She held out a hand so that he could shake it, but it was limp in his grasp and she broke his eye contact almost immediately. Jack knew Richard Martel; he used to run the Guernsey lifeboat before the Germans had come.
‘You’re the one who telephoned?’ Jack asked, flipping to a fresh page in his notepad. The chief would want extensive notes if this was going to be brought to a prosecution. The Germans quite often ignored their reports involving German soldiers, but they would find it difficult to ignore this. Jack wished that Ruth had not mentioned the word ‘German’, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He would have to deal with it.
‘I telephoned for the ambulance first and then they telephoned you.’ She motioned at the men working on her father. ‘I wasn’t sure what to do. My father … We already lost my brother on the lifeboat …’
Those words brought a fresh stream of sobs from the woman on the chair, and a tear trickled down Ruth’s cheek.
‘I understand,’ Jack replied softly. ‘You did the right thing. Now, if you don’t mind just talking me through the details of what happened while they’re fresh in your memory. For my report.’
She nodded, although her eyes were fixed firmly on her father. They were distant, blurred by alcohol. Jack wondered if what had happened had been an accident caused by drunkenness. It wasn’t going to be a ‘Happy New Year’ for the man sprawled on the ground with a bullet hole through his chest.
‘Of course,’ she stuttered. ‘We were having a do, you know? Then a group of Germans came in – I think there were six of them. One of them had had too much to drink and got into an argument with Sarah. Then he went to the back door and started firing his revolver into the air. My father, he used to work the lifeboats and he doesn’t like people putting others in danger. He tried to stop him and the German …’ Again her voice broke. ‘He shot my dad!’
‘Thank you. That’ll do for now.’
He thanked her with a nod, then turned back to see how the paramedics were getting on. They had stopped the bleeding, but Richard’s face was pale and his eyes were no longer open.
‘Here, Constable,’ one of the paramedics said. ‘Help us get him into the ambulance.’
Jack shoved his notebook into a pocket and grabbed Mr Martel’s legs. It was a far cry from trying to guide a drunk into the police car. Walking backwards, Jack helped the paramedics as one of them held the dressing to Mr Martel’s chest and the other carried him under the shoulders. The ambulance was on the road and it took them a minute or two to manoeuvre the man into the back. ‘We’ll take him up to the emergency hospital in Castel.’ Without ceremony they closed the doors to the ambulance and its engine roared into life as they eased up the road.
Jack would have to report immediately to the German police, even if it was the early hours of the morning. Thankfully, Grange Lodge, the German police headquarters, was only a short bicycle ride away. As he arrived at the Feldgendarmerie headquarters it was clear that some kind of party was taking place. There was singing coming from one open window, the thick German consonants intermingled with laughs and the clinking of glasses. Jack marched in through the front door.
A big German grinned when he saw Jack and slouched over to him. ‘Willkommen!’ he slurred, and tried to pass a small glass to Jack. Schnapps or some other light spirit sloshed around inside. Jack shook his head and made to move past the man, but he stumbled to intercept him.
‘Nein, nein. Drink!’
‘I’m looking for your senior officer. Senior officer.’ Finally the man realised and shouted back into the lodge. The shout was repeated until an officer appeared, scowling. Jack had expected to find Henrik, but he must have been somewhere celebrating the end of the year with Beth. He frowned and mentally wished them all the best.
‘Yes, I am Major Obertz. What do you want, Constable? As you can see we are in the middle of a … gathering.’
The major was a short but stocky man. His uniform was cut wider than that of most of the German soldiers. There was a seriousness on his face that should have sobered up even the most drunk subordinate, but the other men continued their celebrations, oblivious. Jack told the man what had happened, and the major’s face turned a deep shade of red. He turned to the room and barked out an order in German.
‘You take us.’ He pointed towards the German car outside.
Jack didn’t have to be asked twice. The Germans had already had too much to drink to drive, and the thought of driving that powerful engine gave Jack a rush he hadn’t expected. He pushed himself into the driver’s seat as the major and another German accompanied him in the back.
Jack showed the major the scene at the house. The family were no longer there, having gone to the hospital, but as soon as he had seen what had happened the major spoke only eleven words, his face as hard as stone. ‘We will arrest the man. He will be tried and executed.’
*
‘Richard Martel died in the hospital.’ The old man took a solemn pause. ‘Which now makes this a case of murder.’
In normal times those words might have brought about a rush in the police station, a guilty excitement that they would be able to work on the case, but now all it brought was shame and guilt. The man had died needlessly, and it would be up to the Germans to prosecute the killer. Jack and the others were impotent, as if their very purpose for being had been taken away from them. There was no other way to describe it.
Nineteen forty-two had not started in the way that Jack had hoped, but at least he still had his life, which was more than could be said for poor Richard Martel. Jack couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to see your father die in front of your eyes. Later that night Jack crawled into bed, thankful for its warmth, and fell asleep to troubled dreams.
1942
Chapter 25
January 1942
Jack’s stomach rumbled like the sound of an aircraft engine, distracting him from the practised steps of his well-trodden beat. He longed for the end of his night shift, but even then he wasn’t sure that he would be able to sate his hunger. He was due to collect their rations in the morning, but how long would they last? With the war raging on they were growing desperately short of food. He passed some of the greenhouses that people kept behind their houses, and he wondered what delights were inside, but he knew he couldn’t succumb to temptation. Those vegetables belonged to the people who were growing them.
Even the Germans on the island appeared thinner than they had before. The Islanders weren’t the only ones who were suffering. But Jack had to remind himself that this was all their own doing, that it was their desire to conquer that had caused this. He had heard that the German’s Eastern Front wasn’t going particularly well. Just like the last war things were getting worse, and there was talk that the army had overextended themselves. He didn’t know much, but it felt like history repeating itself. Only, last time the Germans hadn’t got anywhere near their little island.
Jack wasn’t sure when he’d last had a good meal, but he had always made sure that his grandparents and mother got everything they needed. When he eventually finished traipsing around the quiet night-time streets of St Peter Port he reported to the station to inform the day shift that nothing had happened, relishing the relative warmth of the office, and then went straight to claim their rations. The sooner he got in the queue, the better. His stomach rumbled at the thought.
On the High Street, Creasey’s department store was almost empty of stock, a shell of its former splendour. Several windows were boarded up, like many of the other shops in St Peter Port, unable to import stock. There was already a queue outside the shop, even at this early hour of the morning. There had been trouble on occasions before, as those waiting grew impatient and arguments turned into scuffles. Today, they were simply queuing, the thin, worn-out residents resigned to the state of the world. Jack knew exactly how they felt. In this act of gathering food for himself and his mother, he was a civilian just like the rest of them with the same needs and weaknesses. H
e had to come early to make sure that he could get all the rations they needed.
About ten minutes later, he was finally close enough to enter the shop. The person leaving didn’t hold the door for him, and it almost hit him in the side. He threw a frown in their direction, but they simply hadn’t noticed him. People turned their gaze inwards when they were desperate.
When he was queuing inside, Jack felt something brush against him and turned, expecting to see a small child. Instead, he saw a woman, hunched over and standing far too close to him. She looked worse than the rest of them, wearing a dirty beige coat wrapped around a threadbare woollen jumper. He half expected her to smile at him and apologise, but she just grimaced at him with blackened teeth as she passed. He thought he recognised her from somewhere, but he couldn’t be sure. She looked like the woman who had been working in the department store when he had popped in and spoken to Maddy. No one looked the same as they had done before the occupation had started. Maybe he had seen her as one of the people begging around St Peter Port and was mixing them up. As usual with these poor people, no one else seemed to notice her.
The cashier stepped away from the till to gather something for the customer they were serving, who in a bored fashion, looked around the shop and its wares. Meanwhile the beggar woman looked at Jack, then reached a hand over the till and cupped whatever she could get before making her way out of the shop as quickly as possible. Jack stood in shock. He had never seen such brazen disregard for the law before, not least directly in front of a policeman. She can’t have known who he was, but if she was truly that desperate maybe she would have. She could have only got away with a few coins and with the current conditions and the nature of the German currency it wouldn’t be worth very much. It might get her something warm to eat, or a roof over her head for one night. Jack was still battling with his conscience when he heard the cashier’s voice speaking to him.
‘Sir?’ she asked. Her voice had risen in pitch and volume since the last customer. ‘How may I help you? Sir?’
It was too late. He turned to her, trying to remember what it was that he had come for. Handing his ration card to the cashier, he flashed her a smile. ‘In a world of my own,’ he said, not entirely lying. He then recited the list of items he wanted from the shop as he had practised on the way there. He had wanted to make sure that he didn’t forget anything. The shopkeeper gave him a look that spoke of her frustration. ‘Only four ounces of meat,’ she said, with a tone of voice that suggested it wasn’t the first time she had said those words today. ‘I can only give you four ounces once every two weeks. Same as everyone else.’
Something about her reprimanding tone made him feel small, like a child. He could have sworn that he didn’t collect any meat last week. The humiliation threw him and all he could manage to say was, ‘Oh, right. Thanks.’
‘I’ll get your items,’ she replied.
He thanked her and reached for his ration card. Looking down at the desk he realised there was very little there worth stealing. The shop itself had nothing. They didn’t even think it was worth locking away. Reporting the thief would do no good now, and she had only got away with a few coins. He was supposed to write things like that down in the occurrence book, but he would keep an eye out for her and if he saw her he’d impose on her the need to never do anything like that again, lest the Germans get their hands on her. If he was being dishonest, at least he was saving the poor woman from that fate.
Jack realised for the first time that only a couple of years ago this event would have played out very differently. Back then he cared a lot more about right and wrong, or rather the extremes seemed clearer. Now, he realised, it was more of a spectrum.
The cashier returned with his three ounces of sugar, seven ounces of flour, five pounds of potatoes and some acorns for making coffee, then wrapped them into a pathetically small parcel of newspaper. There wasn’t even any string to hold it together, so he placed it under one arm to make sure it didn’t fall apart and said his goodbyes.
*
Frederic had brought around some pork, which technically they weren’t supposed to have. How the farmer had got away without registering the death with the authorities, Jack didn’t dare ask, but the meat would make a nice change to their potato-peel pies. He pushed the newspaper parcel across the kitchen table.
‘It’s not much,’ he said to his mother. ‘But it will do.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, and pulled the package across the table to check its contents. Unlike Jack, she didn’t leave the house these days. Whereas his response was to stay away as much as possible. Especially now that both his grandparents had gone. ‘I’ll divide it up.’
Jack nodded. ‘Is there anything you need me to do?’ He was conscious of how his mother was coping since the death of her parents. It hadn’t seemed to have affected her yet, and that was worrying him the most. He felt as if she should be more distraught than she was.
‘No, you do enough. I’ll take care of this. Let me know if you want anything now.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, turning to leave the kitchen. ‘I managed to grab a bit to eat at the station earlier.’
‘Jack?’ his mother called after him. As he turned back to her, she placed the rations down on the table in front of her and stared at him.
‘What?’
‘I just wanted to say,’ she started and then stopped. ‘Listen, sit down, this is important.’
Jack gave her what he thought was a quizzical look and then pulled out one of the chairs from the table. It felt partly as if she was about to tell him off, but his mother had never been one to punish him like that.
‘If I die …’ she continued, once he had sat down.
‘Mum. We’ll be all right,’ he said, trying to stop her. He moved to stand up again, but she shot him a look that was somewhere between pleading and a warning. He had seldom seen her look so focused.
‘I’m serious, Jack. We need to talk about this. If I die, I don’t want any fuss. I can’t go through another funeral like my dad’s whether I’m there or not. I can’t imagine anything worse than you sat there moping and miserable.’
‘I know.’ Jack tried to swallow but his throat was dry. ‘You’ve said before. We don’t need to talk about this now.’
‘But it needs saying again, Jack. Promise me, you won’t let that happen.’
‘I won’t—’
‘Promise me, Jack!’
Jack couldn’t tell whether the tears were in his mother’s eyes or his own, as his vision became cloudy. ‘All right,’ he said, trying to make it stop. His mind raged, masking his thoughts. ‘I promise. Of course, I’ll do what you wish. I just don’t want to talk about it.’
He put his head in his hands, thinking back to how his grandparents had passed away and unsure he would be able to cope if it happened to his mother. Then he looked up at her, trying to focus on her through wet eyes, to form the image in his mind. He wanted her to put her arms around him and tell him that it would be all right. All she could manage was a hand on top of his as it lay on the table. They stayed there for some minutes in silence before Jack managed to compose himself. Before he realised his mother had put a chunk of mouldy bread and a sliver of butter on a plate in front of him.
Chapter 26
March 1942
‘Bah, it’s all bad news! Written by the Nazis,’ Johanna said as she threw the copy of the Guernsey Post on the table in her flat. Jack looked down at it.
‘What’s it say?’ he asked, not really interested, but wanting to talk to her all the same. The sound of her voice was always a comfort to him.
‘The despicable Royal Air Force have bombed Lübeck.’ She mocked the voice of a BBC news reporter. ‘It was an unprovoked and dastardly attack.’
She pointed a finger at the newspaper. ‘It’s propaganda, of course. And your journalists have to go along with it. The only thing they get to write themselves these days are articles about the greenhouses. And I bet even those are censored, as th
e authorities don’t want the Islanders to know how little food there is for everyone.’
She slumped into a chair as her anger left her, and Jack pulled out another chair to sit on. They looked at each other across the table, a distance between them.
‘Lübeck was my home,’ she said, tears welling in her eyes.
‘I remember,’ Jack replied. ‘Does it mention the damage? Your family?’
‘My family are no longer in Lübeck, Jack. They were arrested before I left. That’s why I left.’ She shook as each word left her mouth. ‘First they put my father in a camp for daring to try and run a Jewish business. Then when the rest of the family struggled they came for us. They wanted to put us all in camps. I had to hide and escape, change my identity to get away from the Nazis. Brasch is my grandmother’s maiden name. She was not Jewish.’
‘Oh.’ Jack reached out a hand for hers. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘It didn’t seem right until now, I’m sorry.’ She clasped his hand, intertwining their fingers. ‘The less you knew the less danger there was for you, but we’re all in danger now. It gets worse.’
‘How? What else has happened?’
‘They’ve put a notice in the newspaper. It lists all those who are to be considered Jews, how far away you must be from Jewish ancestors to be safe. They require all Jews to register again, giving their full details.’
Jack thought of the lists the police had been ordered to compile. The Germans must have put them to use after all. He was glad he had removed Johanna’s name.
‘You told them you’re Christian, remember?’
Johanna ignored him, still clasping his hand. The lie had not sat easily with her, but it had been necessary.
‘But what about the others? They did the same thing in Germany. Before I managed to get out of Lübeck and work my way here. First they made us register as Jews, and then people started to disappear. You wouldn’t notice it at first – everything seemed normal – but then someone you had seen every day on their way to work would disappear. First you would think, “maybe they’re ill,” or “maybe I’m late and I missed them”. On the second day you would wonder if it was a coincidence. On the third day you started to get suspicious. Then someone else you knew well would disappear. I was lucky to get out when I did.
The German Nurse Page 21