Dr Jackson
St Helier, July 1940
It’s over a week since Margaret left, and I still haven’t heard from her. Ever since the bombing, the telephone lines have been jammed, and my efforts to get through have been futile. To make matters worse, the telephonist has warned me that the lines might soon be cut altogether, and if that happens, contact will be impossible. I’m frantic. I want to hear her voice and make sure she arrived safely at her mother’s place, but with the parlous state of our phone lines, she might as well be in Timbuktu. I haven’t been able to sleep, and I’ve tried putting through a call every fifteen minutes throughout the night, but to no avail. I have never felt so anxious. The baby will be due soon, and not knowing what’s happening, not being able to contact her, is the worst type of torture I can imagine.
I still feel torn about my decision to stay, but when I see the relief and gratitude on the faces of my patients, I realise I couldn’t have made any other choice. Yesterday I delivered Mrs Thompson’s bonny baby boy, quite a relief considering it was a breech birth, which meant I had to turn the baby several times, and then use forceps. It was touch and go at one stage, but all went well and her ecstatic smile as she held her baby validated my decision. At the same time, though, I felt depressed. Delivering other women’s babies means I can’t be with Margaret when our own baby is born. I try to keep my spirits up by consoling myself that she still has a week or so to go, and surely it can’t be long before we’re together again. As soon as I was sure Mrs Thompson and her baby were well, I rushed to the telephone to try and call England again, but I couldn’t get through. I wonder if she has received my letters. I hope she doesn’t think I’ve abandoned her.
And then this afternoon the unthinkable happened. They have cut our cable, so we can no longer communicate with the outside world. It’s hard to believe that this could happen here in the twentieth century. It’s barely a week since the Germans arrived, but from what I’ve already observed, anything is possible. They’re an arrogant bunch who seem to think that wearing a German uniform entitles them to lord it over everyone else.
I was hurrying to have a pint of Mary Ann ale at the Cock and Bottle yesterday when one of these Luftwaffe types bailed me up and tried to engage me in conversation.
‘I do not understand why we are at war,’ he said in English. ‘We Germans and you Englishmen are cousins, we should rule the world together!’
But if they think we’re cousins, then they certainly have strange idea of kinship. From the moment they arrived, they’ve insisted that we have to step off the pavement whenever they’re on it! Old Mrs Simpson showed them up the other day, though. She had a wicked grin on her face when she came to see me about her lacerated knees. She said that two Luftwaffe louts pushed her off the pavement the day before, and sent her sprawling on the road. They were laughing until she picked herself up and gave one of them a good kick in the shins. He howled with pain, and then grabbed her by the arm and marched her off to their headquarters at the Rathaus. They kept her there most of the day and threatened her with prison, but she told me it was worth it just to see the shock on his face.
I’ve noticed that the Aryan supermen are buying up everything in sight. Things can’t be good in Germany, because they’re grabbing whatever they see in the shops – cigarettes, liquor, perfume, silk stockings and jewellery. Food as well, lots of it. It makes me wonder how long our supplies will last.
They’ve already restricted the sale of petrol to essential vehicles. And speaking of vehicles, they requisitioned my pride and joy, the Kelly green Alvis tourer. It was an extravagance, but the model was called Doctor’s Coupe, which was all I had needed to convince me to buy it. I was outraged at this daylight robbery and argued that as a doctor I had to have a car, but it didn’t do any good. I’ve now bought a second-hand soft-top Austin 7. Of course it’s not a patch on the Alvis, but at least it won’t use up as much petrol and hopefully won’t attract their thieving attention.
As the Germans seem to regard St Helier as one huge shopping emporium, I’ve started worrying about the future. What if they buy up all the liquor? As I have a weakness for good wines and spirits, I dropped in to see my wine merchant and discovered that much of his supply had already been depleted, but he still had some excellent French wines and champagnes secreted in his cellar. The prices he asked were exorbitant, but I convinced him that he might as well sell them to me at a considerably reduced price, because when the Jerries found them, they’d just confiscate the lot. I went away very pleased with my windfall, which included a few bottles of Pommery I’ll keep to celebrate our victory. Surely that won’t be very far off.
As soon as I got home, I started looking around for a place to conceal my haul. I pulled up the carpet and the floorboards in the dining room, stored the bottles in the space beneath, and replaced the carpet. I hope no-one will ever think of looking there. Encouraged by my success in the wine store, I headed for the tobacconist, remembering that in hard times, cigarettes can become a form of currency. I bought up as many packs of tobacco as I could afford, as well as boxes of cheroots. They’re not just for me – you never know when these items might be useful.
I had a rare stroke of luck yesterday. As I was passing a bakehouse, and breathing in the irresistible yeasty aroma of fresh bread, I was shocked to see the baker shovelling good bread into his furnace. Turned out he had baked too much that day, so, unable to keep it or sell it, he’d decided to get rid of it. Apart from the fact that I am averse to waste of any kind, especially bread, I could see its future potential. I bought some sacks and filled them up with his stale loaves. As soon as I got them home, I cut the bread into thick slices, and baked them into rusks which I packed into the sacks for future emergencies. The problem of course, was how to keep mice away. The driest, safest spot in the house was the roof space, so I fixed strong nails to the timber, and I hung the sacks up there. I knew they’d make good food for my chickens, and, if it ever came to it, I could soak them and eat them myself. Another precaution I took was to plant out lettuces, carrots, cabbages and beans in our large garden, past the orchard. All this activity has kept me busy during the long summer evenings and has helped to distract me from my anxiety about Margaret.
It occurs to me that my descriptions of stockpiling and planting are quite trivial in the scheme of things these days, but if anyone ever reads this journal, they will glean some information about everyday life in Nazi-occupied Jersey. Even though my food-gathering efforts are mundane and lack drama, I hope they might encourage people to have faith their ability to cope even in the most difficult circumstances.
And apropos of difficult circumstances, something rather strange happened several nights ago. I hesitate to describe it, but writing down the day’s events relieves the loneliness I feel every evening when I come home to an empty house, and long for Margaret’s warm body.
Anxiety about our personal situation, our lack of communication with the outside world, and the fear that perhaps this war won’t end soon, makes it difficult for me to sleep. This is clearly a case of physician cure thyself! Here I am dispensing advice to my stressed patients, while my own angst is tearing me apart.
Coming back to the bizarre event of several nights ago, it’s something I would not confide to anyone, for fear they might think I’ve become one of those irrational people who believe in ghosts, ouija boards, Madame Blavatsky and psychic phenomena. But writing it down might help me understand it.
So here it is. I had just gone to bed in the upstairs bedroom, and no sooner had I put out the light hoping to fall asleep, when the hair stood up on the back of my neck. I was convinced someone was in the room.
With some trepidation and a thumping heart, I switched on the light. I was alone and I wondered if I’d been hallucinating. But the moment I switched off the light, I again had the eerie sensation of an invisible presence.
I knew that before Margaret and I bought the house, a young woman had committed suicide in one of the bedrooms. Whether it was from unrequited love or endogenous depression, I wasn’t told, and in any case, not being susceptible to ghost stories, it didn’t bother me in the slightest. It obviously bothered other buyers, though, which was why we could afford to buy the house.
In the light of morning, the world was bright and normal again and I wondered whether I had imagined the whole thing. I’ve never believed in ghosts, poltergeists or any other supernatural phenomena, so the only explanation is that I can’t explain it.
In my practice, I always find it difficult to admit to patients that I don’t know the cause of their symptoms. It feels like a failure on my part. But perhaps sometimes we just have to accept that there are phenomena that defy logical explanation, and this strange nocturnal experience was an example of that. Whatever it was, it hasn’t recurred, but if that dead girl had anything to do with it, I hope her poor soul rests in peace.
Speaking of disturbing sights, I had just visited Mr Fletcher, who has influenza, when I saw a group of Germans strolling along the street accompanied by some of our girls, dressed to the nines, arm in arm with them. It upsets me to see how quickly these girls have made friends with the occupiers, but the attraction is not hard to understand. These young Germans always look immaculate. Unlike our local lads, they have manicured nails and they smell of cologne. What’s more, they shower the girls with gifts.
I can’t stop thinking about something one of my patients said a few days ago. Mrs Goldman is a middle-aged woman who owns a music business. I have always admired her sensible approach to life, but on this occasion, her eyes were darting all over the place, and her hands were trembling.
‘Doctor, I’m very worried,’ she began. It seems that, being of the Jewish faith, she was exceedingly apprehensive about the Occupation. ‘I have read reports about what the Nazis are doing in Poland, rounding up the Jews into ghettos, and I can’t help wondering if they will do the same here,’ she said.
I must admit I was astounded. It never occurred to me that our tiny Jewish population might be at risk. I assured her that our British system of justice would never permit the Nazis to persecute Jewish people, and that no-one on our island would agree to such discrimination. I think she left considerably relieved.
Another of my patients has also been on my mind. Young Tom Gaskell, a tall, well-built lad with blue eyes and fair hair who resembles the Aryan ideal far more than most of the soldiers I’ve seen here, has changed since the Occupation began. He was always a happy-go-lucky lad with so much energy that it seemed he was about to burst out of his skin. But lately he looks preoccupied, as if he’s brooding. He told me that the day he saw the swastika flying from Fort Regent, he felt the impact of our humiliating surrender.
‘I thought we British were brave. I can’t stand the thought that we’re really cowards,’ he blurted.
I understood how he felt and let him talk. It’s hard for idealistic youngsters to accept the situation, especially when they’ve been led to believe how courageous and invincible the British are. It wasn’t easy for any of us, but it could be a lot worse, I told him, recalling what Mrs Goldman had told me about the Jews in Poland. We just had to get on with it as best we could, and trust that it wouldn’t last too long. He didn’t look convinced, and I can’t blame him. But I’m glad he feels he can come and talk to me about things that worry him. From what I’ve seen of his mother, she’s not the most understanding sort.
With typical Teutonic obsession with detail, German orders have kept coming thick and fast. They have now rationed bread, milk, sugar and meat, and even the use of fertilisers. It’s hard to keep up with all their restrictions, regulations and rations. For some reason they have forbidden cyclists to ride two abreast. Even in quiet lanes where there is no traffic of any kind, a soldier often leaps out from behind a hedge and demands a fine or just confiscates the cyclist’s bicycle. One young man who refused to hand over his money arrived at my surgery last week nursing a broken jaw.
But the order that most of us have found even more distressing than the rest, has been the one commanding us to hand in our wireless sets. Listening to the wireless, especially to the BBC News, has been a lifeline linking us to the rest of the world, and with that gone, we would be dreadfully isolated and have to rely solely on German propaganda. There was no way I was going to let them take my radio. So with a very solemn face I handed in my old set, which didn’t even work, but kept my new one.
Like every infringement of their orders, keeping a wireless incurs severe punishment, and my patient Miss Spencer was sentenced to seven months in a German prison when they found hers, so I was aware of the risk I was taking in keeping mine. Especially when I heard that some people informed on their neighbours when they heard them listening to a clandestine set. People talk about the need to stick together against the enemy, but stooping to denounce neighbours shows how easily people give in to their meanest instincts.
So I had to find a secure hiding place for my wireless. Although I’ve never considered myself a handyman and always employed tradesmen to fix problems that arose in the house, I surprised myself with my ingenuity. I hammered a hole in the front of my bedroom chimney, built a timber shelf inside the cavity, and fixed the wireless on it, covering it with a plastic sheet. Making sure I could listen to the news without seeing the wireless was quite a complicated process but eventually I solved it. This involved using two leads; one had a plug that fitted a lamp socket, and the other a pair of earphones. These were on flexes that dropped down the chimney into an unused fireplace below. I built a shelf in there and placed the earphones and plug on it. From there, I was able to pull them down and connect them to a table lamp whenever I wanted to listen to the news. It also provided a safe hiding place for this journal. Then I bricked up the hole in the chimney, plastered it over, repapered it, and then hung a large painting over the mantelpiece.
Now that it’s all in working condition, I’m delighted with the result. I can now listen safely to the news. The challenge is to keep the news to myself. It’s hard not to be able to discuss the latest developments with friends, but unfortunately you can’t trust anyone these days, not even Mrs Harrison, who comes in to clean three times a week. I don’t want to end up in a German prison. Loose lips and all that.
Speaking of going to prison, two very brave young women who I happen to know have been daubing bright red V signs all over St Helier. The V sign, as everyone knows, is Britain’s victory symbol, and of course it’s anathema to the Germans, who regard it as treason.
‘We’ve talked it over, and we decided we can’t just sit back like everyone else and do nothing,’ one of them told me. ‘This is our way of resisting.’
They were young and wonderfully reckless, and I admired their courage, but I was worried. Day after day, the Germans painted over the V signs, but the next day the subversive signs were back. Eventually someone saw the women daubing the walls with their bucket of red paint, and turned them in. The fact that a local would inform on one of us, would collude with the enemy against a compatriot, was something I never thought I’d see among us British, but wartime cures us of many illusions. I believe that unless we stick together, the enemy has already defeated us. I’m upset to say that the Nazis sent those brave girls to a prison in France.
For several months we’ve had no communication with England and when I heard that the Red Cross was finally about to deliver letters from Britain, I was too excited to sleep. Our baby must have been born by now, and I prayed that all had gone well. The uncertainty and tension were unbearable, and if not for my practice, I don’t know how I would have retained my sanity.
My hands shook, and my heart almost burst from my chest when I saw her handwriting on the envelope. I tore it open, and out fell a small black-and-white photograph with serrated edges. There was Margaret, prettier than ever, holding our tiny son, James. Everything blurred. I was choked with emotion. I studied the little face and longed to hold him so much that my arms ached with yearning.
Then I looked more closely at Margaret’s face. She wasn’t smiling. I tried to decipher her expression and recalled the way she looked at me when she was about to board the boat for England: as if she could see into the future, and was terrified of what she saw.
That’s when I grasped the enormity of my decision, the high price I had paid, and would continue to pay, for choosing duty ahead of personal happiness. I wasn’t present at my son’s birth, I hadn’t been able to look into his new face, and I had no idea whether I would see him crawl or take his first tottering steps, or hear his first lisping words. In Margaret’s accusing eyes, I read that she held me responsible for abandoning her.
It was the moment I gave up the hope that had sustained me ever since we parted. The war would not end soon, and I would miss those wondrous months – possibly years – of my little son’s life. He wouldn’t know me, and Margaret would probably not want to know me. And there was nothing I could do about it. I was trapped.