying an old, familiar sensation rising in her chest. It was happiness. She’d almost forgotten it. Resting her head back, she smiled as the feeling flowed down her arms and pooled in her fingertips. She breathed it in, letting her thoughts drift.

  Then, as always, came the payback. The sinking chill of fear and guilt.

  It had been like this right from the first day—that rainy afternoon in her apartment, with the thin light bleeding through the skylight onto their naked bodies, the two of them still and exhausted on the counterpane. They had stayed for hours squashed together on her tiny bed, sharing confessions of their first stirrings of attraction and waiting for darkness to fall so that he could slip away unseen. That was when it began in earnest. This psychotic pendulum of joy and self-hatred punching it out in her solar plexus—random fits of laughter as she walked to work, and frantic crying in the early hours. It was exhausting—but not the worst part. The worst was the one constant emotion that never truly went away, but bubbled under the surface all day and night. The terror.

  Several times she was seconds away from blurting out the truth. Two tiny words, she often told herself, and it would be over. Two words: “I’m Jewish.” It wouldn’t have been so dangerous, right at the start. She could have dismissed his anger with a shrug—did he really not know? Was it her fault that he, an officer, didn’t know the employee background of his own compound? And if he’d raged and yelled, stomped about her apartment in indignant haste to find his clothes, she’d have gambled that he could never tell anyone, for fear of retaliation. It would have been simple.

  But she didn’t tell him. Not that day, nor the next time, nor any of the wild, furtive encounters they had shared since. As her affection for him grew, so did the fear of his disapproval. After a while she became crazy enough to think she might never need to tell him. She dreamed up a universe in which the issue would simply never come up. Until one day, months or years in the future—this part she left deliberately vague—he would turn to her over a meal in a pavement café, smile, sip a glass of wine and say, “By the way, you never mentioned...” But alone in her bed, Hedy knew it was already too late.

  A low whistle from the other side of the rocks snapped her eyes open. A few seconds later, Kurt’s loping figure appeared around the outcrop. She watched him climb toward her, his long limbs moving with grace and confidence, until he dropped down close to her and steadied himself. She waited for those crinkly eyes to find her, holding out her arms toward him. Then he was on top of her, embracing her, kissing her long and hard, murmuring that she looked beautiful and how he’d missed her in their days apart. As they squeezed together between the rocks, he opened his canvas bag to reveal half a loaf, some tiny French apples and a few tomatoes. She snuggled into the space beneath his left arm, and for a while they ate their lunch in silence.

  Finally Kurt wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You hear about Sidi Rezegh?” Hedy shook her head. “Afrika Korps crushed the British 7th Armoured Division. If we take Malta, it could all be over in a few months.” Hedy stared down at the last hemisphere of tomato in her palm, letting him pick up on her silence, and felt his twitch of regret. “I’m sorry. But that’s what we both want, right? For this to be over?”

  “What about the Eastern Front?”

  “Still gridlocked. The snow must have arrived by now. God knows what it must be like for those poor bastards. I just hope Helmut’s not out there.” He caught her questioning look. “My best mate since we were kids, he’s like a brother. He’s in the Panzers now.” He peered at her, his head on one side. “Hedy, why don’t you have a wireless? All the other locals have one.”

  Hedy threw the piece of tomato into her mouth and chewed longer than was necessary, trying to remember the correct lie. “I told you, mine broke. You can’t buy them anymore.”

  “Maybe I could get hold of one, use my contacts? Then I could listen to the BBC news with you. More accurate than the rubbish we have to listen to.”

  She touched his knee. “Thanks, but I don’t want you spending that kind of money. I can get the news from you, or Anton.”

  “Ah, the famous Anton. Are you ever going to let me meet him?” Hedy threw him the wry look that bagged up a dozen previous conversations, but Kurt merely shrugged. “If he’s that good a friend, he’ll understand, surely? And isn’t he in the same position, dating that local girl?”

  “You’ll meet him one of these days. You ever hear from Helmut?” Her tactic was blatant and she knew he’d spotted it, but he let it slide.

  “One letter in the summer, most of it censored. Don’t even know where he is. I worry about him.” He threw his apple core into the rocks and turned to face her. “When can I come to your apartment again? I mean, this is great, but”—he slipped his hand down to her breast, his thumb gently circling her nipple—“I miss you.”

  Hedy felt her sex ache in response, but she could also hear distant voices further along the headland path. She pushed his hand up toward her neck.

  “I miss you too, but it’s too risky here.”

  That smile again. She could smell the apple on his breath, the oil he used on his hair, and she fought the urge to place his hand back where it had been.

  Kurt pushed himself up on one elbow. “I really don’t think you need to be so cautious. At least two of the officers in my house are seeing island women. And it’s not like you’re a Jersey girl anyway.”

  “That’s the point. The locals are already suspicious of me, with my nationality and my accent. I could be labeled a spy, kicked out of my apartment. I have to be doubly careful.” Sensing his disappointment, she continued quickly. “Mrs. Le Couteur’s cough sounds better, though. If she’s well enough to go to her sister’s on Friday, you can come over then.”

  He nodded. “I’ll make sure I see my friend at the supply store and get”—to Hedy’s delight he blushed slightly—“what we need. Oh, and I almost forgot—a present for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bar of Stollwerck chocolate.

  Hedy gasped at the sight of the smart blue wrapper with its familiar curly brand script, holding it like a baby bird in the palm of her hand. “How did you know this used to be my favorite? You want to share it now?”

  “No, it’s for you. I can get mo
re next week. Save it till you really need it.” He turned his face toward the sun. “I love this spot. How long before the spring tides?”

  “About ten days.”

  “And then this beach will be cut off completely?”

  “Water will come right up to the wall—perhaps over the top with a storm tide.” She sensed the question in his eyes. “That’s when the wind and tide rise together, and force the sea levels up. I saw one here a couple of years ago. It was frightening.”

  He took her hand in his and closed his fingers around it. “We’ll have to find another meeting place. Be too easy to get trapped here.”

  Hedy merely nodded, put her head on his shoulder and let the low autumn sun melt her thoughts away.

  “Swedes, swedes, beautiful swedes,

  We sing the praises of dear old swedes,

  Oh yes, they’re just all right,

  They fill you up till you’re blown up tight,

  Swedes, swedes, succulent swedes,

  They’re all a fellow needs,

  We all adore ’em, give us some more of ’em,

  Beautiful, beautiful swedes.”

  The five singers, chaotically costumed in various remnants from the Green Room Club’s prewar wardrobe chest, conducted the crowd with lusty enthusiasm. Chains of clasped hands formed along each row of seats, a forest of swaying arms silhouetted against the stage, while eager faces turned to each other, chuckling at the silliness of it all.

  Hedy, holding tight to Anton on her right and a white-haired old lady on her left, sang as loudly as she could, giggling between breaths. This had been a great idea after all. She’d hesitated last night about accepting Anton’s spare ticket, mainly because she’d been hoping that Kurt might be free this afternoon. But after she found Kurt’s note in the pocket of her coat, saying that he’d been called to some local authorities meeting, she’d decided that a trip to the theater might be a nice distraction. Now she wondered why she’d not been before. The pretty Victorian Opera House, with its gold trim and laurel moldings, reminded her of her local theater in Vienna, where her father had taken her to matinees as a child. That smell of polished wood and dusty old velvet, the mood of expectation... And so what if she recognized the lead actor from the stall in the fish market, or that the stage was lit by three car headlights fixed in the orchestra pit and powered from car batteries in the wings? What did it matter that the curtain had to rise at four, so that people from the country parishes could get home in time for curfew? Here, there was color and song and escape, and for once the bubbling dread was firmly caged.

  She leaned across to shout in Anton’s ear, “Isn’t this wonderful?”

  Anton smiled, but Hedy saw that there was nothing behind it. He looked distant, remote. Now that she thought about it, Anton had been in a strange mood since they’d met earlier that afternoon. The volume of her singing dropped a little, and she began slipping her friend sly little looks. Leaning back to glance at Dorothea on Anton’s far side, she scanned for signs of argument or sulking. But Dorothea was grinning at the stage with wide, unblinking eyes, singing her heart out along with the rest. If there was trouble in paradise, Dorothea was clearly not aware of it.

  The thick red curtains swung across to announce the intermission, and with a clatter of lifting seats the audience began to file out to the bars and lavatories. Hedy leaned across her two companions. “Shall we get something to drink?”

  Anton wrinkled his nose. “They won’t have any real tea or coffee.”

  “No, but I saw a sign on the way in that they have the best parsnip coffee in town! Come on, my treat?”

  Dorothea glanced between the two of them with bush-baby eyes. “You mean both of us?”

  Hedy felt a flutter of embarrassment. She’d been trying for weeks now to be more friendly toward Dorothea. The romance had showed no sign of fading, and knowing she needed to make an effort for Anton’s sake, she’d showered Dorothea with inquiries about her health, her grandmother, even her machinist job at the Summerland factory. But the woman’s obsession with old movie magazines and endless chatter about hairstyles made for poor conversation, and her persistent girlish snickering, at things that really weren’t that funny, set Hedy’s nerves on edge. Until now she’d been confident that she’d kept her irritation hidden, but Dorothea’s remark revealed that Hedy’s tight, impatient smiles had concealed nothing. Now she’d have to repair the damage.

  “Of course both of you! Come on, or we won’t have time to get served.”

  The three of them shuffled out of the auditorium and down the stairs to the tiny theater bar, where they joined the long line of ragged locals queuing for whatever paltry fare was on offer. Everyone was so used to queuing these days, it hardly raised a comment anymore. Hedy opened her bag to find her purse, but Anton placed his hand over it.

  “Don’t be silly. I don’t really expect you to pay.”

  Hedy bridled. “Why not? I’m earning now. And after all the times you’ve paid for me—”

  “It’s all right—put your purse away.” His voice had an edge to it.

  “Anton, what’s wrong? You’ve been grumpy since we got here.” She looked to Dorothea for agreement, but Dorothea ignored her. Hedy had noticed that Dorothea, like Anton, was wary of any form of conflict.

  “I’m fine, I’m just tired.”

  “Ah, poor old Anton.” Hedy leaned into his ear and began to sing an old lullaby in a melodic whisper: “Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf! Der Vater hüt’t die Schaf, die Mutter schütttelt’s Baüme lein...”

  Anton yanked himself away. His scowl was so fierce Hedy took a step backward. “Hedy, for goodness’ sake! You want to get us beaten up?” He wiped his ear with his fingers as if to remove the melody. “You think I’m in a strange mood, what’s wrong with you lately? You’ve been acting like you were drunk or something, these last few weeks.”

  “I was only teasing you, that’s all!”

  “No, it’s more than that. Something is going on with you.”

  Hedy felt the blood rise to her cheeks. She hoped he would put it down to the stuffiness of the bar, which suddenly felt overwhelming. “I’m just trying to stay cheerful! Wouldn’t hurt you to try it. Everyone’s tired, everyone’s hungry, but what’s the use in complaining? Dorothea, don’t you think so?”

  But Dorothea was staring at her as if she’d just worked out the last clue in the crossword. “I know what it is! It’s that lieutenant, isn’t it? Have you seen him again?”

  The air grew hotter. Hedy prayed her voice was still working. “What?”

  “That’s it, isn’t it? What was his name—Kurt?”

  She knew her only option was to attack, though her cheeks were aflame now.

  “For goodness’ sake, Dorothea, not this again!”

  “I’m right, aren’t I? You’ve seen him.”

  At that moment, Hedy hated her. Treating it like some schoolgirl joke behind the bicycle sheds! How could the woman not grasp the severity of this? An elderly couple carrying chipped teacups bumped into the three of them as they pushed their way back through the crowd. The old man muttered an apology, but Hedy barely acknowledged him. She took a deep steadying breath. “I told you, I met him that once when he came out of prison, to thank him. That’s all.”

  “You’ve not seen him since?” Anton asked.

  “Why would I?”

  “Because you really like him? Same as he likes you?” Dorothea’s face was full of eagerness and concern, with no hint of judgment. Hedy almost envied her naivete.

  “I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours, Dorothea, but you really don’t know me at all. And can you please not say things like this in a public place? Go back to your seats—I’ll queue for the drinks.”

  But Anton was still pawing for an argument. “You two sit down—I’ll get them.”

  “Anton, for the last time, I
said I’ll pay.” Hedy reached for her purse again.

  “And I said put your money away!” He pushed at the bag, which slipped from Hedy’s arm, falling to the floor with a thud and sprawling the contents across the pink carpet. Each of them looked down to see the intimate story laid out beneath them. Hedy’s leather purse, a Christmas gift to her from the Mitchells before the war; a lace handkerchief bought from the local market in happier times; and a half-eaten bar of Stollwerck chocolate, still in its bright blue wrapper.

  For a moment none of them spoke. They simply stared down at the chocolate as though it were a hand grenade. The queue for the counter moved forward; two women in battered straw hats behind them, realizing that Anton’s trio had no intention of following, shrugged and maneuvered in front of them.

  Hedy lifted her eyes to meet Anton’s and saw the anger.

  “And I suppose”—his voice had steel within it—“I suppose you bought this down the market?”

  Involuntarily, Hedy put a hand to her cheek, leaving Dorothea to scrabble on the ground for the spilled items. “I got it from a secretary at work.” The phrase swung in the air like frozen washing, stiff and wrongly shaped.

  “I don’t believe you.” Anton had never before said those words to her. “You told me you never speak to anyone there. And yes, your face is crimson.”

  Hedy felt the wall start to crumble. She didn’t have the strength for this, not with him. It came out as a whisper. “Anton, I’m sorry. I should have told you. But...”

  Dorothea was instantly at her side, placing the bag back on her arm, putting one hand around Hedy’s shoulder while the other stroked her hair. “Hedy, don’t apologize! No one can help who they fall in love with. And it’s no different from me and Anton.”

  Hedy kept her eyes fixed on Anton, whose face was setting with controlled fury. His voice stayed low. “It’s totally different. Have you told him?”