No. They were there to warn me. The Commandant of Guernsey had ordered all Jews to report to the Grange Lodge Hotel and register. According to the Commandant, our ID cards would merely be marked “Juden” and then we were free to go home. Elizabeth knew my mother was Jewish; I had mentioned it once. They had come to tell me that I must not, under any circumstances, go to the Grange Lodge Hotel.
But that wasn’t all. Elizabeth had considered my predicament thoroughly (more thoroughly than I) and made a plan. Since all Islanders were to have identity cards anyway, why couldn’t I declare myself to be Lord Tobias Penn-Piers himself ? I could claim that, as a visitor, all my documents had been left behind in my London bank. Amelia was sure Mr. Dilwyn would be happy to back up my impersonation, and he was. He and Amelia went with me to the Commandant’s Office, and we all swore that I was Lord Tobias Penn-Piers.
It was Elizabeth who came up with the finishing touch. The Germans were taking over all of Guernsey’s grand houses for their officers to live in, and they would never ignore such a residence as La Fort—it was too good to miss. And when they came I must be ready for them as Lord Tobias Penn-Piers. I must look like a Lord at Leisure and act at my ease. I was terrified.
“Nonsense,” said Elizabeth. “You have presence, Booker. You’re tall, dark, handsome, and all valets know how to look down their noses.”
She decided that she would quickly paint my portrait as a sixteenth-century Penn-Piers. So I posed as such in a velvet cloak and ruff, seated against a background of dark tapestries and dim shadows, fingering my dagger. I looked Noble, Aggrieved, and Treasonous.
It was a brilliant stroke, for, not two weeks later, a body of German officers (six in all) appeared in my library—without knocking. I received them there, sipping a Château Margaux ’93 and bearing an uncanny resemblance to the portrait of my “ancestor” hanging above me over the mantel.
They bowed to me and were all politeness, which did not prevent them from taking over the house and moving me into the gatekeeper’s cottage the very next day. Eben and Dawsey slipped over after curfew that night and helped me carry most of the wine down to the cottage, where we cleverly hid it behind the woodpile, down the well, up the chimney, under a haystack, and above the rafters. But even with all this toting of bottles, I still ran out of wine by early 1941. A sad day, but I had friends to help distract me—and then, then I found Seneca.
I came to love our book meetings—they helped to make the Occupation bearable. Some of their books sounded fine, but I stayed true to Seneca. I came to feel that he was talking to me—in his funny, biting way—but talking to me alone. His letters helped to keep me alive in what was to come later.
I still go to all our Society meetings. Everyone is sick of Seneca, and they are begging me to read someone else. But I’ll not do it. I also act in plays that one of our repertory companies puts on—impersonating Lord Tobias gave me a taste for acting, and besides that, I am tall, loud, and can be heard in the last row.
I am happy the war is over, and I am John Booker again.
Yours truly,
John Booker
From Juliet to Sidney and Piers
31st March, 1946
Mr. Sidney Stark
Monreagle Hotel
Broadmeadows Avenue, 79
Melbourne
Victoria
Australia
Dear Sidney and Piers,
No life’s blood—just sprained thumbs from copying out the enclosed letters from my new friends on Guernsey. I love their letters and could not bear the thought of sending the originals to the bottom of the earth where they would undoubtedly be eaten by wild dogs.
I knew the Germans occupied the Channel Islands, but I barely gave them a thought during the war. I have since scoured the Times for articles and anything I can cull from the London Library on the Occupation. I also need to find a good travel book on Guernsey—one with descriptions, not timetables and hotel recommendations—to give me the feel of the island.
Quite apart from my interest in their interest in reading, I have fallen in love with two men: Eben Ramsey and Dawsey Adams. Clovis Fossey and John Booker, I like. I want Amelia Maugery to adopt me; and me, I want to adopt Isola Pribby. I will leave you to discern my feelings for Adelaide Addison (Miss) by reading her letters. The truth is, I am living more in Guernsey than I am in London at the moment—I pretend work with one ear cocked for the sound of the post dropping in the box, and when I hear it, I scramble down the stairs, breathless for the next piece of the story. This must be how people felt when they gathered around the publisher’s door to seize the latest installment of David Copperfield as it came off the printing press.
I know you’re going to love the letters, too—but would you be interested in more? To me, these people and their war-time experiences are fascinating and moving. Do you agree? Do you think there could be a book here? Don’t be polite—I want your opinion (both of your opinions) unvarnished. And you needn’t worry—I’ll continue to send you copies of the letters even if you don’t want me to write a book about Guernsey. I am (mostly) above petty vengeance.
Since I have sacrificed my thumbs for your amusement, you should send me one of Piers’s latest in return. So glad you are writing again, my dear.
My love to you both,
Juliet
From Dawsey to Juliet
2nd April, 1946
Dear Miss Ashton,
Having fun is the biggest sin in Adelaide Addison’s bible (lack of humility following close on its heels), and I’m not surprised she wrote to you about Jerry-bags. Adelaide lives on her wrath.
There were few eligible men left in Guernsey and certainly no one exciting. Many of us were tired, scruffy, worried, ragged, shoeless, and dirty—we were defeated and looked it. We didn’t have the energy, time, or money left over for fun. Guernsey men had no glamour—and the German soldiers did. They were, according to a friend of mine, tall, blond, handsome, and tanned—like gods. They gave lavish parties, were jolly and zestful company, possessed cars, had money, and could dance all night long.
But some of the girls who dated soldiers gave the cigarettes to their fathers and the bread to their families. They would come home from parties with rolls, pâtés, fruit, meat patties, and jellies stuffed in their purses, and their families would have a full meal the next day.
I don’t think some Islanders ever credited the boredom of those years as a reason to befriend the enemy. Boredom is a powerful reason, and the prospect of fun is a powerful draw—especially when you are young.
There were many folks who would have no dealings with the Germans—if you said so much as good morning, you were abetting the enemy, according to their way of thinking. But circumstances were such that I could not abide by that with Captain Christian Hellman, a doctor in the Occupation forces and my good friend.
In late 1941 there wasn’t any salt on the Island, and none was coming to us from France. Root vegetables and soups are listless without salt, so the Germans got the idea of using seawater to supply it. They carried it up from the bay and poured it into a big tanker set in the middle of St. Peter Port. Everyone was to walk to town, fill up their buckets, and carry them home again. Then we were to boil the water away and use the sludge in the bottom of the pan as salt. That plan failed—there wasn’t enough wood to waste building up a fire hot enough to boil the pot of water dry.
So we decided to cook all our vegetables in the seawater itself. That worked well enough for flavor, but there were many older people who couldn’t make the walk into town or haul heavy buckets home. No one had much strength left over for such chores. I have a slight limp from a badly set leg, and though it kept me from army service, it has never been bad enough to bother me. I was very hale, and so I began to deliver water around to some cottages.
I traded an extra spade and some twine for Mme. LePell’s old baby pram, and Mr. Soames gave me two small oak wine casks, each with a spigot. I sawed off the barrel tops to make moveable lids and f
itted them into my pram—so now I had transport. Several of the beaches weren’t mined, and it was an easy thing to climb down the rocks, fill a cask with seawater, and tote it back up.
The November wind is bleak, and one day my hands were near numb after I climbed up from the bay with the first barrel of water. I was standing by my pram, trying to limber up my fingers, when Christian drove by. He stopped his car, backed up, and asked if I wanted any help. I said no, but he got out of his car anyway and helped me lift the barrel into my pram. Then, without a word, he went down the cliff with me, to help with the second barrel.
I hadn’t noticed that he had a stiff shoulder and arm, but between those, my limp, and the loose scree, we slipped coming back up and fell against the hillside, losing our grip on the barrel. It tumbled down, splintered against the rocks, and soaked us. God knows why it struck us both as funny, but it did. We sagged against the cliff-side, unable to stop laughing. That was when Elia’s essays slipped from my pocket, and Christian picked it up, sopping wet. “Ah, Charles Lamb,” he said, and handed it to me. “He was not a man to mind a little damp.” My surprise must have showed, because he added, “I read him often at home. I envy you your portable library.”
We climbed back up to his car. He wanted to know if I could find another barrel. I said I could and explained my water-delivery route. He nodded, and I started out with my pram. But then I turned back and said, “You can borrow the book, if you’d like to.” You would have thought I was giving him the moon. We exchanged names and shook hands.
After that, he would often help me carry up water, and then he’d offer a cigarette, and we’d stand in the road and talk—about Guernsey’s beauty, about history, about books, about farming, but never about the present time—always things far away from the war. Once, as we were standing, Elizabeth rattled up the road on her bicycle. She had been on nursing duty all that day and probably most of the night before, and like the rest of us, her clothes were more patches than cloth. But Christian, he broke off in mid-sentence to watch her coming. Elizabeth drew up to us and stopped. Neither said a word, but I saw their faces, and I left as soon as I could. I hadn’t realized they knew each other.
Christian had been a field surgeon, until his shoulder wound sent him from Eastern Europe to Guernsey. In early 1942, he was ordered to a hospital in Caen; his ship was sunk by Allied bombers and he was drowned. Dr. Lorenz, the head of the German Occupation Hospital, knew we were friends and came to tell me of his death. He meant for me to tell Elizabeth, so I did.
The way that Christian and I met may have been unusual, but our friendship was not. I’m sure many Islanders grew to be friends with some of the soldiers. But sometimes I think of Charles Lamb and marvel that a man born in 1775 enabled me to make two such friends as you and Christian.
Yours,
Dawsey Adams
From Juliet to Amelia
4th April, 1946
Dear Mrs. Maugery,
The sun is out for the first time in months, and if I stand on my chair and crane my neck, I can see it sparkling on the river. I’m averting my eyes from the mounds of rubble across the street and pretending London is beautiful again.
I’ve received a sad letter from Dawsey Adams, telling me about Christian Hellman, his kindness and his death. The war goes on and on, doesn’t it? Such a good life—lost. And what a grievous blow it must have been to Elizabeth. I am thankful she had you, Mr. Ramsey, Isola, and Dawsey to help her when she had her baby.
Spring is nearly here. I’m almost warm in my puddle of sunshine. And down the street—I’m not averting my eyes now—a man in a patched jumper is painting the door to his house sky blue. Two small boys, who have been walloping one another with sticks, are begging him to let them help. He is giving them a tiny brush apiece. So—perhaps there is an end to war.
Yours,
Juliet Ashton
From Mark to Juliet
April 5, 1946
Dear Juliet—
You’re being elusive and I don’t like it. I don’t want to see the play with someone else—I want to go with you. In fact, I don’t give a damn about the play. I’m only trying to rout you out of that apartment. Dinner? Tea? Cocktails? Boating? Dancing? You choose, and I’ll obey. I’m rarely so docile—don’t throw away this opportunity to improve my character.
Yours,
Mark
From Juliet to Mark
Dear Mark,
Do you want to come to the British Museum with me? I’ve got an appointment in the Reading Room at two o’clock. We can look at the mummies afterward.
Juliet
From Mark to Juliet
To hell with the Reading Room and the mummies. Come have lunch with me.
Mark
From Juliet to Mark
You consider that docile?
Juliet
From Mark to Juliet
To hell with docile.
M.
From Will Thisbee to Juliet
7th April, 1946
Dear Miss Ashton,
I am a member of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. I am an antiquarian ironmonger, though it pleases some to call me a rag-and-bone man. I also invent labor-saving devices—my latest being an electric clothes-pin that wafts the laundry gently on the breeze, saving the laundress’s wrists.
Did I find solace in reading? Yes, but not at first. I’d just go and eat my pie in quietude in a corner. Then Isola got ahold of me and said I had to read a book and talk about it like the others did. She gave me a book called Past and Present by Thomas Carlyle, and a tedious thing he was—he gave me shooting pains in my head—until I came to a bit on religion. I was not a religious man, though not for want of trying.
Off I’d go, like a bee among blossoms, from church to chapel to church again. But I was never able to get a grip on Faith—till Mr. Carlyle posed religion to me in a different way. He was walking among the ruins of the Abbey at Bury St. Edmunds, when a thought came to him, and he wrote it down thus:
Does it ever give thee pause, that men used to have a soul—not by hearsay alone, or as a figure of speech; but as a truth that they knew, and acted upon! Verily it was another world then … but yet it is a pity we have lost the tidings of our souls… we shall have to go in search of them again, or worse in all ways shall befall us.
Isn’t that something—to know your own soul by hearsay, instead of its own tidings? Why should I let a preacher tell me if I had one or not? If I could believe I had a soul, all by myself, then I could listen to its tidings all by myself.
I gave my talk on Mr. Carlyle to the Society, and it stirred up a great argument about the soul. Yes? No? Maybe? Dr. Stubbins yelled the loudest, and soon everyone stopped arguing and listened to him.
Thompson Stubbins is a man of long, deep thoughts. He was a psychiatrist in London until he ran amok at the annual dinner of the Friends of Sigmund Freud Society in 1934. He told me the whole tale once. The Friends were great talkers and their speeches went on for hours—while the plates stayed bare. Finally they served up, and silence fell upon the hall as the psychiatrists bolted their chops. Thompson saw his chance: he beat his spoon upon his glass and shouted from the floor to be heard.
“Did any of you ever think that along about the time the notion of a SOUL gave out, Freud popped up with the EGO to take its place? The timing of the man! Did he not pause to reflect? Irresponsible old coot! It is my belief that men must spout this twaddle about egos, because they fear they have no soul! Think upon it!”
Thompson was barred from their doors forever, and he moved to Guernsey to grow vegetables. Sometimes he rides with me in my cart and we talk about Man and God and all the In-between. I would have missed all this if I had not belonged to the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.
Tell me, Miss Ashton, what are your views on the matter? Isola thinks you should come to visit Guernsey, and if you do, you could ride in my cart with us. I’d bring a cushion.
Best wishes for your co
ntinued health and happiness.
Will Thisbee
From Mrs. Clara Saussey to Juliet
8th April, 1946
Dear Miss Ashton,
I’ve heard about you. I once belonged to that Literary Society, though I’ll wager none of them ever told you about me. I didn’t read from any book by a dead writer, no. I read from a work I wrote myself—my book of cookery recipes. I venture to say my book caused more tears and sorrow than anything Charles Dickens ever wrote.
I chose to read about the correct way to roast a suckling pig. Butter its little body, I said. Let the juices run down and cause the fire to sizzle. The way I read it, you could smell the pig roasting, hear its flesh crackle. I spoke of my five-layer cakes—using a dozen eggs—my spun-sugar sweets, chocolate-rum balls, sponge cakes with pots of cream. Cakes made with good white flour—not that cracked grain and bird-seed stuff we were using at the time.
Well, miss, my audience couldn’t stand it. They was pushed over the edge, hearing of my tasty recipes. Isola Pribby, that never had a manner to call her own, she cried out I was tormenting her and she was going to hex my saucepans. Will Thisbee said I would burn like my cherries jubilee. Then Thompson Stubbins swore at me, and it took both Dawsey and Eben to get me away safely.
Eben called the next day to apologize for the Society’s bad manners. He asked me to remember that most of them had come to the meeting directly from a supper of turnip soup (with nary a bone in it to give pith), or parboiled potatoes scorched on a hot iron—there being no cooking fat to fry them up in. He asked me to be tolerant and forgive them.
Well, I’ll not do it—they called me bad names. There wasn’t a one of them who truly loved literature. Because that’s what my cookery book was—sheer poetry in a pan. I believe they was made so bored, what with the curfew and other nasty Nazi laws, they only wanted an excuse to get out of an evening, and reading is what they chose.
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society Page 8