The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

by Mary Ann Shaffer

  I will stop now. I know that I often felt my friend beside me when I was ill after the camp. I had fevers, and I imagined that Elizabeth and I were sailing to Guernsey in a little boat. We had planned this in Ravensbrück—how we would live together in her cottage with her baby, Kit. It helped me to sleep.

  I hope you will come to feel Elizabeth by your side as I do. Her strength did not fail her, nor her mind, not ever—she just saw one cruelty too many.

  Please accept my best wishes,

  Remy Giraud

  Note from Sister Cecile Touvier, placed in the envelope with Remy’s letter

  Sister Cecile Touvier, Nurse, writing to you. I have made Remy go to rest now. I do not approve of this long letter. But she insisted on writing it.

  She will not tell you how sick she has been, but I will. In the few days before the Russians arrived at Ravensbrück, those filthy Nazis ordered anyone who could walk to leave. Opened the gates and turned them loose upon the devastated countryside. “Go,” they ordered. “Go—find any Allied troops that you can.”

  They left those exhausted, starving women to walk miles and miles without any food or water. There were not even any gleanings left in the fields they walked past. Was it any wonder their walk became a death march? Hundreds of the women died on the road.

  After several days, Remy’s legs and body were so swollen with famine edema, she could not continue to walk. So she just laid herself down in the road to die. Fortunately, a company of American soldiers found her. They tried to give her something to eat, but her body would not receive it. They carried her to a field hospital, where she was given a bed and quarts of water were drained from her body. After many months in hospital, she was well enough to be sent to this hospice in Louviers. I will tell you she weighed less than sixty pounds when she arrived here.

  Otherwise, she would have written you sooner. It is my belief that she will get her strength back properly once she has written this letter and she can set about laying her friend to rest. You may, of course, write to her, but please do not ask her questions about Ravensbrück. It will be best for her to forget.

  Yours truly,

  Sister Cecile Touvier

  From Amelia to Remy Giraud

  16th June, 1946

  Mlle. Remy Giraud

  Hospice La Forêt

  Louviers

  France

  Dear Mlle. Giraud,

  How good you were to write to us—how good and how kind. It could not have been an easy task to call up your own terrible memories in order to tell us of Elizabeth’s death. We had been praying that she would return to us, but it is better to know the truth than to live in uncertainty. We were grateful to learn of your friendship with Elizabeth and to think of the comfort you gave to one another.

  May Dawsey Adams and I come visit you in Louviers? We would like to, very much, but not if you would find our visit too disturbing. We want to know you and we have an idea to propose. But again, if you’d prefer that we didn’t, we will not come.

  Always, our blessings for your kindness and courage.

  Sincerely,

  Amelia Maugery

  From Juliet to Sidney

  16th June, 1946

  Dear Sidney,

  How comforting it was to hear you say “God damn, oh God damn.” That’s the only honest thing to say, isn’t it? Elizabeth’s death is an abomination and it will never be anything else.

  It’s odd, I suppose, to mourn so for someone you’ve never met. But I do. I have felt Elizabeth’s presence all along; she lingers in every room I enter, not just in the cottage, but in Amelia’s library, which she stocked with books, and Isola’s kitchen, where she stirred up potions. Everyone always speaks of her—even now—in the present tense, and I had convinced myself that she would return. I wanted so much to know her.

  It’s worse for everyone else. When I saw Eben yesterday, he seemed older than ever before. I’m glad he has Eli by him. Isola has disappeared. Amelia says not to worry; she does that when she’s sick at heart.

  Dawsey and Amelia have decided to go to Louviers to try to persuade Mlle. Giraud to come to Guernsey. There was a heartrending moment in her letter—Elizabeth used to help her go to sleep in the camp by planning their future in Guernsey. She said it sounded like Heaven. The poor girl is due for some Heaven; she has already been through Hell.

  I am to take care of Kit while they are gone. I am so sad for her—she will never know her mother—except by hearsay. I wonder about her future, too, as she is now—officially—an orphan. Mr. Dilwyn told me there is plenty of time to make a decision. “Let us leave well enough alone at the moment.” He doesn’t sound like any other banker or trustee I’ve ever heard of, bless his heart.

  All my love,

  Juliet

  From Juliet to Mark

  17th June, 1946

  Dear Mark,

  I’m sorry that our conversation ended badly last night. It’s very difficult to convey shades of meaning while roaring into the telephone. It’s true—I don’t want you to come this weekend. But it has nothing whatever to do with you. My friends have just been dealt a terrible blow. Elizabeth was the center of the circle here, and the news of her death has shaken us all. How strange—when I picture you reading that sentence, I see you wondering why this woman’s death has anything to do with me or you or your plans for the weekend. It does. I feel as though I’d lost someone very close to me. I am in mourning.

  Do you understand a little better now?

  Yours,

  Juliet

  From Dawsey to Juliet

  21st June, 1946

  Miss Juliet Ashton

  Grand Manoir, Cottage

  La Bouvée

  St. Martin’s, Guernsey

  Dear Juliet,

  We are here in Louviers, though we have not been to see Remy yet. The trip has tired Amelia very much and she wants to rest for a night before we go to the hospice.

  It was a direful journey across Normandy. Piles of blasted stone walls and twisted metal line the roads in towns. There are big gaps between buildings, and the ones left look like black, broken-off teeth. Whole fronts of houses are gone and you can see in, to the flowered wallpaper and the tilted bedsteads clinging somehow to the floors. I know now how fortunate Guernsey really was in the war.

  Many people are still in the streets, hauling away bricks and stone in wheelbarrows and carts. They’ve made roads of heavy wire netting placed over rubble, and tractors are moving along them. Outside the towns are ruined fields with huge craters and torn-up land and hedges.

  It is grievous to see the trees. No big poplars, elms, and chestnuts— what’s left is pitiful, charred black, and stunted—sticks without shade.

  Mr. Piaget, the innkeeper here, told us that the German engineers ordered hundreds of soldiers to chop down trees—whole woods and coppices. Then they stripped off the branches, smeared the trunks with creosote, and stuck them upright in holes they had dug in the fields. The trees were called Rommel’s Asparagus and were meant to keep Allied gliders from landing and soldiers from parachuting.

  Amelia went to bed right after supper, so I walked through Louviers. The town is pretty in spots, though much of it was bombed and the Germans set fire to it when they retreated. I cannot see how it will become a living town again.

  I came back and sat on the terrace till full dark, thinking about tomorrow.

  Give Kit a hug from me.

  Yours ever,

  Dawsey

  From Amelia to Juliet

  23rd June, 1946

  Dear Juliet,

  We met Remy yesterday. I felt unequal somehow to meeting her. But not, thank Heavens, Dawsey. He calmly pulled up lawn chairs, sat us down under a shade tree, and asked a nurse if we could have tea.

  I wanted Remy to like us, to feel safe with us. I wanted to learn more about Elizabeth, but I was frightened of Remy’s fragility and Sister Touvier’s admonitions. Remy is very small and is far too thin. Her dark curly hair is cut cl
ose to her head, and her eyes are enormous and haunted. You can see that she was a beauty in better times, but now—she is like glass. Her hands tremble a good deal, and she is careful to hold them down in her lap. She welcomed us as much as she was able, but she was very reserved until she asked about Kit—had she gone on to Sir Ambrose in London?

  Dawsey told her of Sir Ambrose’s death and how we are raising Kit. He showed her the photograph of you and Kit that he carries. She smiled then and said, “She is Elizabeth’s child. Is she strong?” I couldn’t speak, thinking of our lost Elizabeth, but Dawsey said yes, very strong, and told her about Kit’s passion for ferrets. That made her smile again.

  Remy is alone in the world. Her father died long before the war; in 1943, her mother was sent to Drancy for harboring enemies of the government and later died in Auschwitz. Remy’s two brothers are missing; she thought she saw one of them in a German train station as she was on her way to Ravensbrück, but he did not turn when she screamed his name. The other she has not seen since 1941. She believes that they, too, must be dead. I was glad Dawsey had the courage to ask her questions—Remy seemed to find relief in speaking of her family.

  I finally broached the subject of Remy coming to stay awhile with me in Guernsey. She grew reserved again and explained that she was going to leave the hospice very soon. The French government is offering pensions to concentration-camp survivors: for time lost in camps, for permanent injuries, and for recognition of suffering. They also give a small stipend to those who wish to resume their education.

  In addition to the government stipend, the Association Nationale des Anciennes Déportées et Internées de la Résistance will help Remy pay the rent of a room or share a flat with other survivors, so she has decided to go to Paris and seek an apprenticeship in a bakery.

  She was adamant about her plans, so I left the matter there, but I don’t believe Dawsey is willing to do so. He thinks that sheltering Remy is a moral debt we owe to Elizabeth—perhaps he is right, or perhaps it is simply a way to relieve our sense of helplessness. In any case, he has arranged to go back tomorrow and take Remy for a walk along the canal and to visit a certain patisserie he saw in Louviers. Sometimes, I wonder where our old, shy Dawsey has gone.

  I feel well, though I am unusually tired—perhaps it is seeing my beloved Normandy so devastated. I will be glad to be home, my dear.

  A kiss for you and Kit,

  Amelia

  From Juliet to Sidney

  28th June, 1946

  Dear Sidney,

  What an inspired present you sent Kit—red satin tap shoes covered with sequins. Wherever did you find them? Where are mine?

  Amelia has been tired since her return from France, so it seems best for Kit to stay with me, especially if Remy decides to come to Amelia’s when she leaves the hospice. Kit seems to like the idea too—Heaven be thanked. Kit knows her mother is dead now; Dawsey told her. I’m not sure what she feels about it. She hasn’t said anything, and I wouldn’t dream of pressing her. I try not to hover unduly or make her special treats. After Mother and Father died, Mr. Simpless’s cook brought me huge slices of cake and then stood there, watching me mournfully while I tried to swallow. I hated her for thinking that cake would somehow make it up to me for losing my parents. Of course, I was a wretched twelve-year-old, and Kit is only four—she would probably like some extra cake—but you understand what I mean.

  Sidney, I am in trouble with my book. I have much of the data from the States’ records and a slew of personal interviews to start the story of the Occupation—but I can’t make them come together in a structure that pleases me. Straight chronology is too tedious. Shall I pack my pages up and send them to you? They need a finer and more impersonal eye than mine. Would you have time to look them over now or is the backlog from your Australian trip still so heavy?

  If it is, don’t worry—I am working anyway and something brilliant may yet come to me.

  Love,

  Juliet

  P.S. Thank you for the lovely clipping of Mark dancing with Ursula Fent. If you were hoping to send me into a jealous rage, you failed. Especially as Mark had already telephoned to tell me that Ursula follows him about like a lovesick bloodhound. You see? The two of you do have something in common: you both want me to be miserable. Perhaps you could start a club.

  From Sidney to Juliet

  1st July, 1946

  Dear Juliet,

  Don’t pack up your pages—I want to come to Guernsey myself. Will this weekend suit you?

  I want to see you, Kit, and Guernsey—in that order. I have no intention of reading your pages while you pace up and down in front of me—I’ll bring the ms back to London.

  I can arrive Friday afternoon on the five o’clock plane and stay until Monday evening. Will you book a hotel room for me? Can you also manage a small supper party? I want to meet Eben, Isola, Dawsey, and Amelia. I’ll bring the wine.

  Love,

  Sidney

  From Juliet to Sidney

  Wednesday

  Dear Sidney,

  Wonderful! Isola won’t hear of you staying at the inn (she hints of bedbugs). She wants to put you up herself and needs to know if noises at dawn are apt to bother you? That is when Ariel, her goat, arises. Zenobia, the parrot, is a late sleeper.

  Dawsey and I and his cart will meet you at the airfield. May Friday hurry up and get here.

  Love,

  Juliet

  From Isola to Juliet (left under Juliet’s door)

  Friday—close to dawn

  Lovey, I can’t stop, I must hurry to my Market stall. I am glad your friend will be staying with me. I’ve put lavender sprigs in his sheets. Is there one of my elixirs you’d like me to slip in his coffee? Just nod to me at Market and I’ll know which one you mean.

  XXX

  Isola

  From Sidney to Sophie

  6th July, 1946

  Dear Sophie,

  I am, at last, on Guernsey with Juliet and am ready to tell you three or four of the dozen things you asked me to find out.

  First and foremost, Kit seems as fond of Juliet as you and I are. She is a spirited little thing, affectionate in a reserved way (which is not as contradictory as it sounds) and quick to smile when she is with one of her adoptive parents from the Literary Society.

  She is adorable, too, with round cheeks, round curls, and round eyes. The temptation to cuddle her is nearly overwhelming, but it would be a slight upon her dignity, and I am not brave enough to try it. When she sees someone she doesn’t like, she has a stare that would shrivel Medea. Isola says she reserves it for cruel Mr. Smythe, who beats his dog, and evil Mrs. Guilbert, who called Juliet a Nosy Parker and told her she ought to go back to London where she belonged.

  I’ll tell you one story of Kit and Juliet together. Dawsey (more about him later) came by to pick Kit up and go see Eben’s fishing boat come in. Kit said good-bye, flew out, then flew back in, ran up to Juliet, lifted her skirt a quarter of an inch, kissed her kneecap, and flew back out again. Juliet looked dumbfounded—and then as happy as you or I have ever seen her.

  I know you think Juliet seemed tired, worn, frazzled, and pale when you saw her last winter. I don’t think you realize how harrowing those teas and interviews can be; she looks as healthy as a horse now and is full of her old zest. So full, Sophie, I think she may never want to live in London again—though she doesn’t realize it yet. Sea air, sunshine, green fields, wildflowers, the everchanging sky and ocean, and most of all, the people seem to have seduced her from City life.

  I can easily see how they could. It’s such a homey, welcoming place. Isola is the kind of hostess you always wished you’d come across on a country visit—but never do. She rousted me out of bed the first morning to help her dry rose petals, churn butter, stir up something (God knows what) in a big pot, feed Ariel, and go to the fish market to buy her an eel. All of this with Zenobia the parrot on my shoulder.

  Now, about Dawsey Adams. I have inspected him, as per
instructions. I liked what I saw. He’s quiet, capable, trustworthy—oh Lord, I’ve made him sound like a dog—and he has a sense of humor. In short, he is completely unlike any of Juliet’s other swains—praise indeed. He did not say much at our first meeting—nor at any of our meetings since, come to think of it—but let him walk into a room, and everyone in it seems to breathe a little sigh of relief. I have never in my life had that effect on anyone, can’t imagine why not. Juliet seems a bit nervous around him—his silence is slightly daunting—and she made a dreadful mess of the tea things when he came by for Kit yesterday. But Juliet has always shattered teacups—remember what she did to Mother’s Spode?—so that may not signify. As for him, he watches her with dark, steady eyes—until she looks at him and then he glances away (I do hope you’re appreciating my observational skills).

  One thing I can say unequivocally: he’s worth dozens of Mark Reynoldses. I know you think I’m unreasonable about Reynolds, but you haven’t met him. He’s all charm and oil, and he gets what he wants. It’s one of his few principles. He wants Juliet because she’s pretty and “intellectual” at the same time, and he thinks they’ll make an impressive couple. If she marries him, she’ll spend the rest of her life being shown to people at theaters and clubs and weekends and she’ll never write another book. As her editor, I’m dismayed by that prospect, but as her friend, I’m horrified. It will be the end of our Juliet.

  It’s hard to say what Juliet is thinking about Reynolds, if anything. I asked her if she missed him, and she said, “Mark? I suppose so,” as if he were a distant uncle, and not a favorite one at that. I’d be delighted if she forgot all about him, but I don’t think he’ll allow it.

  To return to minor topics like the Occupation and Juliet’s book, I was invited to accompany her on calls to several Islanders this afternoon. Her interviews were to be about Guernsey’s Day of Liberation on May 9 last year.

  What a morning that must have been! The crowds were lined up along St. Peter Port’s harbor. Silent, absolutely silent, masses of people looking at the Royal Navy ships sitting just outside their harbor. Then when the Tommies landed and marched ashore, all hell broke loose. Hugs, kisses, crying, yelling. So many of the soldiers landing were Guernseymen themselves. Men who hadn’t seen or heard a word from their families in five years. You can imagine their eyes searching the crowds for family members as they marched—and the joy of their reunions.