A few moments later he faintly heard the slapping of boots as they ran along the pier. The sound was like a memory to him, a faint echo at the edge of his thoughts. All he could perceive was the darkness that surrounded him, drawing in with every passing second.
He lay there staring out to sea, ignoring his physical pain as the other pain was overbearing. Johanna had gone. The Germans had taken her and he had been too slow, too self-absorbed to save her. He could imagine her, fighting against the hold of the Wehrmacht soldiers, desperately trying to claw her way back to land. They would overpower her, as they had overpowered everything else. His face was wet, whether from the spray or from the redness that was building at his eyes, he couldn’t tell.
Strong hands grabbed him under his shoulders and hauled him to his feet, as pain flared in his side. He could feel something sharp rubbing and it almost made him pass out. Dizziness racked him and he vomited across the floor. The nearest man said something in German, but the intent was clear. The big German was angry, and he pulled Jack up the pier, muttering under his breath. All Jack’s strength was gone, and his feet dragged along behind him as they carried him to his fate. He wanted them to leave him to die on the pier, leave him with his guilt. The soldier’s MP40 strapped around his neck banged against Jack, the metal stock adding to his bruises. On another day Jack could have grabbed it from him, but he didn’t have the strength. What good would it do anyway? It wouldn’t bring her back.
At the end of the pier a group of Germans waited and his captors stopped him in front of an Oberleutnant he recognised. The man was atypically friendly for the Germans, but as he threw a cursory glance over Jack a scowl crossed his features. In that moment Jack knew that this man was his enemy. Since the beginning he had been wary of the Germans. Their ideals and motivations were so very different from his, but for the first time in the past couple of years it actually struck him. They were his enemy and they could no longer live together.
*
The cell was dank and cold. In his time as a policeman he was no stranger to prison cells, but he had never expected to be on this side of the door. Once was bad enough, and that had only been a locked room. A flash of sympathy burned in his mind as he thought of those he had put in this cell and others like it. He wasn’t like his captors. While he too had been upholding the law, his law was a good law, not a law that segregated people, manipulated them and treated them like animals. He could never treat people as they treated the Jews and the Todt workers, like some kind of subspecies, expendable and inhuman. Only an evil mind could countenance such behaviour. They were sick, even though some of them put up a facade. He couldn’t bring himself to think that they all believed the same things, but he had seen enough evidence of it. For things to have come to this, they must do.
He had too much time to think, he told himself. He wouldn’t be surprised if he went mad with only these four walls for company. They had left him overnight and he hadn’t slept. He didn’t know how anyone slept in these cells.
If he had possession of his diary, he would have written to himself, tried to articulate his feelings. It was even more difficult trapped in his own mind where the emotions crashed against the part of his consciousness that told him he had to fight, to understand what was happening to him. There was a feeling deep in his stomach that he couldn’t explain to anyone else. It was a sickness, but even that wasn’t close enough. He had no common reference for it. It was the strongest feeling he had ever had, yet it was as abstract as anything. It was similar to how he had felt when he had first met her. There was that sense that something profound was happening, a tickling at the back of his mind telling him that there was something special about this person, mixed with a feeling of joy. Every time he thought of that moment, his stomach lurched and the sickness took him further and further into himself, deeper and deeper to a darker place he never knew existed until now. Sometimes it manifested as a longing, like a hunger in his chest telling him he needed something desperately in order to live, but stronger, more visceral.
He knew it as love but saying that word, even in the confines of his mind, seemed somehow inadequate, somehow crass and unfeeling. There didn’t exist a word in the English language to explain this.
He thought of his mother. At least she wouldn’t be at home wondering where he had got to. There would be food spoiling in the house, precious rations. His stomach rumbled at the thought. He had no way of knowing what time it was, but he had been in that cell long enough now, long enough to make him realise he had nothing left on the island to stay for. As every second ticked by Johanna was being taken further away from him.
He had known for a long time that this day would come, but he had tried to deny it to himself, to everyone around him. In the depths of his mind he had always feared it. He wasn’t meant to be happy. Despite all that he had and all that he had tried to do for others, to be a good person, to help those in need and have a kind word. Perhaps it was because of something he had done, mistakes he had made as a child, and maybe they stuck with a person, maybe God was counting. Some people just ended up that way, alone and unhappy. He thought then of his mother. She had been the same. Could it be something in their family line?
Wallowing made him feel better in an obscure way, as if by making it all his own fault he could understand it better, take responsibility for it and in a way control it. He knew if he said that to anyone else then they would think him mad, but it made a certain abstract sense to him. It didn’t do him much good languishing in this cell, but at least he managed to keep his thoughts from the images of horrors that lingered behind his closed eyelids.
*
The heavy steel door opened with a creak of rusty hinges. When he had been on the other side, it had an entirely different meaning for him. Now it brought only fear. A couple of Germans entered the room, clear from the Wehrmacht uniforms of the Feldgendarmerie. Neither of them were men Jack recognised, but they had the same air of authority that all Germans on the island had, the tight lips and gaze that suggested they were in charge and that the world was a better place for it. Jack could tell they were judging him without them even opening their mouths. The true Aryan race looking down on all others and deeming them unworthy. They had been brought up that way, and they did it without even thinking. For even if he wasn’t unworthy naturally, he had fallen in love with a Jew, and that was anathema to them, impure, dirty. It was all there in their look, the purity of hatred.
Was Henrik the same? Would he hate Jack now, after everything that had happened? He knew the man was different. But he had done nothing to stop these men from destroying the island, from deporting the Jews and those who thought differently. He blamed Henrik just as much as he blamed all the others. They should have resisted.
The two Germans lifted Jack up from where he slouched against the floor, carrying him out of the cell. His feet were sore from running. He realised then how a poor diet and lack of nourishment had affected his body. Jack was weak and failing, both in body and mind. They placed him on a chair in what looked like an interrogation room and left him there without locking the door. They must have known he was incapable of running. There was no escape for him.
A few minutes later a familiar face appeared in the doorway. The man was taller than Jack remembered him, more imposing than the first time they had met.
‘Henrik?’ Jack tried to say through broken and parched lips. The word came out more as a groan than the man’s name.
‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice loud in the confines of the room. ‘I thought you may be surprised to see me. It took a lot to convince the guard to let me in.’
He walked around the perimeter of the room, glancing between Jack and the walls that contained him. His steps were calm and confident as they always were, and his pressed green uniform was a stark contrast to the dirty, mouldy grey-brown of the walls. It struck Jack that this must have been how Henrik conducted his interrogations. With an effort of will Jack forced himself up into a sitting position, if
only to stop Henrik from looking down at him, as the rest of his countrymen did.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ He almost had to stop between each word, the effort croaking and painful. He didn’t want to talk any more than he wanted to be in that cell. Henrik stopped in front of him and regarded him for a time, his breathing faintly rising his chest.
‘I had to see you,’ he said, eventually, after what seemed like hours. ‘To see what had become of you.’
‘And?’ Jack asked, unexpected venom in his voice. He had never spoken an angry word to Henrik before, but now he knew what the man was really like, it felt good. Henrik had been playing him all along, had been no better than his countrymen and the way they treated people. ‘Are you happy?’
‘You have every reason to be angry. I understand, but I did not do this to you. I told you something once, something that if heard by the wrong people could see me exactly where you are now. We are only enemies because of a war neither of us wanted, a war neither of us wished to take part in.’
‘Why are you here?’ Jack asked again. This time he felt less angry.
‘To get you out of here.’
*
Jack knew the shock was showing on his face, but he didn’t have the energy to hide it anymore. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘If I can do some good in this war, then it is this. I owe it to you, I owe it to these islands. I see what my people are doing, I’ve seen what they are doing to the Fatherland and I despair. But I am outnumbered, and they are as dangerous to me as they are to you.’ He suddenly jerked his head towards the cell door as if he had heard movement from outside. ‘I’ve said too much.’
Jack felt a pang of sympathy for the man in that moment. He had forgotten that not all of the Germans were the same, not all of them were Nazis. Although he still didn’t really understand how any of them could have allowed the Nazis to take over. Maybe it was easier to find one’s objection after the fact. He could certainly say that was the case as far as he was concerned. He had been too much of a coward to do anything before, and now it was too late.
Henrik placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. It was unexpectedly warm and comforting. ‘We have to go,’ the German whispered. ‘Now.’
‘No. I don’t want your help.’ It was the first solid decision he had made in some time, and it was the correct one.
‘Jack?’ Henrik protested, but Jack stopped him with a shake of his head.
‘No. I can’t just run away. They’ve taken Johanna. I have to go after her. I couldn’t live with myself if I escaped and somehow made it to England if she was somewhere else. My life is nothing without her.’
Henrik nodded and pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know how to help you,’ he said, a frown crossing his brow.
‘Just make sure they send me with the other evacuees.’
‘We will see each other again,’ Henrik responded. ‘I am certain, although I do not know when. After the war, when the world is a different place.’
‘After the war?’ Jack asked. ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘It is coming. I don’t know how long it will take, but things are changing in Berlin. Things are not going as well as they pretend. The Eastern Front has cost the Fatherland dearly. The Russians will soon be in Germany, I am sure. Then Hitler will have no choice but to surrender.’
Jack felt a small glimmer of hope, but then became angry with himself. There was no hope here. The Nazis had ruined everything, ruined the island and taken the woman he loved. It didn’t matter what happened with the war. His only hope was to get off the island and to find another path. He wanted to fight them, wanted to make them feel his pain. Even Henrik was not completely free from his anger, despite his help, for he had been an accomplice.
‘I hope you’re right,’ was all Jack could think to say. It was all he could do to control his anger and stop himself from shouting. He switched from rage to despair in a heartbeat and back again. The German held his hand out for Jack, a faint smile playing across his lips that Jack knew neither of them truly felt. Their roles had been reversed, and somehow it wasn’t fair. Henrik should have been the one on that boat.
‘I wish you all the best, Jack Godwin,’ he said, shaking Jack’s hand in a way that conveyed more meaning than either of them could say. Despite everything they were friends and no war could alter that. ‘I will be eternally sorry for what has happened to your people and that I could do nothing to prevent it. This is not what I wanted.’
Jack could feel a tear pulling at his eye. It was easier to be angry with them than to allow himself to understand that many of the Germans were suffering just as much as the Islanders were. He wished the German would go before he broke down completely.
‘Thank you,’ he said as his friend left the room. He would need that hope to get him through until the end. If soldiers like Henrik thought that the war was close to ending, then maybe there was some hope in that. He would hold on to Henrik’s words even in the darkness that was sure to come.
*
They came for him an hour or so later, without ceremony, carrying him from the cells as if he was a dangerous criminal and prone to run at any moment. ‘Mr Godwin,’ the major had said. Jack didn’t have the energy to correct Obertz that he should address him as sergeant. ‘As you are English you will be put on the next boat to France. It is better this way, better than dragging it through the courts and extending your sentence. Harbouring a Jewess and assisting in the escape of OT members is a serious crime. You should have known that we would be able to track a German citizen’s history, to discover their dark past, no matter how much you try and misdirect us. As for the labourers, your trust was misplaced. Your friend, the farmer, told us everything under interrogation. You are lucky that your service record is exemplary, otherwise your punishment would be more severe.’
In a way, Jack was fortunate that the Germans were still deporting others from the islands. A ship waited for them, one that looked very much like the mail ships that used to service the island. It was moored at the end of the pier where every previous evacuation had taken place.
They marched him down to the boat, his hands bound behind him, cutting into his thin wrists. He remembered that Hitler had ordered all prisoners to be bound after some German soldiers had been killed during an escape attempt. The shackles pulled against his skin, but it was a small price to pay in exchange for being free from that cell. He closed his eyes and breathed in the salty sea air of St Peter Port, relishing the scent of his home. He wasn’t sure when he would smell it again, if he ever would, and he wanted to store the memory. Whatever happened he would know that his home was still there, somewhere across the sea, waiting for him to return.
The soldiers he had come to be so familiar with walked him up the gangway like a criminal. He was used to being the one doing the marching, and he felt a strange sense of empathy with all the people he had ever arrested. Had they felt as thoroughly rotten as he did now? He turned to follow another group into the hull, but a rifle butt struck him in the stomach. He doubled over, breathing heavily, trying to will away the tears of shock that dripped from his eyes.
‘No,’ the soldier said simply. Perhaps the only English word he knew. Before Jack had a chance to regain his composure and clear his eyes the man pushed him down into the hull. They were separating men and women on either side. A small group of soldiers stood between them, making sure there was no way they could be overpowered, holding their weapons out in front of them. None of the evacuees dared move closer to them and there was a clear line of delineation in the middle of the ship. Jack was one of the last men to be taken on board and the soldiers shouted orders to each other, ending the chain of commands with the Kriegsmarine who were operating the vessel.
He had only been on a ship a few times, despite living on the island almost his entire life. And even then it had only been a small fishing boat or dinghy. He remembered then that he didn’t really have the legs for it. The swell and buck of the ship knocked him sick, and he did
his best not to throw up. He tried to shuffle towards the gunwale, but as soon as he moved a soldier shouted at him in German and gestured with his submachine gun. He held his breath and swallowed slowly in an attempt to bring the sensation under control. He had often wondered about visiting France and taking a holiday on the continent, but he had never had the money or means before now. The fates had a strange sense of humour and he was starting to suspect that they were not fond of him. The northern coast of France was a blur against the horizon. It would be a long trip.
The hour had now come to leave the island. He fingered the letters in his pocket, the only possessions he had been allowed to take from home. There was nothing left there for him.
HMS Limbourne
October 1943
There were shapes floating in the water. At first they looked like logs, but then with a sick feeling Henrik realised what they were. Hundreds of bodies floating there as if they had gone for a swim and forgotten to stop. Nearby, one of them was rocking against the sand as the tide deposited it on the beach. Its navy uniform almost blended in with the water, pale flesh the only thing standing out against the blue.
They had heard the sounds of gunfire in the seas to the west of the island, but it must have been a terrible engagement to bring about such destruction. Bodies had occasionally washed up before but never more than one at a time.
‘Mein Gott.’ There were no words to describe what they were seeing. He had never seen so many bodies before. The war had never really come to the island, but now it felt like it was finally here.
Those who saw the spectacle rushed down to the beach to collect the bodies, hoping against hope that they would be able to do something. The bodies were badly decomposed, far beyond help. Their caps and identification tags identified them as the crews of the HMS Limbourne and HMS Charybdis. The fact that two Royal Navy ships had been sunk would not sit easily with the Islanders. It wouldn’t have been the same had they been Germans.
The German Nurse Page 29