The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society Part 12

My guides are as various as the sights. Isola tells me about cursed pirate chests bound with bleached bones was.h.i.+ng up on the beaches, and what Mr Hallette is hiding in his barn (he says it's a calf, but we know better). Eben describes how things used to look before the war, and Eli disappears suddenly and then returns with peach juice and an angelic smile on his face. Dawsey says the least, but he takes me to see wonders-like the tiny church. Then he stands back and lets me enjoy them for as long as I want He's the most unhurrying person I've ever met. As we were walking along the road yesterday, I noticed that it cut very close to the cliffs and there was a path leading down to the beach below. 'Is this where you met Christian h.e.l.lman?' I asked. Dawsey seemed startled and said yes, this was the spot. 'What did he look like?' I asked, because I wanted to picture the scene. I thought it was a futile request, given that men can't describe each other, but Dawsey surprised me. 'He looked like the German you imagine-tall, blond hair, blue eyes-except he could feel pain.'

With Amelia and Kit, I have walked into town several times for tea. Cee Cee was right in his rapture at sailing into St Peter Port The harbour, with the town traipsing up steeply to the sky, must be one of the most beautiful in the world. Shop windows on High Street and the Pollet are sparklingly clean and beginning to fill up with new goods. St Peter Port may be essentially drab at the moment-so many buildings need restoring-but it does not give off the dead-tired air poor London does. It must be because of the bright light that flows down on everything and the clean, clean air and the flowers growing everywhere-in fields, on verges, in crannies between paving stones.

You really have to be Kit's height to see this world properly. She's marvellous at pointing out things I would otherwise miss-b.u.t.terflies, spiders, flowers growing tiny and low to the ground-they're hard to see when you're faced with a blazing wall of fuchsias and bougainvillea Yesterday, I came across Kit and Dawsey crouched in the undergrowth beside the gate, quiet as thieves. They weren't stealing though, they were watching a blackbird tug a worm out of the ground. The worm put up a good fight, and the three of us sat there in silence until the blackbird finally got it down his gullet I'd never really seen the whole process before. It's revolting.

Kit carries a little box with her sometimes when we go to town-a cardboard box, tied up tightly with string and with a red-yarn handle. Even when we have tea, she holds it on her lap and is very protective of it. There are no air-holes in the box, so it can't be a ferret Or, oh Lord, perhaps it's a dead ferret. I'd love to know what's in it, but of course I can't ask.

I do like it here, and I've settled in well enough to start work now. I will, as soon as I come back from fis.h.i.+ng with Eben and Eli this afternoon.

Love to you and Piers, Juliet From Juliet to Sidney 30th May 1946 May 1946

Dear Sidney,

Do you remember when you sat me down for fifteen sessions of the Sidney Stark School of Perfect Mnemonics? You said that writers who sat scribbling notes during an interview were rude, lazy and incompetent and you were going to make sure I never disgraced you. You were unbearably arrogant and I loathed you, but I learnt your lessons well-and now you can see the fruits of your labour.

I went to my first meeting of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society last night. It was held in Clovis and Nancy Fossey's living room (spilling over into the kitchen). The speaker of the evening was a new member, Jonas Skeeter, who was to talk about The Meditations of Marfus Aurelius The Meditations of Marfus Aurelius.

Mr Skeeter strode to the front of the room, glared at us all, and announced that he didn't want to be there and had only read Marcus Aurelius' silly book because his oldest, his dearest, and his former former friend, Woodrow Cutter, had shamed him into it. Everyone turned to look at Woodrow, and Woodrow sat there, obviously shocked, his mouth agape. friend, Woodrow Cutter, had shamed him into it. Everyone turned to look at Woodrow, and Woodrow sat there, obviously shocked, his mouth agape.

'Woodrow,' Jonas Skeeter went on, 'came across my field where I was busy with my compost. He was holding this little book in his hands and he said he'd just finished reading it He'd like me to read it too, he said-it was very profound profound.

'Woodrow, I've got no time to be profound profound' I said.

'He said, 'You should make time, Jonas. If you'd read it, we'd have better things to talk about at Mad Bella's. We'd have more ran over a pint.'

'Now, that hurt my feelings, no good saying it didn't My childhood friend had been thinking himself above me for some time-all because he read books for you people and I didn't. I'd let it pa.s.s before-each to his own, as my mum always said. But now he had gone too far. He had insulted me. He put himself above me in conversation He put himself above me in conversation.

'Jonas,' he said, 'Marcus was a Roman emperor and a mighty warrior. This book is what he thought about, down there among the Quadi. They were barbarians who was waiting in the woods to kill all the Romans. And Marcus, hard-pressed as he was by those Quadi, took the time to write up this little book of his thoughts. He had long, long thoughts, and we could use some of those, Jonas.'

'So I pushed down my hurt and took the d.a.m.ned book, but I came here tonight to say before all, Shame, Woodrow! Shame on you, to put a book above your boyhood friend! But I did read it and here is what I think. Marcus Aurelius was an old woman- old woman- forever taking his mind's temperature, forever wondering about what he had done, or what he had not done. Was he right-or was he wrong? Was the rest of the world in error? Could it be him instead? No, it was everybody else who was wrong, and he set matters straight for them. Broody hen that he was, he never had a tiny thought that he couldn't turn into a sermon. Why, I bet the man couldn't even have a p.i.s.s-' forever taking his mind's temperature, forever wondering about what he had done, or what he had not done. Was he right-or was he wrong? Was the rest of the world in error? Could it be him instead? No, it was everybody else who was wrong, and he set matters straight for them. Broody hen that he was, he never had a tiny thought that he couldn't turn into a sermon. Why, I bet the man couldn't even have a p.i.s.s-'

Someone gasped. 'p.i.s.s! He said p.i.s.s in front of the ladies!'

'Make him apologise!' cried another.

'He doesn't have to apologise. He's supposed to say what he dunks, and that's what he thinks. Like it or not!'

'Woodrow, how could you hurt your friend so?'

'For shame, Woodrow!'

The room fell quiet when Woodrow stood up. The two men met in the middle of the floor. Jonas held out his hand to Woodrow, and Woodrow clapped Jonas on the back, and the two of them left, arm in arm, for Mad Bella's. I hope that's a pub and not a woman.

Love, Juliet

P. S. Dawsey was the only Society member who seemed to find last night's meeting at all funny. He's too polite to laugh out loud, but I saw his shoulders shaking. I gathered from the others that it had been a satisfying but by no means extraordinary evening.

Love again, Juliet From Juliet to Sidney 31st May 1946 May 1946

Dear Sidney,

Please read the enclosed letter-I found it slipped under my door this morning.

Dear Miss Ashton, Miss Pribby told me you wanted to know about our recent Occupation by the German Army-so here is my letter. I am a small man, and though Mother says I never had a prime, I did. I just didn't tell her about it. I am a champion whistler. I have won contests and prizes for my whistling. During the Occupation, I used this talent to unman the enemy. I am a small man, and though Mother says I never had a prime, I did. I just didn't tell her about it. I am a champion whistler. I have won contests and prizes for my whistling. During the Occupation, I used this talent to unman the enemy. After Mother was asleep, I would creep out of the house. I'd make my silent way down to the Germans' brothel, if you'll pardon the expression, on Saumarez Street. I'd hide in the shadows until a soldier emerged from his tryst. I do not know if ladies are aware of this, but men are not at their peak of fitness after such an occasion. The soldier would start walking back to his quarters, often whistling. I'd start slowly walking, whistling the same tune (but much better). He'd stop whistling, but I would not stop whistling. He'd pause a second, thinking that what he had taken for an echo was actually another person in the dark-following him. But who? He would look back, I'd have slipped into a doorway. He'd see no one-he'd start on his way again, but not whistling. I'd start to walk again and to whistle again. He'd stop-I'd stop. He'd hurry on, but I'd still whistle, following him with firm footsteps. The soldier would hasten to his quarters, and I'd return to the brothel to wait for another German to stalk. I do believe I made many a soldier unfit to perform his duties well the next day. Do you see? After Mother was asleep, I would creep out of the house. I'd make my silent way down to the Germans' brothel, if you'll pardon the expression, on Saumarez Street. I'd hide in the shadows until a soldier emerged from his tryst. I do not know if ladies are aware of this, but men are not at their peak of fitness after such an occasion. The soldier would start walking back to his quarters, often whistling. I'd start slowly walking, whistling the same tune (but much better). He'd stop whistling, but I would not stop whistling. He'd pause a second, thinking that what he had taken for an echo was actually another person in the dark-following him. But who? He would look back, I'd have slipped into a doorway. He'd see no one-he'd start on his way again, but not whistling. I'd start to walk again and to whistle again. He'd stop-I'd stop. He'd hurry on, but I'd still whistle, following him with firm footsteps. The soldier would hasten to his quarters, and I'd return to the brothel to wait for another German to stalk. I do believe I made many a soldier unfit to perform his duties well the next day. Do you see? Now, if you'll forgive me, I will say more about brothels. I do not believe those young ladies were there because they wanted to be. They were sent from the Occupied territories of Europe, same as the Todt slave workers. It could not have been nice work. To the soldiers' credit, they demanded that the German authorities give the women an extra food allowance, same as given to the island's heavy workers. Furthermore, I saw some of these same ladies share their food with the Todt workers, who were sometimes let out of their camps at night to hunt for food. Now, if you'll forgive me, I will say more about brothels. I do not believe those young ladies were there because they wanted to be. They were sent from the Occupied territories of Europe, same as the Todt slave workers. It could not have been nice work. To the soldiers' credit, they demanded that the German authorities give the women an extra food allowance, same as given to the island's heavy workers. Furthermore, I saw some of these same ladies share their food with the Todt workers, who were sometimes let out of their camps at night to hunt for food. My mother's sister lives in Jersey. Now that the war is over, she's able to visit us-more's the pity. Being the sort of woman she is, she told a nasty story. After D-Day the Germans decided to send their brothel ladies back to France, so they put them all on a boat to St Malo. Now those waters are very wayward, broiled up and ugly. Their boat was swept on to the rocks and all aboard were drowned. You could see the bodies of those poor women-their yellow hair (bleached hussies, my aunt called them) spread out in the water, was.h.i.+ng against the rocks. 'Served them right, the wh.o.r.es,' my aunt said. She and my mother laughed. My mother's sister lives in Jersey. Now that the war is over, she's able to visit us-more's the pity. Being the sort of woman she is, she told a nasty story. After D-Day the Germans decided to send their brothel ladies back to France, so they put them all on a boat to St Malo. Now those waters are very wayward, broiled up and ugly. Their boat was swept on to the rocks and all aboard were drowned. You could see the bodies of those poor women-their yellow hair (bleached hussies, my aunt called them) spread out in the water, was.h.i.+ng against the rocks. 'Served them right, the wh.o.r.es,' my aunt said. She and my mother laughed. It was not to be borne! I jumped up from my chair and knocked the tea table over on them deliberately. I called them dirty old bats. It was not to be borne! I jumped up from my chair and knocked the tea table over on them deliberately. I called them dirty old bats. My aunt says she will never set foot in our house again, and Mother hasn't spoken to me since. I find it all very peaceful. My aunt says she will never set foot in our house again, and Mother hasn't spoken to me since. I find it all very peaceful.

Yours truly, Henry A. Toussant Henry A. Toussant From faliet to Sidney Mr Sidney Stark Stephens & Stark Ltd 21 St James's Place London SW1

6th June 1946 June 1946

Dear Sidney,

I could hardly believe it was you, telephoning from London last night. How wise of you not to tell me you were flying home. You know how planes terrify me-even when they aren't dropping bombs. Wonderful to know you are no longer five oceans away, but only across the Channel. Will you come to see us as soon as you can?

Isola is better than a stalking horse. She has brought seven people over to tell me their Occupation stories-and I have a growing pile of interview notes. But for now, notes are all they are. I don't know yet if a book is possible-or, if possible, what form it should take.

Kit has taken to spending some of her mornings here. She brings rocks or sh.e.l.ls and sits quietly-well, fairly quietly-on the floor and plays with them while I work. When I've finished we take a picnic lunch down to the beach. If it's too foggy, we play indoors; either hairdressers-brus.h.i.+ng each other's hair until it crackles-or Dead Bride.

Dead Bride is not a complicated game like Snakes and Ladders; it's quite simple. The bride veils herself in a lace curtain and stuffs herself into the laundry basket, where she lies as though dead while the anguished bridegroom hunts for her. When he finally discovers her entombed in the laundry basket, he breaks into loud wails. Then and only then does the bride jump up, shout 'Surprise!' and clutch him to her. Then it is all joy and smiles and kisses. Privately, I don't give that marriage much of a chance.

I know that all children are gruesome, but I don't know whether I am supposed to encourage them. I'm afraid to ask Sophie if Dead Bride is too morbid a game for a four-year-old. If she says yes, we'll have to stop playing, and I don't want to stop. I love Dead Bride.

So many questions arise when you are spending your days with a child For instance, if one likes to cross one's eyes a lot, might they get stuck like that for ever-or is that a rumour? My mother said they would, and I believed her, but Kit is made of sterner stuff and doubts it.

I am trying hard to remember my parents' ideas about bringing up children but, as the child in question, I'm hardly one to judge. I know I was spanked for spitting my peas across the table at Mrs Morris, but that's all I can remember. Perhaps she deserved it Kit seems to show no ill-effects from having been brought up piecemeal by Society members. It certainly hasn't made her fearful and retiring. I asked Amelia about it yesterday. She smiled and said there was no chance of a child of Elizabeth's being fearful and retiring. Then she told me a lovely story about her son, lan, and Elizabeth when they were children.

He was to be sent to school in England, and he was not at all happy about it, so he decided to run away from home. He consulted Jane and Elizabeth, and Elizabeth persuaded him to buy her boat for his escape. The trouble was, she had no boat-but she didn't tell him that Instead, she built one herself in three days. On the appointed afternoon, they carried it down to the beach, and lan set off, with Elizabeth and Jane waving their hankies from the sh.o.r.e. About half a mile out, the boat began to sink-fast Jane was all for running to get her father, but Elizabeth said there wasn't time and, as it was all her fault, she would have to save him. She took off her shoes, dived into the waves, and swam out to lan.

Together, they pulled the wreckage to sh.o.r.e, and she brought the boy to Sir Ambrose's house to dry off. She returned his money, and as they sat steaming before the fire, she turned to him and said gloomily, 'We'll just have to steal a boat, that's all.' lan told his mother that he'd decided it would be simpler to go to school after all.

I know it will take you a prodigious amount of time to catch up on your work. If you do have a moment to spare, could you find a book of paper dolls for me? One full of glamorous evening gowns, please.

I know Kit is growing fond of me-she pats my knee in pa.s.sing.

Love, Juliet From Juliet to Sidney 10th June 1946 June 1946

Dear Sidney,

I've just received a wonderful parcel from your new secretary. Is her name really Billee Bee Jones? Never mind, she's a genius anyway. She found Kit two books of paper dolls, and not just any old paper dolls, either-Greta Garbo and Gone with the Wind Gone with the Wind paper dolls, pages of lovely gowns, furs, hats, boas...oh they are wonderful. Billee Bee also sent a pair of blunt scissors, a piece of thoughtfulness that would never have occurred to me. Kit is using them now. paper dolls, pages of lovely gowns, furs, hats, boas...oh they are wonderful. Billee Bee also sent a pair of blunt scissors, a piece of thoughtfulness that would never have occurred to me. Kit is using them now.

This is not a letter but a thank-you note. I'm writing one to Billee Bee too. How did you find such an efficient person? I hope she's plump and motherly, because that's how I imagine her. She enclosed a note saying that eyes do not stay crossed permanently-it's an old wives' tale. Kit is thrilled and intends to cross her eyes until supper.

Love to you, Juliet

P. S. I would like to point out that contrary to certain insinuating remarks in your last, Dawsey Adams makes no appearance in this letter. I haven't seen Mr Dawsey Adams since Friday afternoon, when he came to pick up Kit. He found us decked out in our finest jewels and marching around the room to the stirring strains of Pomp and Circ.u.mstance Pomp and Circ.u.mstance on the gramophone. Kit made him a tea-towel cape, and he marched with us. I think he has an aristocrat lurking in his genealogy: he can gaze into the middle distance just like a duke. on the gramophone. Kit made him a tea-towel cape, and he marched with us. I think he has an aristocrat lurking in his genealogy: he can gaze into the middle distance just like a duke.

Letter received 12th June 1946 June 1946 To 'Eben' or 'Isola' or Any Member of a Book Society on Guernsey, Channel Islands. Delivered to Eben, 14th June 1946 June 1946

Dear Guernsey Book Society,

I greet you as those dear to my friend Elizabeth McKenna. I write to you now so that I may tell you of her death in Ravensbriick Concentration Camp. She was executed there in March 1945.

In those days before the Russian Army arrived to free the camp, the SS carried truckloads of papers to the crematorium and burnt them in the furnaces there. Thus I feared you might never learn of Elizabeth's imprisonment and death.

Elizabeth spoke often to me of Amelia, Isola, Dawsey, Eben and Booker. I recall no surnames, but believe the names Eben and Isola to be unusual Christian names and thus hope you may be found easily on Guernsey.

I know that she cherished you as her family, and she felt grat.i.tude and peace that her daughter Kit was in your care. Therefore I write so you and the child will know of her and the strength she showed to us in the camp. Not strength only, but a metier she had for making us forget where we were for a small while. Elizabeth was my friend, and in that place friends.h.i.+p was all that aided one to remain human.

I reside now at the Hospice La Foret in Louviers in Normandy. My English is yet poor, so Sister Touvier is improving my sentences as she writes them down. I am now twenty-four years old. In 1944, I was caught by the Gestapo at Plouha in Brittany, with a packet of forged ration cards. I was questioned and beaten only, and sent to Ravensbriick Concentration Camp. I was put in Block Eleven, and it was here that I met Elizabeth.

I will tell you how we met. One evening she came to me and said my name, Remy. I had a joy and surprise to hear my name spoken. She said, 'Come with me. I have a wonderful surprise for you.' I did not understand her meaning, but I ran with her to the back of the barracks. A broken window there was stuffed with papers and she pulled them out. We climbed out and ran towards the Lagerstra.s.se. Then I saw rally what she had meant by a wonderful surprise. The sky showing above the walls looked to be on fire-low-flying clouds of red and purple, lit from below with dark gold. They changed shapes and shades as they raced together across the sky. We stood there, hand in hand, until the darkness came. I do not think that anyone outside such a place could know how much that meant to me, to spend such a quiet moment together.

Our home, Block Eleven, held almost four hundred women. In front of each barracks was a cinder path where roll call was held twice a day, at 5.30 AM AM and in the evening after work. The women from each barracks stood in squares of one hundred women each-ten women in ten rows. The squares would stretch so far to the right and left of ours we could often not see the end of them in the fog. and in the evening after work. The women from each barracks stood in squares of one hundred women each-ten women in ten rows. The squares would stretch so far to the right and left of ours we could often not see the end of them in the fog.

Our beds were on wooden shelves, built in platforms of three. There were pallets of straw to sleep on, sour-smelling and alive with fleas and lice. There were large yellow rats that ran over our feet at night. This Was a good thing, for the overseers hated the rats and stench, so we would have freedom from them in the late nights. Then Elizabeth told me about your island of Guernsey and your book society. These things seemed like Heaven to me. In the bunks, the air we breathed was weighted with sickness and filth, but when Elizabeth spoke, I could imagine the good fresh sea air and the smell of fruit in the hot sun. Though it cannot be true, I don't remember the sun s.h.i.+ning one day on Ravensbriick. I loved to hear, too, about how your book society came to be. I almost laughed when she told of the roasted pig, but I didn't. Laughter made trouble in the barracks.

There were several standpipes with cold water to wash in. Once a week we were taken for showers and given a piece of soap. This was necessary for us, for the thing we feared most was to be dirty, to fester.

We dared not become ill, for then we could not work. We would be of no further use to the Germans and they would have us put to death.

Elizabeth and I walked out with our group each morning at six to the Siemens factory, where we worked. It was outside the walls of the prison. Once there, we pushed handcarts to the railway siding and unloaded heavy metal sheets on to the carts. We were given wheat paste and peas at noon, and returned to camp for roll call at 6 PM PM and a supper of turnip soup. and a supper of turnip soup.

Our duties changed according to need, and one day we were ordered to dig a trench to store potatoes for the winter. Our friend Alina stole a potato but dropped it on the ground. All digging stopped until the overseer could discover the thief Alina had ulcerated corneas, and it was necessary that the overseers not notice this, for they might think her to be going blind Elizabeth said quickly she had taken the potato, and was sent to the punishment bunker for one week.

The cells in the bunker were very small. One day, while Elizabeth was there, a guard opened the door to each cell and turned high-pressure water hoses on the prisoners. The force of the water pushed Elizabeth to the floor, but she was fortunate that the water never reached her blanket. She was eventually able to rise and lie under her blanket until the s.h.i.+vering stopped. But a young pregnant girl in the next cell was not so fortunate or so strong as to get up. She died that night, frozen to the floor.