The Girl from the Channel Islands

by Jenny Lecoat

  * * *

  He was just emerging from his tiny office when he saw them. A group of six or seven female employees—typists, he assumed—were gathered on the pathway from the canteen, talking with great animation. Their heads were bobbing together as if discussing something very important, but the way they kept glancing over their shoulders to check who was listening suggested that it was also rather shameful. Some gossip about a boyfriend, Kurt supposed. Perhaps a pregnancy? He knew, through an overheard conversation at his billet, that Fischer had just been through a similar panic with his married girlfriend, and had felt a twinge of smugness that he and Hedy were always so careful. Eager to show how uninterested he was, Kurt stepped off the path and gave the women a wide berth. But just as he passed them, a German phrase jumped out at him.

  “At least you weren’t in her block! Who knows what I might have caught!”

  Kurt tried to dismiss it, but something told him that he needed to hear more. Deliberately dropping a couple of the files he was carrying, he bent down and began to shuffle them back together. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “What’s the management playing at anyway, employing Jews? I hope they find the bitch and shoot her.”

  Slowly Kurt rose and sauntered toward them. Unsure how else to approach it, he decided to pull rank.

  “Ladies, you’re blocking the path. What’s so important that you have to stand around here gossiping?”

  The tallest of the group, with blond hair worn in a single plait, stepped forward. “Sorry, Lieutenant, but we’ve just found out that there was a Jew working in Block Seven. Apparently she’s been stealing petrol coupons.”

  Kurt gave a little cough to cover his involuntary gasp. “Really? And where is she now?”

  “No one knows, sir. She hasn’t been in for two days. It’s not right, though, sir.”

  “It’s scandalous,” chipped in a pug-nosed brunette. “People have been sitting next to her all this time and never knew. I think we should have been told.”

  Kurt looked at them, their angry, contorted faces scowling in unison, then turned and marched quickly in the direction of Block Seven. His heart was beating so fast he felt sick. Could it be true? How had she been caught? And how come he hadn’t heard about it? Arriving at the hut, he opened the door and scanned the room, but saw only a handful of secretaries working through their lunch hour. Hedy’s coat was not on the rack.

  Without waiting to give notice to anyone, he dumped the files on a colleague, pulled on his tunic and ran from the compound, jogging the two miles to her apartment, arriving soaked and gasping at her door. Shouting Hedy’s name, he wiggled his key frantically in the slot until he managed to get inside. The apartment was deserted. The bed was neatly made, a few garments still hung in the cupboard, and for a few terrible moments Kurt was certain that she had already been arrested. But then he took some deep breaths and began to look around. Her toothbrush was missing, the drawer where she kept her parents’ letters was empty. With trembling hands he got on all fours and pulled the loose skirting away from the wall—the Reichmarks, too, were gone. He gasped with relief—clearly this was a planned escape. But where the hell had she gone?

  Only when he reached Dorothea’s house, and was greeted with her anxious, pallid face and Hedy’s note, moistened by Dorothea’s sweating hand, did the panic begin to return.

  “I’m sorry, Kurt,” Dorothea muttered. “I tried to make her tell me, but she thinks it’s safer for us not to know.” She stood before him, arms crossed over her chest against the chill, looking up at him, wide-eyed. He placed his hand on the foot of the hall banister for support and read the note again. He had already read it three times, but could not accept that it told him nothing.

  My darling Kurt,

  They know about the coupons. I have to disappear. I wanted nothing more than to see this out with you, but I won’t risk your life along with mine. I don’t want to be a coward this time. Perhaps, if the fates are willing, we will find each other again when this is all over. I love you more than anything. Take care of yourself.

  Hedy

  Kurt sank down onto the stairs, rubbing his eyes and pushing strands of hair back from his face. He had to work out all the possibilities, eliminate them one at a time, but all he could think about were those eyes—that brooding darkness behind the green, the very quality that had drawn him to her. Always secrets, thoughts that were never expressed, even to him. It was obvious now that this was something she must have plotted months ago, a premeditated plan for just this kind of eventuality. He cursed himself for not seeing it earlier, for not forcing her to open up. At least the fact that she had taken her few treasured possessions probably ruled out suicide.

  He turned back to Dorothea. “She said Maine is not helping her?”

  “She was very clear that she didn’t want to involve him. Said this way he would be safe.”

  “But she has no one else here, no one!” He thought for a minute. “What about Anton’s old boss?”

  “Mr. Reis? I don’t think she’s seen him for months. Anyway, I heard he was in the hospital.”

  “But who else would she trust enough to shelter her?”

  “Kurt, I think she may try to escape the island altogether.”

  His stomach lurched. “She wouldn’t be that crazy, would she?”

  “When I asked her, she agreed it was stupid and dangerous. But I noticed that she blushed a little, and she wouldn’t look at me.”

  Kurt hauled himself to his feet and began to pace. “She could get herself shot just for being on the beach! And what would she do? Stow away on some boat? She knows there’s no sea traffic to England.”

  Dorothea nodded. “The only place she could reach is the French coast. And what good would that do?”

  A small electric charge fired in his head. “The French coast?”

  “Yes?”

  Kurt’s heart began to hammer again. “I think I might know where she’s gone. But I need to hurry.”

  Dorothea asked no further questions but merely nodded. “I still have Anton’s old bicycle hidden in the larder...”

  * * *

  Hedy woke with a jump, astonished that she had been asleep. She tried to stretch out her legs but they had grown numb with stillness and cold; she could no longer feel her toes at all. The smell of wet wood and paint was in her nostrils. Pulling her coat tighter around her, she peered into the darkness, trying to identify the unfamiliar shapes: the tools hanging on nails, the ropes on hooks. Rising above her, filling three-quarters of the space with its bulk and forcing her into one small corner, was the hull of a wooden boat. Through the ventilation window near the roof, the crescent moon shone a perfect rhombus of silver light onto the rough splintered wall; she pressed her ear against it, and heard the distant waves creeping their way up the beach in sucks and splashes. She guessed it must be four or five in the morning—only another hour or two to wait.

  Crunching, uneven footsteps on the shingle forced her upright, breathless. A moment later the door shuddered open, and she recognized the stocky silhouette with heavy whiskers around the chin, and the soft, gruff voice.

  “Ça va?”

  “Bien.”

  She watched the fisherman’s dark figure limp into the hut and move around the hull, checking each section with his fingertips. Jean-Paul’s limited English and Hedy’s meager smattering of French restricted conversations to single words and gestures. They knew virtually nothing of each other, and Hedy felt far from ready to trust him; when she had produced her precious bundle of Reichmarks for payment, he’d snatched at it with an eagerness that alarmed her. But certainty was a luxury she could no longer afford. All that she had managed to glean, in her months of buying Jean-Paul’s mackerel at the harborside, was that his wife had died a year or so earlier, and that for some reason he held the Germans responsible for her death. The look of disgust on his face and
the voluminous, aggressive spitting that accompanied the recounting of his tale told Hedy all she needed to know: the fisherman hated the Jerries and felt he had little left to lose.

  She wondered now if she had ever, truly, expected the plan to get this far. The notion of using this mythical, illegal boat for her own ends had popped into her mind the moment she’d heard about it, but at the time it was only a fantasy. Then, during those long, tortured weeks waiting to know if she would escape deportation, it had mutated into something possible, an emergency option should everything fall apart. Yet even then, in saner moments Hedy assumed the old man would laugh at her—tell her that the boat was not seaworthy, or that this “escape plan” was just a joke, a good story for the harbor taverns once the war was over.

  Two nights ago, he had stared cynically at her when she showed up at his mooring at dusk, attempting to explain her objective with random French words and bad mime. He probably thought she was working for the enemy, because he merely grunted, hobbling about the deck of his fishing vessel on his wooden leg and gesturing for her to push off. Only when she wrote down the sum she intended to pay did he seem to take the idea seriously. Half an hour later, after painful, repetitive communications and a great deal of staring out to sea, Jean-Paul, as she now knew him, spat thoughtfully onto the deck of his fishing boat and offered his hand to shake.

  The first stages of the escape were clear in her mind, thanks to the old man’s scribblings on scraps of newspaper. She would hide in the boathouse, tucked away down a lane on scrubland at Fauvic beach—an area known to be light on patrols and surveillance. Just before dawn, when the tide was high enough to launch, Jean-Paul would guide his vessel carefully around the rocks, then row them out to a safe distance before starting the outboard engine. Fourteen miles to the east—storms, riptides and patrols permitting—they would reach a quiet cove south of Portbail on the French coast just as darkness fell in the late afternoon. But here the plan grew vague and, if Hedy thought about it too much, quite preposterous. It was likely she would have to swim to shore, in darkness and freezing water, a task she knew might be beyond her. Then she would have to hide out in barns and outhouses around the German-occupied village for several days until she could find someone to help her. After that, her only idea was somehow to make contact with the French Resistance, who would help to get her over the border to Switzerland.

  But crouched in the dark corner of the boathouse, it all seemed frighteningly remote, and Hedy tried not to look that far ahead. Instead, she told herself for the hundredth time that here, on this tiny occupied rock, discovery and death were a certainty, and at least this way she stood a chance. Her stomach rumbled, and she sighed, wondering when she might eat again. Kurt’s smiling face came to mind and drew an embryonic sob to her throat, but she pushed the image away. She had done the right thing, the only loving thing she could. Now the decision was made, the money spent, there was nothing to do but sit here and wait for the rising tide.

  * * *

  Kurt could feel the muscles in his thighs begin to ache as he pushed the pedals harder. He’d convinced himself in recent months that he’d remained fairly fit even on his restricted diet, but this journey was telling otherwise. The rusty state of this ancient bicycle and the improvised tires made from an old garden hose were certainly no help. His lungs burned, begging for more oxygen, as he pumped his way up the St. Clements road. By his calculation of the tides, he had half an hour—assuming he was even going to the right place. But as soon as he’d remembered Hedy’s story of the fisherman and his secret boat, he knew it was his best and only chance. The sky in front of him was just starting to turn cyan blue above the rooftops as he cycled east. She would be out to sea long before the sun brought its full strength. Stopping was not an option.

  As he cycled, adrenaline inflated his anger. Why, why would she do this, when she could have come straight to him? An attempt like this was suicide—surely she had to see that? But even in his fury, he recognized her calculations and understood. Her stubborn, stupid independence made him want to scoop her up.

  He pressed on up La Rue de Fauvic, passing tiny granite cottages. Beyond them he could just make out the open fields. Ahead lay a dark expanse that he prayed was the sea. He must be close now. Arriving at a T-junction, he peered through the emergent half-light to see, on the far side, a track running on ahead. It had to lead down to the beach—he could feel the wind and smell the salt in his nostrils. Looking in every direction to make sure he hadn’t been spotted, he summoned the last of his energy to pedal across the tarmac road and onto the rough earth track, horribly aware of the sound of the wheels in the thick silence. As the track came to an end and the sea rose up to meet him, he dismounted and threw the bike to one side. He ran the last few yards and peered over the sea wall, then, spotting a break indicating a set of steps, hurried down them.

  He scanned the beach to his left and right. The tide was high; waves were breaking rhythmically on the shore, hiding every rock and boulder beneath. His heart began to calm and the blood roar in his ears eased. But it had all been for nothing. The whole area was completely deserted. If Hedy ever was here, he was too late. And wherever she and her fisherman were now, there was nothing he could do to save them. A pain spread in his chest as he pictured the remainder of the war without her. He saw her bloated body washed up on the beach, or lying in woods with a bullet in her back. He stood staring at the horizon for several moments, rooted in misery.

  A sound further down the shore drew his eyes to the south. In the semigloom he peered in its direction until he made out a shape—a bulky gray form that seemed to be moving at the water’s edge. He staggered toward it, his brain finally making sense of it; now he could see the open wooden boat, with what looked like a small engine at the stern. He stumbled on, tripping over rocks, slipping on seaweed. Yes, there were two figures, pushing it into the water—both short, slight. And one of them...

  “Hedy!”

  His voice echoed across the beach. Both figures froze. He could see her clearly now, the shape of her shoulders and the way her body was leaning. The person with her, an old man, jumped back from the boat and raised his hands as if expecting to be shot. Kurt continued to lurch toward them till he was no more than five meters away, then stopped. Hedy was staring at him, white and shaking with fear and cold. As a child, Kurt had once entered the shed in Helmut’s garden to find Helmut’s father on a chair, about to put a noose around his neck; the expression on Hedy’s face now was identical. For a moment no one moved, unsure where this would go.

  “Kurt, I’m sorry.” She was clinging to the edge of the boat, either to support the boat or herself, Kurt wasn’t sure. The boat was bouncing furiously in the surf, rolling with each incoming surge. “I have to do this alone.”

  “No.” Kurt spoke in English and deliberately kept his voice low and steady—the worst outcome now would be some kind of fracas. It seemed that the fisherman wasn’t armed, but Kurt had no idea what the guy was capable of, and in this state of mind he wasn’t sure about Hedy either. “Hedy, this won’t work. There are patrols out there. You won’t get out of island waters.” He gesticulated at the little vessel; it looked pretty professional for something built in a shed with no proper materials, but a glance told him all he needed to know. “Even if this reached France, you’d never make it past the beach.”

  “I have to try. If I stay I’ll be sent to a camp.” Her voice was choked with terror.

  “Hedy, listen, please. I know you’re afraid. But we can find an answer.” He remained quite still, keeping his focus on the two of them. If they decided to jump into the boat and start rowing, Kurt knew he probably wouldn’t have the strength to pull it back. The fisherman, realizing Kurt was unarmed, had now dropped his hands and was hanging firmly onto the other side of the hull. He was looking from Kurt to Hedy, waiting to see what the next move would be. In the incipient pale gold of the horizon, Kurt could now see the man’s face—he
seemed to be chewing slowly on some unseen root or tobacco, and beneath the leathered skin and whiskers his expression indicated he might be willing to put up a fight, if only to save his profit.

  Kurt turned his attention back to Hedy, who had begun to buckle from the center, as if someone had taken out an air stopper.

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s the only way.”

  “No. There’s another, better way. Hedy, I’ll keep you safe, I promise. But please, if you do one thing for me in your life, do not get in that boat.”

  Hedy looked from him to the fisherman. She turned her head to look out across the bay, gazing at the navy-blue line of the horizon against the rapidly lightening sky. At that moment, to Kurt’s relief, he could see reality descend, the recognition of the futility of it all. As her hopes drained away, she let go of the boat and swayed for a few seconds, then toppled backward into the shallow water, arms flailing, head struggling to get above the surface. Kurt ran to her, hauling her sodden body from the water and held her, both of them trembling. Hedy was now weeping openly, while the fisherman stood silently by, staring at them with a blank expression, his jaw still moving as he chewed away, the boat beneath his hands bobbing up and down on the morning waves.

  * * *

  Hedy peeped through the hole in the curtain. It was almost dark, and the wind was picking up—she could hear it blowing through the high trees on Westmount.

  “Make sure to weigh everything down properly,” Kurt reminded her. “And be careful that no one sees you coming back. Is everything packed?”

  Hedy peered into the wicker bag containing the clothes and personal effects that would travel with her. Everything she owned was in that bag, except for her coat that lay across her bedstead, still damp around the cuffs and hem. She hadn’t had the heart to open it up and see what remained of her parents’ letters, but suspected they were now papier-mâché. She would slit the hem open to retrieve her toothbrush later.